No great change happens overnight. The radio towers, like so many bells, rang out with news of the deposition of Pagan Min, with summons for submissions from regional representatives for the new parliament and volunteers for public works, with pleas for peace "at least for now, until we work things out". The clanging clamour of promised change ran from mountain slopes to valleys, bloggers' keyboards rattled, and the first reluctant choppers piloted by aid workers spun their props in the stark blue skies. So far, the promise of the new ruler had held out, and none had been shot down. So far. People bided their time, listening out warily for news and gossip. No one had laid aside their yellows and their reds just yet, but guns stayed holstered, by and large.
And what goes for country, goes for individual just as well. Ajay, dressed just as he had always been, strode with as much purpose as he could muster from meeting to appointment to interview, though in his mind he scurried more than strode. Sudden hiatus, if not true peace, brought as much dread as it did promise. At least uncertain futures held memory at bay.
By force of habit as much as of foresight, he still carried his radio, all channels open. And it did not fail to break the silence now, as he walked to what he still struggled to call his "office". Mumu Chiffon's voice chirruped brightly from amidst the static "Did you miss me, Ajay?"
"Mister Chiffon?"
"Oh yes. Yes indeed! Why so surprised?"
"I half-suspected you were dead, or at best sneaking away in a goat caravan. I'd been told otherwise, but… can't say it was easy to believe. The note, the blood…"
"Oh that little bit of silliness? I admit, it was all a bit dramatic – but I am an artist, after all, and was a persecuted one! Do you really expect me to convey the gravity of my plight in less certain terms? God, boy, you're fierce, but so literal-minded!"
"But the blood?"
"Ah, well. That was from making the goat costume – and a fine one at that, for the rushed job it was. For sneaking out in the goat caravan, you'll recall? As it happens, I killed the last wild goat in Kyrat making that piece – I fancy it'll be a priceless item once the peerlessness of my reputation is established! Also, obviously, no more goats, no more goat caravans. Hence I am still at liberty to continue our repartee."
"Right."
"Anyhow. We've more important matters to attend to now. I hear you're king! Congratulations! Oh, I'm so taken with what you're doing with your P.R. campaign. Posting that address - about your taking over as head of state, the call for peace, hopes of democracy and all, on the very same YouTube channel as your GoBro stunt footage! Clever boy, you've gone viral – oh, that rugged, weary and unshaven countenance! That tattered jacket! Your hand resting on the hilt of your kukri as you spoke – the camera loved it! You're a media darling in the making."
"Uh, thankyou?" Ajay managed.
"But you do realize you can't carry on like this, yes? That image was right for the moment, and that moment has passed. It spoke of struggle, and now – now you must speak of stability, of sobriety and strength, with every inch of your presence. My friend, what you need now is a fine suit!" Mumu could be heard clapping his hands together in elation at the thought.
"So, just to be clear. You're still in Kyrat?"
"Of course I am. What an opportunity – to place my mark on you even as you place yours on the entire region. I wouldn't miss it for the world!"
"Is this really that urgent, mister Chiffon? The representatives-elect will arrive to talk over administrative regions and voting any day now. I have a conference with the Red Cross later tonight, a blood-sports arena to explain away…"
"More urgent than you could imagine! You must confirm me as your tailor-in-chief. As soon, indeed, as now as possible."
"I thought you had plans of making your name elsewhere… And Pagan had a tailor that stepped in after you and he, uh, fell out, no?"
"Oh, her" Mumu's tone suddenly lost all warmth "You cannot trust her. She is mad. Impetuous and mad. Uncompromising in the worst of ways!"
"Sarnai, right?"
"I trust you haven't met her yet."
"No. I've had hold of the palace for a week now, I've met most of the surviving staff."
"That'd be just like her. She's probably still sitting in my erstwhile sewing room, usurpress that she is, brooding, scheming, plotting…sewing." Mumu intoned ominously.
"I see."
"Oh, you've seen nothing yet, my friend! Return me to my throne, now that you have claimed yours, resolve this matter, only then, then will you truly see. I have many marvels in store, so stay fierce now!" Mumu cut the connection abruptly.
Ajay stood rooted in place for a moment. Scratched the back of his head. Turned on his heel and, pocketing the radio, set off in search of this much-sought-after sewing room. It did not take him long to find it. A few doors from formerly Pagan's - now his own - lavishly over-decorated office, a narrow hallway led to a flight of steps. At the top of these, a surprisingly austere door. Trust Pagan to keep his outfitter so close at hand. Vain, paranoid, controlling bastard. He found himself smiling fondly at the thought.
