Little triangles of cloth of various hues decorated the floor; the tiny shop was dimly lit and smelled of fresh cloth and grease. The rat-a-tat of a single sewing machine competed with the rat-a-tat of many from the adjoining shop ten steps away. Yakub bent over the wooden counter and looked at the newly opened shop that had a shiny board that read ‘Modrern Tailors’ with a picture of a beautiful woman wearing an attractive salwar kameez. Fifty years in the profession was a really long time, he had dedicated his life to sewing clothes to fit people and suit their taste. He didn’t know what modern women liked but he did know that the clothes he stitched would last for a long time without a single stitch giving way and he prided himself on his techniques. He scoffed at women who now thronged the new shop fooled by the promise of a shiny board. He lifted his metal scissors and cut the cloth neatly from end to end, quietly wondering if years of experience would be overshadowed by a well-lit tailor shop for modern women.
It started with a twinge of jealousy when he first heard about a new tailor shop, he brushed it off thinking that it would take years for it to get established. People would trust their clothes with a person who has spent years handling them, someone with an experienced eye. He pictured himself giving words of advice to the young fledgling in the initial days when there would be no business, about how it takes patience and perseverance to succeed in any business and that only when you win the customer’s trust by providing quality service, will they return to your shop and become regulars. This fatherly feeling of looking out and being pitifully affectionate towards a fellow tailor soon turned into a combination of insecurity and seething anger when he saw that not only did the new tailor get a lot of customers on the day he opened shop but he also managed to lure some of Yakub’s own regular customers.
Yakub was only sixteen when Abba gave him enough money to rent out a small room and buy himself a sewing machine, he had already spent two years under his uncle’s supervision, learning the fine art of turning a sheet of plain cloth into something spectacular. Of course he charged extra for the embellishments, but more than anything he considered the longevity of the stitches as the mark of a good tailor. Business flourished and he had made enough money to buy the shop and call it his own. The loud clang of the metal scissor that had accidentally slipped out of his hand brought him back to the present. He took a renewed look at his work and it came as a fresh shock of understanding that his clothes did indeed look quite… old-fashioned.
He heard giggles from the new tailor shop - he bent over the wooden counter and caught two girls engaged in deep conversation with the young tailor, finding almost everything he said funny, bursting into a fresh set of giggles after every sentence he completed. The young tailor flicked his silky hair and seemed to be enjoying all the attention, when he caught Yakub looking in their direction with unconcealed disgust. ‘Salaam aalaikum Yakub bhai!’ he greeted him, putting on one of his fake smiles. ‘Wa aalaikum as salam’, Yakub responded hurriedly and looked away. So this was his new ploy to keep customers coming back! In his fifty years of experience, Yakub hadn’t compromised on his conduct with women, not once! He treated them with utmost respect and spoke to them in a gentle tone, eyes lowered. What did the new tailor have so much to talk about with the two girls who had come to get their clothes stitched? Maybe he was too old fashioned to understand this.
That evening the new tailor came to his shop with a proposal. “Look Yakub Miya, you are aware of the fact that the number of customers who visit your shop is close to nothing, and you’re also growing old. Why don’t you sell your shop to me for a price much higher than what you’ll make anyway? Khuda na khaasta, agar paise kam pad gaye toh?” he said importantly. Yakub was angered at the very thought of selling his shop to someone; he spoke to him with great emotion, “Anwar Miya, I have everything I need. This shop was passed down to me by my father and I will not sell it. Why do you want my shop when you already have one?” Anwar thought for a moment, and decided to give the old man some time to think over it. “Yakub Bhai, we have so many customers coming in that we have run out of space. We need new machines and two more men will be joining us tomorrow. Alright, don’t sell the shop to us, but you can definitely consider renting it out? Think over it and let me know tomorrow. Khuda Hafiz!”
Yakub sat thinking till late in the evening, the mullah’s call from the mosque echoed in the confines of his little shop. For the first time he had missed his evening prayers. He repeated Anwar Miya’s words in his head slowly, deliberately. ‘Why don’t you sell your shop to me for a price much higher than what you’ll make anyway? Khuda na khaasta, agar paise kam pad gaye toh?’
Loud hammering was heard in the street the next morning. Tiny wooden chips flew as the old man’s eyes flickered, they were slightly moist and some of it collected around his wrinkles. It is difficult to tell if an old man is crying or if his eyes are watering. No one really cares. That’s what old age does to you. “A good decision, Yakub Bhai! Here’s your rent for this month! Enjoy your days with your grandchildren.” Yakub collected the notes with both his hands, wrinkled but still strong; strong enough to guide the metal scissors, strong enough to run the sewing machine. He looked up at the new board that now adorned his shop; it proudly read ‘Modrern Tailors’. He picked up the little triangles of cloth from the dusty floor and pocketed it. He cast one last look at the new shiny board as the letters reflected on his grey eyes, eyes that were still strong enough to slip a thread into a needle.
