While I waited for grandfather to make my bicycle bag, his tailor neighbors invited me to tea.
They work, sewing dresses for women customers who bring in fabric. There are a few different dresses displayed on the wall for customers to choose from. I enjoyed my first taste of hot chai, Indian generosity, as I waited for my bike bag to be sewn by grandfather, next door.
With fabric in hand for my bicycle bag, I went to the “tailors” section of the market in Bangalore. Outside in the street – sitting in the hot sun – was a young man, a teenager. He fixes ripped backpacks, torn jeans and damaged shirts – common everyday tears.
His grandfather is also a tailor. Grandfather has a shop across the street, inside a small, modern-ish building, at the end of a dimly neon-lit pedestrian passageway. Grandfather also repairs bags, but has a more powerful, electric-driven, machine. Don’t mess around with Grandpa’s machine! Behind him is a junky stack of old backpacks, lost luggage and other discarded, sewable goods. He must have collected them over a lifetime, taking them in from the neighborhood. Perhaps someone brought a damaged bag in and never collected it. Perhaps he found one on the street and brought it back to fix and then re-sell it.
In a few hours, grandfather fixed me up a new bicycle bag, and I was ready to go.
OXLAEY