Short ‘N’ Snappy

– WoMM

Madras Vignettes: Of Tailors, Tennis Players and Trees

The Tailor

The Woman from Madras Musings is often asked, as women are, about her tailor. This is by no means a tribute to WoMM’s sense of fashion; experience suggests that most women are perpetually in search of a better tailor for some reason or the other. WoMM is always happy to refer them to the gentleman who’s been stitching her clothes for the past decade. She’s not sure if she’s ever described him to MM readers; he’s certainly worth a mention. The tailor is a youngish chap who almost always turns up in a seven o clock shadow and wearing a full-sleeved striped shirt. He also carries the faintest whiff – not unpleasant – of biscuits and tea, no matter the time of day. (WoMM once asked the Mater if she thought shops sold biscuit-and-tea perfumes, and was curtly asked to spend her time thinking about more constructive things.) The fellow has a smallworkshop in a complex in RA Puram – the place overflows with colourful clothes and bits and bobs, and he has somehow contrived to wedge in a sewing machine and a chair for himself. T never refuses last-minute work. WoMM has, on countless occasions, tasked him with jobs carrying outrageous deadlines; he accepts them all and proceeds to miss the finishing date with great cheer and good humour. WoMM has grown to find this game rather comforting in its familiarity. Once, he disappeared for months on end – WoMM simply couldn’t catch him, however hard she tried. He dodged her phone calls expertly and somehow managed to slip away when she turned up at the shop. On that particular occasion, he delivered WoMM’s stitched clothes to her after roughly three months.

Quite recently, WoMM landed up at the workshop upon discovering that T’s phone was not working. She informed him that he’s been unreachable for sometime to which he replied that his phone was not with him. “A customer took it away,” he confessed suddenly while folding WoMM’s clothes. WoMM goggled at him for a bit. “By mistake?” she asked, to which T said no, not by mistake; the lady came to the workshop complaining that her calls always went unanswered and took his phone away declaring that he didn’t really need one. WoMM must have looked quite horrified because T quickly comforted her – that particular customer was actually a very nice person, and he expected to get his phone back at the earliest though he
didn’t know exactly when.

Tennis Players

Readers may recall that the Woman from Madras Musings likes to play tennis. Last month, WoMM played after a bit of a break. Rain was in the air, so the wind was cool and the clouds overhead were rather dark. It was lovely. The people who play with her are quite nice, too. It takes all sorts to make a tennis community and they’re each fun to hang out with. For instance, almost every tennis group has what WoMM calls a Jolly Player. JPs are those who play the game because its fun; they don’t mind much if they lose and are generally great sports. WoMM likes to partner with these types when playing doubles, because they’re usually the last ones to put pressure about winning. They’re in stark contrast to the Serious Players, who enjoy pitting themselves against competition. The Better Half belongs to this ilk, and let WoMM tell you that it is immensely stressful to partner the fellow on the court. It doesn’t help that she is in troth to him – he insists on considering every match played together as some test of marital strength. WoMM plays her worst game alongside him.

The best people to play with, though, are the professional markers at the sports clubs. They’re all wonderful at the game and understand WoMM’s skills well enough to give her a good game. It’s amazing how each of their games reflects their personalities. Take M, for instance. M is a cheerful, calm chap who is slight of build and quick to laugh. He typically doesn’t use his full power on the returns, though WoMM has seen him take a few spectacular wins this way; no, he prefers an elegant game of consistent rallies and intelligent ball placement. M is very light on his feet and covers the court like a bumblebee on engines. M’s game is in stark contrast to S, another marker.

The latter’s natural game is a relentless attack that delights in finding the most impossible angles in a rally; there’s no hope of a counter attack when he has control of the ball, because any such attempt invites a fiercer return. S is rather moody, though. WoMM thinks she can sometimes see his personal fog materializing around him. When this happens, he gives into a story of dispassion that sticks to the tennis ball and coats the rallies; he hardly moves on the court. For all that, however, his shots remain hard to return because they come in great, sharp arcs with unpredictable bounce. S is a chatterer when he is good cheer. WoMM almost always ends up begging him to zip it during play, for he says the sillest things and often breaks into atrocious song.

The Tree

The other day, WoMM met a friend at a cafe she frequents. It was the first time she really, truly saw the tree outside the shop. The tree, WoMM found, was quite tall and wide (as to the species, WoMM pleads ignorance) and home to roughly seven thousand parakeets, at a glance. Almost every branch had a pair of birds cooing to each other and locking beaks; the trunk seemed to be full of tiny hollows from which red beaks poked out now and then. A chap was sitting right underneath the tree and saw WoMM gaping openmouthed at the sight. He threw the briefest glance upwards and went back to his phone, completely unaware that he was sitting right beneath a miracle.

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