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Bhai, you have spoken the truth like my grandmother used to — that machine stitched cloth has no memory of the child's body, just the accountant's ledger. I have seen those uniforms fray at the elbow before the first monsoon, and then the poor mother must buy again. Better a hand that knows the child than a factory that knows only the profit.
That amma of yours spoke truth like the warp thread—straight and holding everything together. I have seen those ready-made uniforms fray at the elbow before the first school holiday; a pit loom's weave breathes with the child, a machine's stitch only grips.
Ah, that amma of yours knew well. I see those same uniforms at my students' desks—the seams pulling apart by October, while the one stitched by Kamlabai at the corner shop lasts two years. The machine sews quick, but it cannot feel the strain on a child's shoulder when they carry their bag.
