Tailors

You can barely see the entrance, and inside, there is no crowd right now. Is this the right place? Yes. The first attempt took me to the wrong courtyard. Inside, in the distance, there was a kerosene stove with a black Karai on top. But, inside, it turned out to be the wrong one even though the entrance had so many signs affixed above, wooden border in blue or some other color paint, stuck to the cement with metal pieces of aluminum. "5 Star Tailors", this tailor that tailor. The narrow, dark, short walkway even had a suitcase seller with his wares aligned along the sides. But in the end, this wasn't the one.

Next, there it was. "Tip Top Tailors". An open secret to everyone in Kathmandu. The best samosas around, they say. This alley way has many more signs affixed above the entrance, some green borders, some blue, some white. But the golden Stupa painted on the first letter is distinctive. Tip (Stupa sitting on the T) Top Tailors. The two words are in Red, round, bulging ends to the letters.

The alleyway, wooden frame on either side of the opening on both sides, is unsuspecting. The suitcase seller here seems to have many more things to sell. There is traffic coming out and going in. The blue large suitcases spill out into the courtyard, typical in its lack of design. The apron around is cement, the space in the middle is paved with square cement tiles, the space between them a little bit depressed, and also cement. Water collected here and there, dark spots where water has dried, more water where the tiles have cracked.

There is a hindi song playing somewhere. And the sound of pigeons. Their feathers, soft, white fluffs, line the courtyard. The flat white spots are the droppings, the puffy white ones are the down feathers. The pigeons are roosting, peeking out from a corner above the first floor of tailoring stores. Stepping out of the short alley, in the far left corner there is a shop which has extended to line the whole courtyard on the south side. Covered with a blue tarp, stretched by its corners, tied with nylon rope, sagging a few feet above the cooking stoves and buckets and buckets of Samosas. The wet sweets are embedded in the tables, in aluminum containers to the right of the other stuff. The aluminum for the samosas is lined with newspaper. The blue tarp is brown, and white in places. Uniformly dusty, with the corners chalky white- where there happened to be a resting place for pigeons above.

The green trash can, about four feet tall stands directly opposite. There is no crowd today. And the trash can is empty. There is a water tank, about five feet tall and seven feet wide to my left, attached to the wall next to the doorway opening. The sun streams in . The walls behind the counter, with the samosas and the wet sweets is green, brown, dirty. There is a blue doorway, dark tourquoise, metal latch closed, one of those big black "Bhote" locks hanging from it by its silver arch. Plastic bags, filled, perhap with other plastic bags, hang from the end of the latch. There are rooms. Four of them. The far left, closed. The next one, closed. The one on the right has the bags. The one in the middle is opened. Upwards, forming a sort of roof above the kid, maybe 17, who takes the blue tickets and gives you your food. One of the embedded buckets has a reddish Achar. Unbeatable- tangy, sour, tart- perhaps tamarind. It is scooped out with a cup, poured into a dish made of dried leaves and held in place with pieces of bamboo that look like broken toothpicks.

The song has changed now. Much more upbeat, sounds more filmy with periods of soaring instrumentals.

The basket on the table, lined with aluminum foil, lined with paper, is filled with "Kachori".

The opened room, behind the young boy, has a tin tub with handles. The tub is large, and sits on a table. The room has pink paint all over, and blue tiles around the bottom of the walls to about three feet. It is grimy. Perhaps this is where some cooking happens. Perhaps the wet sweets.

There is no sign, but there is a steady stream of people.