In a modest tailor’s shop on Curepipe Road, Idris Hosanee keeps a fading craft and the town’s memories alive. In this reflective portrait, Dr Ibrahim Alladin, Professor and Writer, revisits the Curepipe of his youth and discovers, through one man’s quiet dedication, the enduring values of respect, community and Mauritian belonging.
1967. A landmark year, I started high school in Curepipe. Aged eleven, I found myself in a “big” town, coming from a village. My eyes popped wide open as I tried to absorb life in a town – shops, restaurants, schools, and busy streets. For six years, Curepipe would be like a home, where I spent my early teen years. Curepipe grew on me as I grew up with Curepipe.
If you walk down Curepipe Road long enough, past the shops that have changed names a dozen times, past the new cafés with their polished glass fronts, past the old bus stops where schoolchildren still gather in the rain, you will eventually come upon a small, unassuming tailor’s shop near the mosque. It is easy to miss. There is no sign; the paint on the doorframe has peeled, and the window displays nothing. But inside sits a man whose life has been stitched into the very fabric of this town. In my search, I decided to meet him and discover how Curepipe impacted our lives.
Idris Hosanee is in his sixties, though his eyes carry the softness of someone who has lived far more than that. He has been a tailor for more than four decades, but his shop—this humble little space on Curepipe Road—has dressed up hundreds of Mauritians. He opened it in 1976, when he was just twenty two, a young man with no high school education, no formal training, and no grand ambition other than to earn an honest living. He lives in Eau Coulee, not far from the shop, in a modest house where the evenings are quiet and the mornings begin early.
When I first stepped into his shop, I felt as though I had stepped into a pocket of time. The world outside was loud, restless, impatient. But inside, everything slowed. The hum of the sewing machine, the soft rustle of fabric, the faint smell of chalk and cotton—these were the sounds and scents of a life lived in steady rhythm. Idris looked up from his work, smiled gently, and greeted me with the kind of warmth that Mauritians often give without thinking. It was a smile that said, Mo la, mo pe travay, mo kontan mo lavi.
And in that moment, I realised that Idris was not just a tailor. He was a keeper of stories, a witness to change, a quiet thread running through the tapestry of Curepipe. To understand Idris, one must understand Curepipe—not the Curepipe of today, but the Curepipe of fifty years ago, the Curepipe of my youth, the Curepipe that shaped generations.
Curepipe: A Town of Mist and Memory
Once known as the City of Lights, gardens and culture, Curepipe was the jewel of Mauritius. Shops, arcades, libraries and art galleries, combined with a mixture of modern and colonial architecture, made the town a popular spot for visitors. The town hall, wrapped in palm trees and colourful flowers, was a landmark. Next to it was the Carnegie Library, where I spent hours during my school years. The French Cultural Centre mounted plays, and I remember Les Misérables and Julius Caesar. Curepipe was a cultural icon, and I was so proud going to school in this town. The town had a rhythm. A pulse. A personality. It was a place where people met, talked, argued, laughed. A place where news travelled faster than the buses. A place where identity felt tangible, woven into the mist itself.
I went to high school not far from Idris’s shop. Back then, Curepipe was a town of mist, culture and movement. The rain fell almost daily, the streets were crowded, and the shops were alive with chatter. I remember the cinemas – Novelty, Ritz and Pathe Palace, where I saw Clint Eastwood for the first time, and still a fan of this great actor. Bakeries like Patisserie Swiss added to the flavour. Men and women walked with umbrellas tucked under their arms, and schoolchildren ran between classes with their uniforms damp from the drizzle, and hung out near the shops.
But Curepipe has changed. The cinemas have closed, the bookstores have dwindled, and many of the old shops have been replaced by newer, shinier ones. The town feels different now—less intimate, more hurried. The mist still comes, but it no longer carries the same magic. The rainy days are longer. The City of Lights has slowly evaporated, and the image of the cultured town has disappeared. I feel nostalgic when I visit my favourite town.
Yet Idris remains.
