The Making of a \"Quality Suit\" in Kolkata\'s Bustling New Market

By SEAN MCLAIN

The first time I met Ajit Singh, I offended him.

It was the fall of 2010, and I was in Kolkata, looking for a tailor to turn several meters of shockingly expensive wool into a suit for my future father-in-law.

While my bride-to-be was trying on lehengas in New Market, I was in Paris Tailors skeptically fingering the lapels of Mr. Singh's suits.

“Is this fully canvassed?” I asked, holding the lapel of a suit between thumb and forefinger. The 83-year-old Mr. Singh looked like I had slapped him in the face.

I was feeling for one of the hallmarks of a well-made suit, a layer of canvas placed between the outer fabric and the lining. It is the difference between a suit that will look good for the rest of your life and a suit that will last for a few dry cleanings.

Mr. Singh, who â€" he later informed me â€" has been tailoring suits since 1946, took immediate umbrage at my ques tion. “Come here, young man,” he said, and proceeded to show me a half-finished suit, with the all-important canvas middle layer exposed. “I know all the latest styles,” he told me and pulled out that year's edition of the Sears catalogue, which did considerably less for my confidence in the quality of his craftsmanship than the sight of that wool canvas.

Luckily, my father-in-law inadvertently diverted Mr. Singh's indignation toward himself, by introducing me as his son-in-law.

“What law?” Mr. Singh exclaimed. “Sir, let me tell you something, this in-law business was brought in by the British. Indians never used this term before. He is your son.”

My father, as Mr. Singh insisted I called my wife's father, got his suit, and I was also measured at Mr. Singh's urging. The next day, I received my new favorite suit, a light gray linen number for the princely sum of 5,000 rupees ($90 at current exchange rates). It fit better than the far more exp ensive suits I had ordered from an outfit on the famed Savile Row in London.

Two years later, I was back in Kolkata, and I took the opportunity to get more suits.

I had difficulty finding the place. The omnipresent street hawkers seemed to have multiplied in New Market, filling the sidewalks and spilling onto the streets. I nearly walked past the store, since the sign is obscured by larger hoardings for Moustache Jeans and the umbrellas of the hawkers unless you are standing directly opposite the shop.

The market was a different place when Mr. Singh's store was established.

During the British Raj, New Market in central Kolkata became the favored shopping destination of the English. It was constructed by the British-controlled Calcutta Municipal Corporation in 1875 to satisfy the demands of English residents in India, who objected to the conditions of local markets. The market's gothic architecture was designed to mimic that of London.

In 1935, M r. Singh's father, K.J. Singh, established Paris Tailors on Lindsay Street, opposite the main market complex. The name of the store had less to do with the sartorial leanings of the Singh family than with the founder's patron and instructor.

“Madame Stanley gave the name - she was a French lady from Paris living in India,” said Mr. Singh. “My father apprenticed with her in 1926.”

Paris Tailors became known for making woolen coats for ladies, which might seem an odd business in humid Kolkata, but according to Mr. Singh, the store became a favorite of the city's so-called Britishers. “My father would brag that the Lady Viceroy was a customer,” he said.

In 1950, Mr. Singh was sent to London by his father to learn “gents cutting” so that bespoke suits could be added to the store's repertoire. While successive Sears catalogs have changed the style of Paris Tailors' offerings, the essential components, the innards of a quality suit, have remained unchanged.

“You should have seen the market back then,” said Mr. Singh. “Well-dressed men and women walked down the streets to shop â€" not like it is today.”

The source of Mr. Singh's disdain was the army of street hawkers, whose tables full of knockoff sunglasses and plastic toys encompassed all but a few feet of pavement. Outside, two groups of hawkers began a shouting match over “the rules of the pavement.”

“Good customers don't come here anymore,” he said. Thanks to its long presence at the same address in the market, the shop has a long list of regular customers, but new customers were rare, said Mr. Singh.

“In the 1980s, everyone in India wore tailored clothes. Today, everyone wants ready-made,” he said. “Even those who come to me usually don't want tailored suits. They come and try whatever I have on the racks, and whatever fits, they buy and give me half an hour for alterations.”

As if to hammer Mr. Singh's point home, a man came in with a pair of trousers he wanted copied. Mr. Singh quickly dismissed the pants and insisted on taking the man's measurements. “This is ready-made; it does not fit properly. If you wear a 44 ready-made, you may need a 45.”

The customer then insisted again that the pants be made in the same style of the sample trousers he brought in.

In a pair of mass-produced, machine-made pants, the seams are “double-stitched,” explained Mr. Singh. You see this on pairs of jeans or khakis â€" two parallel lines of stitching holding the pieces of cloth on the leg together. This is a sturdy enough method of making pants, but Mr. Singh's pants are hand sewn using a different method of stitching. It is designed to allow the size of the pants to be adjusted with the growth or, hopefully, the shrinkage of one's thighs and waistline.

Mr. Singh asked the customer to come in the next day for a fitting before making the final product. “A trial is not n ecessary,” the customer said. “I have no time. Please take your time; I am in no hurry. Please make it in the proper way, with double-stitching.”

Mr. Singh said nothing.

My second suit from Paris Tailors was charcoal-gray mohair with dark pink pinstripes. Like my first suit, this too fit like a second skin.

Unfortunately, Mr. Singh is getting older, and good tailors are increasingly hard to find. Mr. Singh's only son and apprentice died in a motorcycle accident in 2005. He has a variety of assistants and silent partners, who might attempt to stake a claim to Paris Tailors when the master tailor eventually passes away.

Mr. Singh, however, said he is not concerned about who will take over the store when he is gone. “Who knows what will happen tomorrow?” he said. “I only think about today.”

Nor is Mr. Singh considering retirement. “What would I do?” His brothers have moved to the West, as have his daughters.

But what keeps h im at his store is more than just the need of an elderly man to stay busy - he feels he is preserving the family's legacy and a piece of old Kolkata. “My father gave his blood for this shop,” he said. “I got married with the money we made from this shop.”

Sean McLain is a freelance journalist based in New Delhi, and a fan of a good suit. You can follow him on Twitter @McLainSean