<b>Kishore Singh:</b> Custom-made for masterji

I was in my neighbourhood tailor’s shop, a place I’d been hundreds of times, and now he was telling the customer ahead of me, “You’ve put on weight, this jacket won’t look good on you. You might want to buy something off a discounted designer rack instead.” I sucked in my stomach and attempted to look slim, afraid of being similarly upbraided. Were my cheeks too full to meet his exacting standards? Had I lost too much hair for him to consider measuring me up for a new shirt?

I’d been summoned for a fitting. Semi-tailored jackets were brought up by his assistants, my arms were prodded into sleeves; I was made to twirl and pirouette; a conference was called on whether to pinch the waist further or not (I was still holding in both my stomach and my breath and slowly turning blue). Could I look in the mirror? “Not necessary,” the maestro dismissed the request. More tugs, some tucks, while I glimpsed a gap between the lapel and the collar — surely his darzis would bridge the divide? “I prefer it this way,” the morphed designer said grandly, fobbing off any more protest by having the offending garment whisked away. “Your taste is old,” he said by way of explanation, “with me, you get what I like.”

Was this the same tailor who had been upbraided by my wife because he’d put a patch pocket on the wrong shirt, or given a mandarin collar instead of a round one, and duly carried out the repairs? The one who you came to carrying a “sample” to copy? We used to laugh disparagingly about his disasters, envying those who were content being kitted out in off-the-rack mass fashion. If the tailor now seemed poised to turn seriously bespoke, his customisation threatened to turn it claustrophobic.

On a previous visit, he’d admonished my son for carrying a fashion journal that featured models in long coats from which to choose a style. “You want a trench coat, get it from Burberry,” he dismissed such plagiarisation. Exclusivity from masterji came by way of his laptop open on to various fashion sites. “Here,” he told my son, “you will wear this,” quelling any hope of resistance. Fabric samples were offered, commented upon and dispensed with, swatches and colours that my son approved, or disapproved, but which made not the slightest difference to the tailor’s final choice of material, hue and styling.

This whimsy was something I’d already experienced. If I wanted a blue shirt, he’d insist on a pink one, and if I procrastinated, he’d have it readied anyway. His prices, like his ego, meanwhile, had turned inflationary. When my son got his tailoring bill for the jacket he hadn’t wanted in the first place, he turned as blue as I had when being measured up. He was no longer “the tailor”, we spoke his name with reverence, adding a “ji” after it for added respect. He no longer did up a pair of trousers in an emergency. He no longer worked with fabrics you brought to him, preferring his own. If you needed a winter wardrobe, you had to apply to him in summer — early summer.

Which is why, alas, I’ve relinquished the “bespoke” wagon for designer brands – especially when on sale – where at least you get to decide whether you like the shirt without a pocket or the jacket with one. And what’s more – you no longer have to hold your gut in.