By Suresh Kurl

How right Mr. Doolittle of “My Fair Lady was unquestionably?” The dirt poor gets away from not doing what they cannot afford to do. The rich, well, they can do almost anything. The trouble lays with the middle class, especially with the lower middle class, the victims of the lower middle class morality. But I had bigger problems to deal with than just belong to a socioeconomic category. My problem was that I was a child, and my self-esteem depended on nice clothes, especially when I was on my way to my uncle’s wedding. 

Unlike trade, farm or fun fairs, weddings are family exhibitions. Guests attend weddings not only to gorge on delicious food, gossip and bless the newly weds, but to show off their best clothes and exhibit their new jewelry. If I were as old and as self-confident as Mahatma Gandhi was, I would not have felt bothered attending this wedding in whatever hand spun or hand stitched stuff I had. But neither did I have the benefit of his wisdom nor his self-esteem. The truth is that during his student life in England, even Gandhiji dressed up like any wealthy Westerner did. 

What I was going to wear at the wedding was killing me, especially, when I knew that my cousin would also be attending this wedding and would bring different suites for different occasions. I did not even have one woolen jacket. Cursed winter! I didn’t know how mom and dad felt about it; I knew how miserable I felt? 

Only two winters ago, dad had managed to have each one of us a woolen jacket. Don’t be surprised that our jackets were custom tailored. There was no such thing as off-the-rack” in those days.  My brothers’ jackets were dark green with light brown stripes and my pale green, much lighter in colour and plain. Their jackets did not show dirt, whereas my jacket looked dirty all over. Besides, a period of two years is a long time for a little kid to keep his jacket clean, especially when that was the only jacket he had. 

Dad offered to hand-wash it with soapberries and warm water. Everyone advised him against washing in water. “Wool shrinks in water. Have it dry-cleaned.” But dad was hell bent on saving a rupee on dry cleaning. He prevailed; my jacket shrank.  It shrank to fit a big doll. 

Then, unknown to me, my elder brother, Ravi and Shashi went hunting for a pre-owned and used ready-made jacket for me from a weekly Wednesday Bazaars. Used clothes occasionally came there to be sold to white-wannabe-brown-sahibs. As luck would have it, they found several of those jackets that could easily fit me. One of them was a navy blue blazer. It had golden buttons and a monogram designed with golden silk threads on the pocket. That was the name of some English school. I loved it. I thought it would make me look sharp. Once on my way to Haridwar I had seen a few British boys traveling in a first class compartment dressed in those jackets. Probably they were the students of the famous Doon School for white or rich children. 

Mom liked that blazer too, but later her decision to adhere to her principles won over my need. Mom would not allow us to wear clothes that had already been used by someone, who was not a member of her family. Hand-me-down clothes were fine so long as they had rotated within the family. Besides, she was also concerned what if someone asked me, “Who tailored your jacket, Suresh?” Then what would I say? The quality of the material and tailoring were a sure giveaway. Furthermore, that golden monogram of an English school would have announced “Muhabbi did not tailor me” out loud. And then, even if I escaped the scrutiny of my nosy relatives, the problem was not going to go away. A new blazer would have raised new demands. Dad would have to buy me a new pair of trousers, new shirt and a pair of shoes to match it. Mom instructed my brothers to return them.

Many years later, while waiting for my wife Tripta at Eaton’s Department Store in Richmond where she worked, I spotted a blue blazer with golden buttons. I took it off the rack, tried it, it felt alright. “This one is mine, not to be sent back to any Weekly Bazaar. I made an instant decision. I waited for Tripta, showed it to her and bought it.”  Since then I have attended several weddings in it without the fear of being asked, “Who tailored your jacket, Suresh?” 

Suresh Kurl is a Richmond-based writer.