From a young age, probably six or seven, I looked to my father as an example of appearance.  He was a man who cared about how he looked from the way he brushed his hair to the shoes he wore; everything had to be immaculate and elegant.  As in Harry Chapin’s song ‘Cat’s in the Cradle’, I wanted to grow up just like my father.

I remember vividly the ritual of accompanying my father to the tailors where he would spend a long time choosing the cloth (mostly English) and then get measured up for a suit.  After that, the master tailor would send a message to my father saying the suit was ready for the first fitting, then a couple of weeks after that, a second fitting, before the final 3-piece suit was carefully and lovingly wrapped and delivered to my father’s office.  I am not sure who was more excited about that first try out of the suit at home, my father or me but the anticipation was overwhelming for me.  The frustrating thing was that he didn’t always wear the suit straight away; he just left it hanging in his wardrobe until he felt it was time for the grand reveal.  How he managed to resist wearing it straightaway was beyond my comprehension.

The ritual of having an expensive bespoke suit happened twice, maybe three times a year.  Not because he needed so many suits; he just wanted to have them.

It was inevitable that I wanted my own made-to-measure suit as soon as possible.  Naturally, at the age of seven, I asked if I too could have one and my father made it clear that I stood as much chance of having such an attire as flying to the moon.  Although the answer was always an emphatic ‘NO’, that didn’t stop me from asking the same thing every time I went with him to the tailors.  I operated on the principle that one day, my father might be suffering from high fever and his delirium would prompt him to say ‘yes’.

It happened when I was about 12 or 13 when, for some inexplicable reason, my father said yes!  He had not been hit on the head with a heavy hammer nor did he have a fever because he gave me clear instructions on what to do.  I nearly passed out with excitement.  My father said “go to the tailor and ask him to find you an end-of-roll cloth big enough to make you a suit and get him to measure you up.  I asked if I could have a 3-piece suit and he told me not to push my luck or he would change his mind.  I ran out of his office before he did and went straight to the tailors.

My ecstasy came to an abrupt end the moment I arrived at the tailors.  The master tailor, who was also the owner and the boss, who had little or no time for insignificant little people like me, thought I was not worth his valuable time, so he called his assistant and side-kick to attend to me.  I must explain that the assistant/side-kick was not a young aspiring tailor-to-be; he was a middle-aged idiot who had reached his level of incompetence many years earlier and steadfastly remained at that level.  The master tailor trusted him with making coffee, fetching heavy items and occasionally fitting buttons to garments but little else beyond that.  The problem with the assistant was his total unawareness of his incompetence but he had the manner and self-esteem displayed only by world-class couturier.

The assistant went to the back of the shop and brought out a few end-of-rolls for me to choose from.  The dilemma I had was that the cloths I liked, didn’t have sufficient material to make me a suit and the ones I disliked had enough to dress a full-grown elephant.

My relationship with the assistant started out low and went downhill thereafter.  I was getting anxious that I would walk out without a suit, soon to be made for me and the assistant was getting frustrated because I did not take his sartorial advice.  The matter was settled by the master tailor who looked up from behind his desk, where he was carefully fitting the internal lining to a jacket and said “give him that one at the end”.  He spoke with such authority with a hint of ‘this is a final decision’, we both accepted his pronouncement.  Then the fun part of being measured up started.  It was clear the assistant found the multi-tasking of thinking, measuring and recording numbers too much to handle and had to repeat his measurements a few times.  He decided the task was completed out of frustration rather than when he had the necessary data.   Off I went full of hope and anticipation that in a matter of days, I would be just about the most elegant 12-year-old boy about town anyone had ever seen; people would line up on both sides of the street gazing in admiration at the vision passing them by!

I never had a call asking me to go for a first or second fitting, so one day, I passed by the tailors to enquire as to when I might expect a call for a fitting.  As it happened, the master tailor was not in attendance and only my personal idiotic tailor was there, who assured me that no fitting was required as he was personally making me the suit and his method is fool-proof, making fittings unnecessary.  I was a little disappointed as I liked the idea of wearing a partially made suit which was then altered as you stood still while the tailor made his minor adjustments.  Disappointment was the wrong feeling to harbour; I should have been concerned, even alarmed but, I let it go.  The assistant added that I could come and collect the suit in a week’s time and that I could try the suit on before I took it home.  That concession on his part comforted me to some extent and I left feeling a little better.

