For those who can afford to fly to Paris for a haircut, it may be a paltry amount. But my bank balance, or the legacy left behind by Ami Chand, makes it seem a king's ransome to folks like me. I am sure he must be turning in his grave or perhaps even arguing with the Almighty for sending him to the world 50 years too soon.

Ami Chand was our tailor. He came to us after partition. He was one of the many repatriated from the Pakistan side of the border in search of a livelihood. I used to enjoy sitting beside him and looking on with awe as he turned a few yards of material into a beautiful dress by making a few deft cuts here and adding astitch there.

He worked on a contractual basis and was given five rupees per day for his labours. His day would start as the sun rose and end only at sunset. He would not work in artificial light. He was not only a master of his trade but of time too. The clock could not enslave him.

He would come with a long khaki bag swung on his shoulder. It had the tools of his trade like scissors, a measuring tape and a piece of tailor's chalk. The sewing machine had to be supplied by the family. He would then spread out a rug in the veranda and mark out his territory which nobody in the family was allowed to encroach upon.

Mother would bring out the cloth she had kept aside to be stitched and tell him all that was required for that season. Everything had to be spelt out clearly. Ami Chand did not like to stitch different items on the same day. If the day was earmarked for blouses, then it would be only blouses. Nothing would persuade him to do anything else.

Once, there was a sudden invitation for a friend'sbirthday. Since it is common knowledge that no woman has a stitch of clothing to wear to a party even if her cupboards are overflowing with dresses. I was a lady-in-making. I wanted to wear a frock which until then had existed only in my imagination. It was to be a white frock with big red roses and a red sash around the waist. The material was there but it had been set aside and was not on Ami Chand's schedule. I was determined to wear it to my friend's party.

Mother gave in and brought out the fabric earmarked for my dress but Ami Chand was quite a different kettle of fish. He had started on father's kurta and would not deviate from it. I tried to cajole, I stomped my feet but nothing would move him. He was impervious to any of my antics. I even tried to impress upon him that it was a matter of life and death for me. He merely shook his head and lowered his head over the machine, busy with father's kurta.

I looked at his bald pate and burst into tears. At one point, he just picked up a small remnant offabric and wiped my nose and eyes. But I was adamant and crouched near him, sobbing my heart out. He carried on with his job, ignoring me all the while. Sleep caught up with me. I do not know when I curled up near him on the rug. I found myself in my bed when I got up in the morning. By my bedpost was the dress. Ami Chand had broken his self-imposed vow and had worked late into the night to create a dream for a child.Ami Chand died. And with him died the system of tailors coming to the house to stitch.

Today one has to either go to the tailor or walk into one of those swanky designer boutiques. One can spend any amount of money in these places, but they still cannot compete with the pleasure I got from wearing that dream of a dress. It was created through the labour of love.