Omani man remembers his dream tailor

Tailor Mohan

Omani HAMAD ALSEBHI on his Facebook page, mourns the Indian tailor at Barka Village Mr. MOHAN who died of kidney disease calling him the dream tailor.

While our mothers were bent over the sewing machine to embroider the clothes of the hot girls, Mohan, the expatriate Indian tailor that Barka knew in her seventies, was watching over his machine to sew our clothes, between Eid and school you find him staying up late in the blind night, rushing his hands to embroider clothes, not  He is important in preparing the dishdasha completely, but he makes sure that the dishdasha is worn on the day of Eid.

Barka was sad today, and sadness is more in the eyes of those who knew him and approached him, the news came from India, to spread on the WhatsApp network quickly, I reminded him of the rest of the mothers with pain, how patient and keen on his obligations, he does not care about the agreed amount as much as his eagerness to deliver clothes even  On the morning of Eid, he lived among the Omanis for a time, entered their homes, ate with them, and did not leave the country until after his kidneys failed to continue his life, leaving his sewing machine as a symbol of a bygone time.

He spent his last years in Wadi Uday, the land of strangers and the community of simple people. Mohen was known as the tailor of the poor, but for his mastery in embroidery and his distinction from others, he sewed for all classes of society, his place does not calm down, no one wants, no matter how much time besieged him during the holidays, you hear the noise and the slander in  His small shop, but as usual he is patient, he fulfills his promise and does not break, we remember him today as if time has withdrawn from our lives, we remember him, and we remember our mothers as we enter his shop before Eid and school and between them radiates white threads, he is the tailor of dreams, expanding and lining the pockets of our dishdashas so that time does not puncture them and be empty  Of the riyals, and he was the one who was repeating: “This big pocket, it will be a safe.” He died, and the pocket was nothing but a safe of memories.