His shop has not moved an inch in forty seven years. The world around him has shifted, but he has stayed anchored, like a quiet witness to the passing of time. He has seen generations come and go. He has seen children grow into adults, adults grow into elders, and elders pass on. He has seen fashions change, from bell bottoms to skinny jeans, from tailored suits to casual wear. He has seen Curepipe transform, and yet he continues to sit at his sewing machine, stitching one life at a time.
Idris has watched Curepipe transform in ways that few people have. He has seen the old shops close, the new ones open, the pavements widen, the traffic increase, the faces change. He remembers when Curepipe Road was quieter, when people walked instead of drove, when neighbours greeted each other by name. He remembers the old market days, the smell of fresh vegetables, the sound of vendors calling out prices. He remembers the cinemas, the bookstores, the cafés where people lingered for hours. He remembers a Curepipe that felt like home.
Today, he sees a Curepipe that feels like transition. People come, buy, leave. Conversations are shorter. Faces are unfamiliar. The mist still falls, but it no longer carries stories.
Yet Idris remains a witness. A guardian of memory. A thread connecting past and present.
A Life Shaped by Chance
Idris did not grow up dreaming of becoming a tailor. In fact, his first job was as a hairdresser. He laughs when he tells the story, a soft chuckle that reveals both humility and nostalgia.
“Mo ti pe koupe seve,” he says, shaking his head. “Mo pa ti kone nanye lor koutir.”
He had been cutting hair when he met a tailor who worked nearby. Idris watched him work—watched the way he measured fabric, the way he guided the needle, the way he transformed cloth into something useful, something beautiful. There was a quiet dignity in the craft, a patience that appealed to him. And so, without much thought, he decided to learn.
He had no formal education, no certificate, no mentor other than the tailor who allowed him to observe. But Idris had something far more valuable: perseverance. He practised, failed, tried again, failed again, and kept going. Slowly, his hands learned the language of fabric. He learned how to cut straight, how to stitch cleanly, how to fit a shirt to a man’s shoulders and a dress to a woman’s waist. He learned how to listen to customers, how to understand their needs, how to make them feel seen.
And eventually, he opened his own shop. It was small, simple, and unremarkable. But it was his. And for Idris, that was enough. Curepipe had several tailors; they have disappeared, and Idris is still dressing men and women.
The Dying Craft
Tailoring is not what it used to be. Idris knows this. He speaks about it without bitterness, only with acceptance.
“Sa metie la pe fini,” he says softly. “Zot tou pe aste linge fini fer. Personn pa pe rod taileur kouma avan. Zot pe achter fet”.
Ready made clothing has taken over. People buy shirts and trousers off the rack, dresses from boutiques, suits from department stores. Tailors are becoming rare, their craft slowly fading into memory. Idris sees fewer young people interested in learning the trade. He sees fewer apprentices, fewer hands willing to hold a needle. But he does not complain. He does not lament. He simply continues.
He enjoys his work. He enjoys meeting people. He enjoys the conversations, the stories, the laughter. His shop is more than a workplace—it is a gathering place. Customers come not only to have their clothes altered but also to talk, to share news, to seek advice. Idris listens. He nods. He smiles. He offers small words of wisdom, never too loud, never too forceful. At times his shop feels like a newsroom and politics is always on the agenda. He can feel the nation’s pulse as he stitches.
In his shop, he hears everything: political debates, family dramas, neighbourhood gossip, stories of travel, stories of hardship, stories of joy. His shop is a microcosm of Mauritius—a place where people from all walks of life intersect. Men and women come to him. Locals and foreigners. Young and old. Rich and poor. And Idris treats them all the same.
“Pou mwa,” he says, “tou dimounn egal. Mo bizin respekte tou dimounn, pa zis bann Morisien.”
But being Mauritian matters to him. Deeply. It is part of who he is, part of how he sees the world. He speaks Kreol with pride, eats Mauritian food with joy, celebrates Mauritian traditions with sincerity. Yet he also understands that Mauritius is a mosaic of cultures, religions, languages, and histories. Respect, he believes, is the thread that holds the mosaic together. “Nou ena problem, pa capav dir tou korek”, he adds.
