STITCHING

So much of the wonder of India is discovering the odd ways in which things work. We are in an awful mood, sweaty, dirty, lost. A dozen tuk-tuks honk at us asking to drive us when we want to walk. When we need a a ride there are none to be found. Anyhow, we decide to send our Hampi tapestries and some postcards back to the U.S. so after finally finding the central post office (of the capital city of Kerala, mind you) we ask how we can wrap our package. "Stitching! Stitching!" the man shouts making the usual vague wave out into the street.

Finally we head out and wander down an alley. After a few zigs and zags we see a shop the size of a closet with a hand-painted sign says "stitching." Inside a half-naked man sleeps on a wooden plank. We wake him up. He takes our tapestries, wheels out an old foot-pedaled sewing machine, and begins to sew us two perfect little pillowcases. "Please, sit," he says, and we sit on the wooden plank. It's cool inside. We have no choice but to wait and watch. For the first time all day we feel relaxed. When he is done he seals the hem with melted red wax.