Carolis, the tailor:

A Boy’s first experience with a Tailor

2 min read·Just now

Iran home excitedly one afternoon, bursting through the door with the news that I would receive my First Holy Communion the following month. My father looked up from his newspaper, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a smile. “That’s wonderful news,” he said. “We’ll need to make you some new clothes.”

The next day, my father went to Pettah and bought several yards of pristine white fabric. He planned to get me a long-sleeved shirt and pants. I had never been to Carolis’s before, but I had heard stories about his skill and craftsmanship from my father. He was a master tailor, and his work was in high demand among the locals.

A few days later, we cycled to Carolis’s tailor shop near the sixth milepost on Kandy Road. I sat on my father’s bicycle pole as we rode, feeling excited and nervous simultaneously. I had never been to a tailor’s shop before and didn’t know what to expect.

When we arrived at Carolis’s shop, I could see it was exactly as I had imagined: a small business with a simple sign hanging above the door. My father dismounted his bike and helped me down, then opened the planked door and ushered me inside.

The shop was dimly lit, and the air was thick with the smell of fabric and thread. There were bolts of cloth stacked high against the walls, and a long table in the centre of the room was covered with sewing machines and other tools of the trade.

Carolis, dressed in a white vest and a striped sarong, greeted my father warmly. “Mahattaya,” he said, his pleasant demeanour evident. He looked over his glasses, which rested on the bridge of his nose. He had a thick dark moustache. A black tape measure hung around his neck, and a pencil was tucked behind his ear.

My father showed Carolis the fabric and explained what he wanted him to make. Carolis nodded and smiled. He took the tape measure and measured my arms, chest, waist, hips, neck, shoulders, and cuff length. He wrote the measurements down in a scrubby notebook with his pencil.

“He is a growing boy,” my father said. “Make allowances for that.”

Carolis nodded again. “Of course, Mahattaya.”

Carolis worked on my clothes for several days. He sewed carefully, taking his time to perfect every detail. When he was finished, the clothes were even more beautiful than I had imagined. The shirt was soft and white, and the pants fit perfectly. I felt like a prince when I put them on, admiring the shirt’s buttons and buckles on my hip.

On my First Holy Communion Day, I proudly wore my new clothes. I felt special and holy, and I knew my parents were proud of me too.