My new blue jeans

 

My new Blue Jeans

The early 70s saw the “jean revolution” slowly sweep into India, and for a teenager like me in Allahabad, jeans were the ultimate dream. Back then, denim wasn’t something you could simply walk into a shop and buy. There were no Jean shops for sure.  Most people who owned jeans had either received them from kind relatives abroad or found second-hand treasures that trickled into markets in major cities—and some even made their way to Allahabad.

Allahabad, my city of birth, was a charming small town where everyone seemed to know everyone else. It was a vibrant place filled with the Anglo-Indian community, who were the life of the city’s social scene. Parties, dances, live bands—it was all happening, and fashion played a huge role. Jeans were a symbol of style and modernity, and everyone—especially the Anglo-Indian youth—wanted a pair. But jeans were rare, and if you wanted one, you had to get creative.

When a kind uncle offered to take me to a shop that sold jean material, I was thrilled. His son, my friend, and he were well-known at the Thornhill Club—fondly called the Bandhwa Club—so I trusted him implicitly- he dressed quite well too . That Sunday afternoon, we cycled through the manageable Allahabad traffic and parked near Niranjan Cinema, the landmark for our destination. Climbing a rickety staircase, we reached Ansari Tailors, a modest shop run by Mr. Ansari himself. (I am told the traffic is horrendous now)

Mr. Ansari was a gaunt, elderly man, about 70, dressed all in white with a scraggy beard that gave him an air of quiet dignity. His eyes lit up when he heard I wanted a pair of jeans. With great pride, he brought out three rolls of denim material—blue, black, and a curious muddy brown. Naturally, I chose blue. It was the “in” color, the epitome of cool.

He asked me a barrage of questions: Did I want loops? How many back pockets?  Studs? Folds? Double stitching? To be honest, I didn’t fully understand much of what he meant, but I nodded eagerly to everything. After all, he was the expert. Measurements taken and promises made; I cycled home feeling elated. In two weeks, I went to a trial, and the jeans looked amazing. Another week, he promised, and they’d be ready. I imagined myself in church amidst good company …... and that’s another story!

But fate had other plans. Shortly after, I fell seriously ill with double pneumonia. I was bedridden for over a month, missed my board exams, and had to repeat the class. In the chaos, my jeans were completely forgotten. I hadn’t paid an advance, and with no phones or address to contact me, Mr. Ansari was left with my unfinished masterpiece. I presumed  uncle never returned to the shop either, and life moved on.

Decades later, I can’t help but wonder: What happened to my jeans, Mr. Ansari? Did you sell them to someone else? Did they find their way into another teenager’s wardrobe, earning them the admiration I had dreamed of? Or did they hang in your shop for years, a forgotten relic of a young boy’s denim dreams?

 Perhaps they even inspired you to create your own line of jeans, Allahabad’s very own denim brand! Whatever their fate, those jeans remain a symbol of a simpler, more connected time, when a small-town tailor and a teenager’s dream could create a story worth retelling.