A week later, I grudgingly went to school, had a hurried lunch at home and raced to town to collect my prized new possession.  Once again, the master tailor was absent and only his not-so-able assistant was in attendance.  When he saw me, he made a noise of acknowledgement, went to the back of the shop and returned with a neatly folded suit ready to be wrapped in a special heavy-duty water-resistant shiny paper all tied with a white string.  He was about to wrap it when I reminded him of his promise of trying the suit out before taking it home.  He grudgingly agreed and said I could go to the back and put it on.

The first hint that things were not right was when I tried to button up the trousers, especially the flies buttons; they just didn’t seem to line up quite right, leaving gaping openings in between wide enough to insert my whole fist through.  Having put the trousers on as best as I could, I tried the jacket and it too didn’t feel quite right.  I finally walked out to the main shop and stood in front of the assistant who looked in admiration at his wonderous creation; his pride was palpable.  I looked in the mirror and could not believe what I was seeing. One trouser leg was significantly shorter than the other and diagonally opposing it, one jacket sleeve was longer than the other.  I looked like I had just emerged from a schoolyard fight, as the loser.  “What do you think?” he asked unnecessarily.  “One leg is shorter than the other, one sleeve is longer than the other, and the flies do not line up properly” I replied.  He proudly said “That’s not my fault, the suit is absolutely fine, it is your figure which is all wrong”.  My spirits were crushed and I was lost for words.  I just stood there wondering how I never realised that I was deformed, and why none of my family, friends, school mates, or enemies pointed this fact out to me before.  My dreams of being the smartest looking young man in town were ruined.

I arrived home with my package of the Elephant Man attire under my arm looking dejected and beaten.  I refused to try the suit on when my mother asked me to however, when my father returned from work, he was not a man accustomed to being refused a request or order so, I had no choice but to put on the wretched suit.  My mother inhaled half the air in the room with astonishment and my father shouted “What is this?  You look like the village idiot”.  I explained what had happened and my father said he would sort the matter out the following morning.

After breakfast, my father ordered me to get ready and bring the dreaded item of clothing along.  We drove straight to the tailors and walked in.  The master tailor stood up and put on his cheery welcome attitude and said “Good morning Mr. Sukkar, how can I…”.  My father replied “where is the donkey who works for you?”  “I am here” came the reply from the back of the shop.  The assistant emerged to have his day in court judged by his unforgiving boss and an even less forgiving customer renowned for his lack of anger management skills.

Father: Look at the boy, does he have one arm longer than the other?

Assistant: No, he doesn’t

Father: Good.  Did you ever notice him walk with a limp of any kind?

Assistant: No, I didn’t

Father: Did he ask for the flies tailored to bring his willy out without unbuttoning them?

Assistant: No, he didn’t

Father: Good.  Now, I want you to fix these design features and have the suit ready by tomorrow, understood?

The master tailor was listening with increasing alarm without saying a word.  He finally walked over to the offending articles, took out the trousers and lined them up on the bench so one leg rested on top of the other.  There was at least a 2-inch difference in length.  He then took his tape measure hanging round his neck like a doctor’s stethoscope and measured the jacket sleeves and again, the grimace on his face looked like he just had a close encounter with a soiled nappy. “Don’t worry Mr. Sukkar, this suit will be fixed to your satisfaction, even if I have to work on it myself”

My father and I walked out of the tailors feeling satisfied with our morning’s accomplishments.  The tirade of shouting and abuse by the master tailor directed at the hapless assistant coming from the shop could be heard all over the town.

I in particular felt better that I was not physically deformed and one day could look forward to wearing a proper made-to-measure suit, which was not even a cheap end of roll remnant.

 

Merry Christmas to you all.

Mufid