Why Masterji was not to be offended

If you were a fashionable young woman in the 1970s, who do you think would be the most important man in your lives? No, it wouldn't be your father, husband or brother — and definitely not your doctor. It would be the darzi, the man who stitched your blouses, salwar kameezes, skirts, dresses — everything. After all, he was the only male you would allow to touch you intimately as he wound and tugged at the "inchitape" to measure your contours.

Ask your mother or aunts — a good darzi was worth his weight in gold. And you held on to one, travelling long distances if required. He could, with one practised sweep of the scissors or a judiciously placed seam, hide an inconvenient layer of fat, a love handle, making all the difference between svelte or frump. No wonder, a darzi was to be approached respectfully, and you didn't carp, much less complain aloud, if he kept you waiting for hours as he attended to the patron before you or sent you back a few times before he finally gave you the stitched garment.

My mother, for instance, would save up the lengths of cloth she bought through the year and wait until we travelled to Kolkata to get them stitched by her old tailor. This old man, Abdul, who operated out of a hole-in-the-wall

workshop tucked away in the city's southern residential areas, was a wizard who not just stitched a perfect fit, he even added a few embellishments — a line of embroidery around the sleeves or a few extra flounces on the skirt — that made all the difference between distinctive and run-of-the-mill. You never had to tell masterji what to do, was her refrain.

Mother might have thought her masterji was exceptional, but good, even legendary tailors were to be found in every city. Often, it was a family business where the father trained his sons in his special skills. Then there were the specialists, like Iqbal Brothers in Delhi, who continue to stitch Nehru jackets and safari suits for high-profile politician across party lines.

The coming of readymade garment brands, with their superior finish, better styling and promise of convenience has definitely been a body blow to the darzi. It sure makes more sense to buy a trouser or a shirt off-the-shelf, or choose from the wide array of salwar kameezes in a variety of colours and prints that you can pick out in a store. But who else but a tailor if you want an extra-long sleeve cut to fit, or a seam around the waist opened out so you can breathe more easily? Besides, some things only a darzi can do — a sari blouse, for instance, or a jacket.

No wonder then that the darzi, like all good things of yore, is making a comeback, this time in a high-end avatar. He's now an atelier, the purveyor of made-to-measure, who demands and gets a premium from clients for his hand work.

As for masterji, the last time I visited his shop a few years ago, I found that his son had expanded his business. "Come to me if you want a Sabyasachi sari or blouse — I'll make it for you at a tenth of the price," he informed me.