A Humble Philosophy
Idris is not a man of grand statements. He does not speak about identity in abstract terms. He does not analyse culture or history. He does not use big words. But his life embodies a philosophy that is profoundly Mauritian.
He believes in simplicity. In humility. In hard work. In kindness. In respect.
He believes that identity is not something you declare—it is something you live.
When I ask him what it means to be Mauritian, he pauses, thinks for a moment, and then says:
“Pou mwa, Morisien vedir ou kontan ou pei, ou respekte lezot, ou travay bien, ou viv bien. Pa bizin plis ki sa.”
It is a simple answer. But it carries the weight of experience.
Idris has lived through political changes, economic shifts, and cultural transformations. He has seen Mauritius evolve, grow, struggle, and flourish. He has seen people leave the island and return, seen families break apart and come together, seen traditions fade and new ones emerge. Through it all, he has remained grounded.
His identity is not loud. It is quiet, steady, and sincere.
My Own Search for Belonging
As I sit in Idris’s shop, listening to the hum of his sewing machine, I cannot help but reflect on my own journey. I left Mauritius as a teenager, lived away and returned decades later with a longing I could not quite name. I came back searching for something—perhaps for myself, perhaps for the island I had carried in my heart all those years.
Bouillon Kiltir is my attempt to understand what it means to be Mauritian. It is my attempt to reconnect with the land, the people, the stories, the emotions that shaped me. It is my attempt to rediscover the feeling of Mauritianism that I have always carried but never fully understood.
And in Idris, I find a piece of that puzzle.
He represents a Mauritius that is humble, hardworking, respectful, and quietly proud. A Mauritius that does not shout its identity but lives it. A Mauritius that values community, connection, and continuity. A Mauritius that persists even as the world changes.
Idris’s shop is not just a tailor’s shop. It is a sanctuary of Mauritian identity. It is a place where the past meets the present, where tradition meets modernity, where stories weave themselves into fabric.
The Fabric of a Nation
Mauritius is often described as a melting pot, a blend of cultures, a fusion of histories. But I prefer to think of it as a piece of fabric—complex, colourful, textured, and resilient. And tailors like Idris are the ones who keep that fabric intact.
They stitch the torn edges. They mend the frayed seams. They adjust the fit. They preserve the old while accommodating the new.
Idris has stitched thousands of garments over the years. Shirts, trousers, dresses, suits. Each one carries a story. Each one carries a piece of someone’s life. Weddings, funerals, job interviews, birthdays, religious ceremonies—he has prepared people for all of them.
In doing so, he has become part of their lives. Part of their memories. Part of their identity.
And in a way, he has become part of mine.
The Quiet Legacy
Idris does not think of himself as important. He does not see his work as significant. He believes he is just a tailor, just a man doing his job. But his legacy is far greater than he realises.
He has served Curepipe for nearly half a century. He has remained constant in a world of change. He has offered kindness in a world of noise. He has preserved a dying craft with dignity. He has treated every customer with respect. He has lived his Mauritian identity with sincerity.
And that, to me, is extraordinary.
When I leave his shop, I feel lighter. I feel connected. I feel closer to the Mauritius I have been searching for. Idris reminds me that identity is not found in grand gestures or dramatic revelations. It is found in the quiet moments, the simple acts, the humble lives that shape our communities.
His story is not loud. It is not dramatic. It is not filled with triumph or tragedy. It is filled with humanity.
And that is why it matters.
The Thread Continues
As I walk away from Curepipe Road, the mist begins to settle, just as it did when I was a student years ago. The town feels familiar again, not because it has remained the same, but because people like Idris have remained.
He is a thread in the fabric of Mauritius. A quiet, steady thread that holds things together. A thread that reminds us of who we are, where we come from, and what we value.
And in my search for identity, in my journey through Bouillon Kiltir, I realise that sometimes the most profound stories come from the most humble lives.
Idris Hosanee is one such story.
A tailor. A listener. A witness. A Mauritian.
And through him, I rediscover a part of myself.