Ajay hesitated before the door, half-sheepish and half-wary. Whatever lay beyond it sounded by all accounts like a force to be reckoned with, or at any rate handled with caution. Then, shaking his head and reminding himself for the umpteenth time that day that he is king now - feared, revered and generally not to be messed with - pushed it quietly open.
Fabrics, rolls upon rolls of them, lined the shelves, littered the floor in half-unfurled shimmerant piles. On the far wall, a jacket bloomed with embroidered peonies the colour of a blushing sunset. Only eventually did Ajay notice the scrawny little woman sitting by the blossoming garment, seemingly unaware of his presence, regarding her handiwork.
She didn't seem very imposing.
"So, you're the tailor then, I take it?"
The woman looked over her shoulder with dark, narrowed eyes. Turned to face the king, aged hands folded primly in her lap. She sighed. Ajay noticed that her face was puffy, full of recent crying and empty of sleep.
"That damn fool boy. Left me here, took off without so much as a proper goodbye. Didn't even wait for my last work to be completed before deciding all his work here is done, and he'll be off now. And I was so close to changing his mind about those awful shirt collars, too – it's no good, at his age, to be wearing such sharp angles – they age one terribly, and this time of his, and this country's, life calls for a softer line." Sarnai heaved a sigh.
Ajay did his best not to boggle at hearing the erstwhile king referred to as a "damn fool boy".
The woman continued unperturbed, as though she was addressing an empty room, "Is this what I smuggled myself all those borders for? Out of Mongolia, through China and Nepal, all the way to this place? You'd think that'd earn you a little appreciation – not like he even had anyone to fill the role once he and Mumu fell out!"
"I'm afraid you're going to have to fill me in on what happened there."
"Well, you might notice Pagan was rather fond of his rhino horn tea – but where others would simply harvest the horn until no rhinos were left, he took it upon himself to set up a breeding programme. Fancied himself a bit of a conservationist, he did – in his own way, of course. 'The Marie Antoinette of Tigers', they called him. Don't suppose you've seen the signs along the border? 'Let Them Eat Humans'? I guess you can see where he and Mumu diverged in their philosophies. You should read Chiffon's manifesto, 'The Human Mandala'. Grim."
Ajay looked vaguely stumped. "But what about all that stuff in King Min's guide to Kyrat?"
"Well, he was a bit of a favouritist. And had an odd sense of humour. I'm not sure how literally you're meant to take any of it. I'm not sure what the last straw was, the jacket fringed with Yeti eyelashes or just Mumu's being hell-bent on hunting down the oldest and most unique specimens of every species. I followed the whole debacle on Pagan's twitter, you see – always thought he had the potential to become something of a fashion icon, as he clearly recognised a good silhouette when he saw one. That man, he wore unique garments fearlessly."
"So, you thought you'd fill the vacan- Wait. Yeti?"
"The Himalayan Giant Loris. Eyelashes almost a foot long. Gone now."
"So, yeah. You thought you've fill the vacancy?" Ajay prompted, still struggling to wrap his head around the notion of Pagan Min, conservationist. No attempt to wrap his head around a yeti would be made just yet.
"I did indeed. I'm sixty-five this year. So about a year ago, I was watching this drama unfold in my twitter feed from my apartment in Ulan Bataar, and I thought to myself: My son is all grown up, with kids of his own. My parents are departed. And I've made it past sixty – surely a woman my age should no longer feel beholden to anyone's opinion. All my life I've done what's asked of me. I decided I'm done. And I was done. And now, I'm here. And I'm not leaving. I'd sooner see the place burn to the ground." Sarnai's eyes narrowed still further in her broad, weathered face.
Ajay resisted the urge to flinch from the withering glare. "I wasn't asking you to leave. But you should know, Mumu is still around."
Sarnai's brow furrowed "Great. More suits. Just what this place needs! More sharp suits. That man has a fixation with military style! It's like Hugo Boss with fur-trimmed pouches! Mark my words – he'll have you wearing shoulder boards, and epaulettes, and probably some kind of plumed helmet if he can – he has some odd ideas about peacetime imagery! You see, I'd almost swayed Pagan, I like to think, towards a softer line. I told him, time and time again – let your clothes speak of peace, of plenty – and poof! The civil war will be forgotten."
