Carolis
Threaded Elegance: A Tale of a Boy’s First Experience with a Tailor
One sunny afternoon, I dashed home, bubbling with excitement, and burst through the door with big news — I was set to have my First Holy Communion the following month. My father, momentarily lifting his eyes from the newspaper, greeted me with a smile that crinkled at the corners. “Fantastic news,” he exclaimed, “we’ll need to get you some new threads.”
My father ventured to Pettah and returned with yards of pristine white fabric. He planned to deck me out in a long-sleeved shirt and pants. Although I had never been to Carolis’s, tales of his tailoring prowess had reached my ears through my father. He was a master of the craft, with a reputation that had the locals clamouring for his services. Carolis, you see, was my father’s go-to tailor.
A few days later, we pedalled to Carolis’s tailor shop near the sixth milepost on Kandy Road. Perched on my father’s bicycle pole, I felt excitement and nervousness. The tailor’s shop was uncharted territory, and I had no idea what lay ahead.
Upon reaching Carolis’s establishment, it matched my expectations precisely: a modest enterprise with a simple sign above the door. My father dismounted, helped me down, and swung open the planked door, ushering me into the dimly lit space.
Inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of fabric and thread. Bolts of cloth towered against the walls, and a central table supported sewing machines and an assortment of tools. Carolis, adorned in a white vest and a striped sarong, greeted my father warmly. “Mahattaya,” he said, his amiable demeanor apparent as he peered over his glasses resting on his nose. A thick dark mustache adorned his face, and a black tape measure swung around his neck, with a pencil neatly tucked behind his ear.
My father presented the fabric, detailing what he envisioned. Carolis nodded, a smile playing on his lips. Armed with the tape measure, he meticulously measured my arms, chest, waist, hips, neck, shoulders, and cuff length. Each measurement found its place in a scruffy notebook, jotted down with his trusty pencil.
“He’s growing,” my father remarked. “Keep that in mind.”
Carolis acknowledged with another nod. “Of course, Mahattaya.”
For several days, Carolis labored over my clothes, sewing with care, taking time to perfect every detail. When the job was done, the clothes surpassed my expectations. The shirt, soft and white, and the pants, a flawless fit, made me feel like a prince. I marveled at the buttons and buckles on my hip.
On the day of my First Holy Communion, I proudly donned my new attire, feeling a sense of sanctity and pride. I knew my parents shared in that pride, making the occasion all the more special.
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