She virtually pulled me and dragged me to a tailor’s shop. I am sure it was no bigger than five feet by five feet. A tailor sat on the floor with his sewing machine and offered us two rope and cane moodas. We sat down in the tight spot. A vertical fluorescent tube light emitted white light. The tailor insisted upon and ordered tea for us. He shouted ‘do chai’ and a man sitting outside in the street got activated. He had a noisy kerosene stove which he pumped with air leading to a spray of kerosene which he lit with a match. I have been told that these are sometimes liable to explode if over pumped with air and kerosene. The noise was like a jet plane planning to take off. The tea was brought in by a five year boy who carried both hot glasses in one hand while he scratched his nose with the other. He wore a torn vest and shorts which were four sizes too big for him.
I was afraid of touching the tiny tea glass but sipped out of courtesy. It was extremely sugary tea, but very strong. It really pepped up my flagging spirits and I soon got up enough energy to match Bindaas’ zip and verve. The tailor then measured us without touching us on any off limit parts. He said he would give the suits a week later. Bindaas started a long spiel in which she was his sweet sister come from a distant land. She was his most faithful customer. She had to go back to Bombay by an evening flight. The tailor shook his head and said we could have our suits in three hours.