Till even two decades ago, Madurai hadn’t caught on to the salwar. You either had to be from above the Vindhyas or from overseas to escape uppity looks of disapproval.
Over the last decade though, the city has grown surprisingly more accepting of both cuisine and fashion from northern India. The saree though, continues to rule, like idlis or the ‘Veshti’ (dhoti), or large overly jingly anklets.
In Madurai, the saree is the dress of choice, of tradition and of concurrent fashion. Even here, Vadivelu, his hand-crank sewing machine and trusty bicycle are a novelty.
There is no saree without a blouse (unless you’re from the countryside and you’re over seventy years old). And between comfort eating and sudden bouts of visits from relatives – I kid you not, this is a true blue Madurai tradition that many families must contend with – said blouse requires constant alterations.
Vadivelu, the ladies tailor, specialises in stitching, re-stitching and altering blouses. He’s been a tailor from age 26 and has been plying his needle and thread routine on cycle for over 50 years.
He weaves stories about his exploits and royal ancestry with as much ease and dexterity as he sews. Born in Malaysia (possible); was jailed in the freedom struggle (nope); in a litigation over fifty lakhs worth of tailoring equipment (nope); was about to be elected as an MLA for the political party he supports (nope); did awesome business in Kerala selling readymades at temple festivals (possible).
His hand-crank sewing machine is almost as old as him, but looks much younger, since its parts are replaceable. At Rs 25 per blouse, Vadivelu makes an average of thirty thousand rupees a month.
Vadivelu: You’ve got to be up and doing, or you’ll get lazy. Or you’ll get what…?
Me: erm… Lazy.
Vadivelu: Exactly. I also work as a night watchman in the colony nearby. But Malaysia is actually where I should have been. I’m still being called there for work.
Me: So… why haven’t you left yet?
(Clearly, that was the wrong question)
Vadivelu: (vigorously stitching)
I changed topic and asked him to pose for a photograph. I tried and failed to convince him that he doesn’t have to hold his breath.
There are others like him in the city, all geriatrics with varying levels of baldness and shades of all-white hair. What I found interesting is that none of them seem to think well of their craft, though they understand the demand.
To me though, the entire process of measuring, folding and stitching cloth, all by sight and without markers or tape looked beautiful. There was such casual panache in every move that the entire process was mesmerising.
As Vadivelu lugged the sewing machine onto his cycle and rode off, I felt I was privy to the beauty of a dying art form and an endangered breed of artisan.
(Vikram Venkateswaran is a freelance writer, TV producer and media consultant. Headings, titles and captions are his kryptonite. He lives in Madurai and is occasionally struck by the feeling that the city likes him back.)
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