Fitting
Last week a hush fell over the fair city of Pune. Yet another lost trail in the archives, documents ever more illegible; the sun smiling ever so cruelly with not a dark cloud for relief; my knitting blog parched for content, gasping for breath as my hot, clammy hands shuddered at the thought of holding any yarn in them; my travels too rushed to include blog-worthy photography.
And then the last straw: I lost a long-running battle and retired, bruised and hurt. The fifty-seventh tailor in town let me down in my search for some decently-fitting clothes, and left me with two salwar kameezes gone terribly awry. Over the years, I have fought this tribe of tailors with ready-made clothes, diagrams, my own measurements, extra cloth, cheap cloth, expensive cloth, plenty of time, compliments… it all came to naught. Famous ‘Ladies’ Specialists’, old and wizened darzis, genius housewives known only through word of mouth – all cut from the same, ill-fitting cloth. Yet more lovingly bought material came to hang sullenly on my frame like a tent, making a mockery of maths, measurements, and me. As for ready made clothes, I am heartily sick of Fabindia, despite the fact that I love most of what they have. Even if their kurtas do fit well, they either shrink, or fade after three washes, or you see the same fabric on someone’s cushions or curtains.
Inspiration, however, came like a pre-monsoon shower at the end of a hot, humid and overcast day in May. I have long wished to learn sewing, but never really taken steps towards it. The sticker-shock a few years ago at what Delhi tailors charge for a sari blouse nearly propelled me towards a sewing class, but it was the latest fitting disaster that actually got me looking for a teacher. My cousin, another battle-scarred veteran of the tailor-wars, decided to join me. And so, last week we had our first basic Salwar-Kameez class. Armed with sturdy handloom cotton (in photo above – printed for kameez and cream for salwar), bobbin, tailor-scale, chalk and a pair of lethal-looking scissors, I am already in the thick of it! Seven more classes till it’s ready to wear.
(The blue packet to the bottom left is a “French curve” drawing scale that announces its use for “artists and tailors”. Ahem.)
Our teacher is a long-time Marwari resident of Pune who speaks a mixture of Marwari, Hindi and Marathi, not to forget the sprinkling of English terms. It is quite a multilingual sewing vocabulary, but she said the only thing I needed to pay attention to was not mixing up my inches and centimetres. That, I think, I can manage…
When I mentioned the class to my sister, she brought out a relic from the past – her sewing class journal from ye olde days when she was in college. They were not friends, my sister and sewing, and we all recall immense drama and trauma surrounding every project she had to submit. Even she was amazed she had not burnt the damn book with all the pajama pockets turned backwards and botched seams. She has this amazingly detailed diagram for a sari blouse, and I am already dreaming that if I can conquer the salwar kameez, the sari blouse could be the next fortress to storm.
In the meantime, however, I need to find, and learn how to use, a sewing machine. My aunt has one of those gorgeous, old foot-pedal ones, which is totally cool, but heavy to transport. Another one in the extended family is a simpler, hand-lever powered one, but it tends to get stuck from time to time. My options are either to get it repaired, or buy one of those foot-pedal babies for myself. I am already coveting it, despite the fact that it but I think I should get at least one well-fitting suit under my belt before I invest in some heavy iron machinery, no?
Another, unexpected benefit: maybe this blog will actually see some crafting posts, cause by GOD it is hot here, and unless it rains a bit, I don’t think I can even bear to think of knitting, let alone actually do any of it. But given that frogging is not an option in sewing, I guess you can expect a lot more tears and swearing.
