Rrrrriiip…..the sound I was dreading! Just as I rose from my comfortably squatted position, my palm pressed against its lower edge, and my motion upwards with part of the apparel pinned down caused the damage. I knew it was coming: this my two year old cotton jubba has outlived their shelf life, but my middle class upbringing impels me to extend its life span. It is a losing battle - the collar has frayed a bit, the buttons have spilt out and the material has turned a creamy color from the pristine virginal white it was when I bought it and got tailored.

I stood up fully and inspected the damage. A linear strip, six inches broad from right side pocket’s edge, medially and across, dangled limp. Damn, I muttered. Lakshmi , my long se5ving housekeeper maid comes over and peers close at the torn end, hanging loose like a lifeless flag on a windless day. I cussed and fumed. I hate clothes turning unusable.

By next evening, the jubba was back in circulation, sewn, laundered and ironed. Lakshmi must have spent some time meticulously attending to mending. Hand-stitching fourteen inches of split ends. The suture line was almost unidentifiable. Ravi returns from work as I exult over the superb recycling effort. He stares, quite grim and granite faced. In fact he appears livid with a silent rage. What’s up?

He stomps off into the kitchen – how can you? Making him wear a re-stitched jubba. 'For Gods sake, he is a dean and professor and gets to meet so many visitors who drop by here daily; what will they think of him? What will they think of us? That we cannot dispose off old and worn out clothes eh?'

'He, he told me…..to'… she replies

'Shhhhh!! Even if he did, where are your brains? Couldn’t you tell him its time for a new set. In fact we need to get another three new sets. Now get that rag off his back, right now', he roars as he goes out slamming the door behind him. I hear the bike start and zoom off. Boy! Is he in a fit. Laksmi sheepishly raises her eyebrows. Some tantrum this, the gesture means.

It is nine at night when I hear him return. He carries a large brown paper package. 'Here', he says, thrusting it into my hands. 'Here are three new sets of white cotton pajama kurtas'.

All perfect and amazingly, not 'ready made' stuff, but tailored to size and fit. As I try out one set, he grins, 'I got the cloth and gave it for stitching yesterday itself as soon as I saw the damage to the juba yesterday'.

Lakshmi looks thrilled her man has taken all the right decisions. She knows my weakness for indecisiveness and change. She takes the sets and soaks them up in a pail of water. 'New clothes should never be worn new', she says, citing some age old grandma maxim.

I am in a way glad that someone here takes such stands. Be it shoes, sandals, socks or clothes – I never seem to get myself around to shop or want to shop for them. Really there is something fundamentally wrong with me. It is in my genes, I suppose. Ravi being here makes it so much easier for me to see how inane I have become. Like Howard Hughes, idiosyncrasies rule my life: I have a second look at the discarded re-sewn kurta: it is quite pathetic. How could I have used it this long?

I wonder what happens to the comfy piece that had warmed my skin for two years. I am a sentimental sop. Surely. I needn’t have fretted with pangs of guilt, for at that night at supper, I saw Ravi wearing my old damage-controlled and restored jubba.

He sees my perplexed look.

'Oh! it is good enough for a few months more, I can use it. You shouldn’t be.'

Lakshmi glows inwardly with a palpable pride. Ravi is hers, the glow implies. I slept well. This place is no longer house, it is now home.