Shakeela laid out the violet satin and was about to begin cutting the blouse in her size, when she realised she needed a tape measure. Their own tape was faded and falling to pieces; they had a metal one, but how could she measure her back and chest with that? She had many blouses of her own, but as she’d put on a little weight, she wanted to check all her measurements again.
She took off her shirt and yelled for Momin. When he came, she said, ‘Momin, go next door, to number six and ask them for a tape measure. Tell them Shakeela needs it.’
Momin’s gaze fell upon Shakila’s white vest. He’d seen her this way many times before, but today it gave him a strange jolt. He averted his eyes, and anxiously said, ‘What kind of measure, bibi?’
‘A tape measure. This iron rod, lying in front of you, is one kind of measure. There is also another kind of measure, for clothes. Go and get it from number six, and run. Tell them Shakeela bibi needs it.’
Flat six was nearby. Momin returned in minutes with the tape measure. Shakeela took it from him and said, ‘Wait here, for a second. You can take it back right away.’ Then, addressing her sister, she said, ‘These people, if you keep anything of theirs, they start plaguing you for it back. Here, will you take my measurements?’
Razia began measuring Shakeela’s back and chest; they spoke continuously. Momin stood listening in the doorway, waiting out the uncomfortable silence.
‘Razia, why don’t you stretch it out and take the measurement. You did the same thing the last time. You took the measurements and the blouse was a mess. If it doesn’t fit right in the front, it becomes baggy round the armpits.’
‘Where to take it, where not to take it, you really give me a hard time. I start taking it in one place, you say, “a little lower”. Is it the end of the world if it’s a tiny bit too small or too big?’
‘Yes, it is! It only looks good if it fits. Look at how well Surayya’s clothes fit, do you ever see a crease? Do you see how good they look? Now, come on, get on with it.’ With this, she took in a breath and pushed out her breasts. When they were suitably enlarged, she held her breath and said, ‘Come on, do it now, quickly.’
When Shakeela exhaled, Momin felt hundreds of balloons explode inside of him. He said nervously, ‘Should I take it back, bibi, the tape?’
‘Wait, one minute,’ she replied dismissively.
As she said this, the clothes measure got entangled in her arms. When Shakeela tried disentangling it, Momin saw a tuft of black hair in her pale armpits. Similar hair had sprouted in his own armpits, but something about hers felt especially agreeable to him. A quiver ran through his entire body. He had a strange urge for this black hair to become his moustache. As a child, he would take black and golden corn hair and make moustaches from them. This urge now, gave him the same sensation round his nose and mouth that he had felt then, with the corn hair tickling against his upper lip.
Shakeela had lowered her arm and her armpit was hidden once again, but Momin still saw the tuft of black hair. The image of her raised arm, and the black hair poking out, remained fixed in his mind.
Shakeela handed Momin the measure and said, ‘Go and give it back. And thank them profusely.’
Momin returned the measure and sat down in the house’s courtyard. Dim thoughts rose in his mind. He sat at length considering their meaning but nothing became clear. Without intending to, he opened his little trunk, in which his newly tailored Eid clothes lay.
The smell of new cotton reached his nose, as the lid opened, and he felt the sudden urge to wash himself, put on his new clothes and go upstairs and salaam Shakeela bibi. His new cotton salwar would crinkle and his fez… No sooner had he thought of his fez than his gaze fell on its tassel and this tassel was transformed into the tuft of black hair he’d seen in Shakeela’s armpits. He took out his new fez from under his clothes and began to finger its soft, bendy tassel when he heard Shakeela’s voice.
‘Momin!’
Momin put the hat back into the trunk, shut its lid and went back to the room where Shakeela was working. She had already cut many pieces of violet satin using her sample. She put the pieces of bright, slippery cloth to one side and turned to Momin. ‘I called for you so many times. Were you asleep?’
Momin became tongue-tied. ‘No, bibi ji.’
‘Then, what were you doing?’
‘Nothing, nothing at all.’
‘You must have been up to something.’ Shakeela assailed him with questions, but in fact her mind was focussed on the blouse, on which she now had to put preliminary stitches.
‘I’d opened my trunk and was looking at my new clothes,’ Momin confessed with a forced laugh.
Hearing this, Shakeela laughed uproariously and Razia joined in.
Seeing Shakeela laugh gave Momin a strangely contented feeling and he wished at that moment to say or do something funny, which would make Shakeela laugh more. So, becoming coy, and taking on a girly voice, he said, ‘I’m also going to ask the mistress for some money so that I can go off and get myself a silk handkerchief.’
Still laughing, Shakeela asked, ‘And what are you going to do with this handkerchief?’
‘I’ll tie it round my neck, bibi,’ Momin said in his coy voice, ‘it’ll look so nice.’
Hearing this, Razia and Shakeela both laughed at length.
‘If you tie it round your neck, don’t forget I’ll use it to hang you with.’ Then, trying to suppress her laughter, she said to Razia, ‘The cretin’s made me forget what it was I called him for. What did I call him for?’
Razia didn’t reply, but began humming a film song she’d been learning for the past two days. In the meantime, Shakeela remembered herself why she’d called him. ‘Listen, Momin, I’m giving you this vest. Take it down to the new shop that’s opened next to the chemist, the same one you went to with me the other day, and ask them how much six vests like this will cost. Be sure to tell them that I’ll ask around and so they’d better give me a discount. Got it?’
‘Yes, bibi,’ Momin replied.
‘Now leave the room.’
Momin stepped out of the door and a few moments later the vest landed near his feet. Shakeela’s voice came from within: ‘Tell them we want something just like it, the exact same design. There shouldn’t be any difference.’
Momin said ‘Very well’ and picked up the vest, which had become slightly moist, as though it had been held over steam for a moment and pulled away. It was warm and sweet; the smell of her body still resided in it — and all this, was very pleasing to him.
Momin left, rubbing it between his fingers; it was as soft as a kitten. When he returned after enquiring about the prices, Shakeela had begun stitching her blouse, that violet satin blouse, far brighter and smoother than the tassel of his fez.
The blouse was perhaps being made in preparation for Eid, which was around the corner. Momin was called many times that day: to buy string, to take out the iron; the needle broke, to buy a new one. Shakeela put off the rest of the work till the next day, but pieces of string and scraps of violet satin were strewn about. Momin was called in to clear them away.
He cleared up well and threw everything away, except the shiny scraps of violet satin, which he saved for no particular reason.
The next day he took them out of his pocket and sat alone, taking apart their threads. He remained busy at this game until the little bits of string became a ball in his hand. He rubbed it and pressed it between his fingers, but Shakeela’s armpit, in which he’d seen the clump of black hair, remained fixed in his mind.
He was summoned many times that day as well. He saw the violet satin blouse at every stage. When it was still rough, it had long, white stitches all over it. Then, it was ironed and its creases vanished and shine doubled. After this, while it still had its preliminary stitches, Shakeela tried it on and showed it to Razia. In the dressing table mirror in the other room, she saw how it looked from every angle. When she was satisfied, she took it off, making markings wherever it was tight or loose. Then, she corrected its imperfections and tried it on once again. Only when it fit perfectly did she begin the final stitching.