"Er. I'm not sure it quite works like that."
Sarnai continued to glower quietly.
"But then again, I'm no expert in these matters." Ajay added hastily, before stammering a more regal amendment. "I mean, of course I have some idea, but it's always wise to be open to advice."
Sarnai's glare softened after a pause, and she took up a selection of wide iridescent silk swatches and reached up to drape a couple over Ajay's shoulders.
"Good." She said, "Then I will begin by advising you to dispense with these harsh block colours and piping. You may not have the uncompromising edges of Pagan's striking silhouette, but this colour scheme of yours has the same puerile effect of childish defiance."
Ajay backed away, stripping the cloth swatches from where Sarnai had tried to conceal his evidently offensive jacket, and proffered them emphatically back to her.
"Wait, nothing's official yet. I don't have or need a court tailor right now and I like this jacket. It'll do for now. There are other things that have to be dealt with before we talk about, you know, ratifying your appointment to office."
"Don't be naïve, boy. Our first priority is preventing the incipient outbreak of the next civil war, and the clarity your jacket purports is dangerously alienating. There is no clarity here, and no one must be allowed to imagine that there is some exigency calling for the course of action that has become habitual."
"What are you talking about? Alienating? If any goddamn textiles are going to start the next war it'll be these shiny headtrips." Ajay sputtered, sweeping his arm across the bolts and piles of embroidered cloth, "You're on twitter; haven't you seen how divisive an ambiguously coloured article of clothing can be? People in countries that haven't spent the past century in a constant sequence of civil wars are coming to blows over whether The Dress is blue and black or white and gold!"
Sarnai sighed and shook her head, and stepped towards Ajay, saying, "You need to listen to the next thing I tell you and not interrupt. Some of the bigoted thugs of the Golden Path took issue with Pagan being a foreigner, but you will see how quickly they forget having been unified by that, and the Kirat turn on the Chhetri, and the Gurung, and the Newar; and even the Limbu and Sunwar fight over who are the true Kirat; and everyone starts killing the Sherpas and the Chepang again. You are a native born son of Kyrat, but you will not find it as much to your advantage as Pagan found it to his detriment, because while you may be Limbu, you are not Sunwar, or Rai, or Ghorkali, or Tamang, and there exists no such ethnicity as 'Kyrati'."
Sarnai drew a measuring tape from a pocket before she continued, "You are American, and you Americans have too many conversations about colour. My father was Kazakh, and my mother was Khalkh, and I am not Kyrati, but in America I am all these things and more, and so are you, because we are everything that is not white, and to Americans there are only either white people or persons of colour, and everyone from everywhere is one or the other, and whichever they are, they are all of that. Arms out, boy." She measured from his wrist first to his armpit, then to his collar.
"But even in America this is not true. I see on my feed what white Irish and white Italian Bostonians tweet about one another, and in Boston there is no more white than in Kyrat there are persons of colour. The only meaningful conversation to be had about colour here will be about how I dress you to make you a beacon of peace and unity. Arms down." She measured from his shoulder to wrist where it hung by his side.
"Also, The Dress is blue, but it is also a shot weave of both black and gold, so you are all wrong."
"We are all wrong?"
"You, internet, world, everyone. Should have listened to me, I tweeted this weeks ago."
Ajay scoffed, and turned on his heel, saying over his shoulder, "Case in point. I think we've talked enough, and I'll stick with my own jacket."
Sarnai shouted after him, "Diversity, and harmony, boy! That's what you need to embody, and you need to be comfortable with ambiguity to put those at ease who fear that you don't rule in their interest. You need my shot silks and embroidery to say that for you. You need a new jacket."
Ajay stopped dead in his tracks, remembering that king or not, he wasn't looking to fan any flames just now, neither with the whole country nor one old woman. "Look. I'll be back, and we can talk more about this later. I still have Shanath arena to explain away to some aid workers this evening. But I will come back."
Sarnai turned back to her embroidery, seemingly mollified. Ajay saw the opportunity to put a door between himself and the madwoman, and seized upon it. Once safely outside, and striding with purpose and haste away from the sartorial powder keg, he allowed himself a moment of abject self-pity. Then he drew from one of his 'fabulous pouches' the phone an ersatz palace official had sourced for him, and browsed the hashtags #thedress and #shotsilk. There was only one tweet tagging both, and it contained no other text. metasartoriality's tone was decidedly smug and now very familiar.