Kishore Singh: Designer blues

PEOPLE LIKE US

What's the one thing family and friends will gift you, occasion or not? Chances are, if you're a middle-aged man, it'll be a shirt (bought on sale so, of course, it can't be exchanged) and, by way of variation, perhaps, a tie. The last time I wore a tie must have been 20 years ago. Nor do I like shirts, so I find it strange that people who know you so well can go so wrong when it comes to buying something especially for you.

But as a result of this misspent zeal, I have cupboards full of shirts and ties I do not wear. But ever since my wife started working, I have found the size of my wardrobe shrinking rapidly. Having been reduced to complaining about not having anything to wear, I am reminded by her that she no longer has the time to design my kurtas, and if I need clothes I can go buy the cloth and the find the tailor to do them up.

It was much easier not so long ago when we had Masterji who would come home to measure you one Sunday, come for fittings the following Sunday, and carry the finished kurtas the next Sunday. But with age catching up, he could no longer stitch, and my experiments with other tailors (including "ladies" tailors) in different parts of Delhi or even distant Bangalore proved less than satisfactory.

"Go to Fabindia," smirked my wife, knowing how much I hated their ill-fitting clothes. "Or find yourself a designer," she'd laugh, having proved that she'd kept me in clothes so long as she was a housewife. Which is why, taking her up on her word, I did just that. I fixed an appointment with a top-notch designer, and before you could say "couture", I was being measured up, trying on samples, being shown swatches and matching fabrics, and sent home after I'd been told there'd be a full wardrobe waiting for me, give or take a week.

The week, and several more, slid by. The in-house whiz with the scissors had gone on leave, or was unwell, or wait, they'd call me back in a jiffy, soon as they had something for me to try on. Weddings, anniversaries, festivals all went by, but my clothes remained undelivered. Once, I was called in for a fitting, but the few samples they had ready were still off, so out came the tape again, and I was scrutinised for defective body parts once more. "They'll be done before you know it," smiled the designer.

At long last (and many phone calls later) I was asked to come and pick up two kurtas. Only too glad to, I did, and even though the fits were still off (apparently because of some complicated threadwork), it seemed that the process to my designer wardrobe was finally underway.

Another month slid by. "They're almost ready," assistants would assure me every time I called. I reconciled myself to my new wardrobe later rather than sooner. Finally, I was told, some more kurtas were ready "" would I like to pick them up? My wife, headed in that direction, volunteered to run the errand for me. "Are you sure these are your kurtas?" she called to ask from the store. I assured her they were mine. "Strange," she said, "they're all identical."

It was true. The designer had forgotten to discuss the designs with her tailors, so what I had were several kurtas, each one similar to the other. What's more, even though the others weren't ready just yet, they would, alas, be the same design too. Perhaps that's what a "designer" wardrobe means "" having to wear the same design all the time. Or I could always switch to wearing shirts.