I walked into a small tea stall for a quick cup, only to bump into a familiar face from another lifetime.
Rajesh. My childhood tailor.
The man who stitched half my wardrobe growing up. The man who knew my size better than I did.
He smiled as if no time had passed. “Long time, huh?”
I smiled back. “You have your shop here now?”
“Yes,” he said. “The old shop rent became too high. I’ve set up one in front of my house. Business is down these days.”
His words carried a quiet weight.
Back in the day, Rajesh was unstoppable. During festival season, he would be buried under piles of cloth, pencil tucked behind his ear, scissors always in motion. You couldn’t get him to look up even if you tried.
If you gave him expensive fabric, he’d slice off a tiny piece, pin a tag with your name and measurements, and toss it into a growing mountain of backlogs. You had to visit two or three times before your shirt was ready. And yet, every festival, he’d have something new stitched for me before I even asked.
Now he stood there, hands still calloused, voice softer.
He asked, “Sir, you don’t get your clothes stitched anymore?”
I said, “No, these days it’s all readymade.”
My friend beside me added, “Yeah, who stitches now? You get every size.”
Rajesh chuckled. “Readymade means one size for many. But when something is made for your body, it fits like a song. The joy of that fit—only those who’ve felt it will understand.”
My friend shrugged. “Those days are gone. Now everything comes in every size.”
Rajesh tilted his head. “Every size? For billions of people? They make only a few sizes, and we squeeze ourselves into them. Not everything fits everyone.”
I smiled. “Times have changed, Rajesh. Now technology makes clothes for every size. It’s all on computers.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Every size?”
“Yes. Once you buy a shirt that fits, the store keeps your data. Your name, your address, your size—everything. Next time, they’ll know your perfect fit before you even say a word.”
My friend joined in. “Your fingerprint is in the system too.”
Rajesh looked curious. “But people grow, don’t they?”
“Of course,” I said. “The computer knows that too. When you buy groceries, it tracks what you eat and predicts your size for the next year. If you overeat, it adjusts your measurements automatically.”
Rajesh’s eyes widened. “And what if someone eats too much one year?”
I laughed. “Then it’ll know. The grocery store sends that data too. Everything’s connected now. No one has secrets anymore.”
The tea master, who had been listening from behind the counter, suddenly joined in. “Oh, so that’s why the police come to take photo CDs from the ATM machine! To collect our sizes and faces!”
I stared at him. “Brother, that’s not it. When we walk on the street, cameras already take our pictures. They match those photos with our clothes, habits, even color preferences. If you bought four red shirts, the system knows you’ll buy another red one soon.”
Rajesh blinked slowly. “So there are truly no secrets left. If I go to buy chappals, the computer will know my salary, where I work, when I last bought one, when it tore, and which one I’ll buy next. All we do is pay.”
He let out a long sigh. “Ooof.”
I leaned closer, half-joking. “That’s not all. Soon we’ll use technology to teach kids which clothes are culturally appropriate, how to behave, what to wear. It’ll even protect them from harm on the streets. It’ll teach our Indian values.”
Rajesh laughed weakly. “Technology is running too fast. Abbbbaa.”
I finished my tea quietly.
Just then, Driver Dinesh walked in. “Perumal Boutique will have a dress for my wife, right?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“So they have every woman’s size?”
I nodded again.
He smiled, satisfied.
And I wondered, not for the first time, who exactly he was buying that dress for.