Can I get that in an XXL?

India is a big country but apparently not big enough for me. I have had this affirmed repeatedly by shopping for men’s clothes across the Subcontinent, from the Bay of Bengal to the Arabian Sea.

I have been laughed out of shoe stores in Kolkata when I asked for a size 12. I have gained quizzical looks at malls in Bangalore when I requested size 42 dress shirts. And after the first few attempts, I gave up on finding pants that would accommodate one of my legs let alone both.

It happened again in Tirur. I was in need of some ‘vests’. That is: sleeveless undershirts. (What Americans call ‘vests’, the Indians—by way of the British—call ‘waistcoats’. But I was definitely not looking for waistcoats.) I only needed some vests (or undershirts) because I had accidently put one of mine in the wash with Jenna’s bright pink kameez, and it came out looking like a scoop of Ben and Jerry’s ‘Cherry Garcia’ ice cream.

I walked into a clothing store in Tirur called Pooma’s (which promised an “All-Male Experience”, whatever that was), and found eight or nine youngish men loitering around the counter waiting for a customer. They all jumped into gear when I stepped across the threshold. Yes, sir? Pants, sir? Shirts, sir? What you like, sir? Need shoes today, sir? Handkerchiefs, many handkerchiefs sir?

“I need vests,” I said simply, splaying my arms out like a basketball referee trying to break up a fight.

Vests! Vests, sir! Yes, sir, vests! This way, sir. Right this way, sir. Come, sir! Vests! Vests!

I followed a troupe of helpers to another room at the back, piled high with cardboard boxes out of which spilled cotton shirts all manner of gaudy shape, stripe, and design. Glass cases of more shirts, dress pants, and jeans every shade of blue towered from floor to ceiling behind a Formica counter.

One of the helpers pulled out various plastic wrapped packages with vests. I put my hands wide as if I was telling a fish story and said, “BIG! The biggest you have.” The man’s eyes twinkled as if he understood; he reached behind the counter once more and brought out another package, slapped it proudly and nodded as if to say, “I found you the best vest in Tirur!”

I took the package without looking any closer, dodged back through the troupe of helpers and went home. When I got back to the apartment, I quickly understood my folly. I tried on the vest the helper had so proudly handed me: it barely fit across my chest and came down hardly past my navel. Tight as a corset, it looked like a shirt Lady Gaga might wear on the red carpet.

Jenna laughed and then decided it would perfect for her to wear as a nightshirt. I checked the size: 90 cm. This meant nothing to me, considering I have lived my life in the Standard system. I checked my other vests—ones I had bought in Bangalore—and they said 110 cm. Despite the metrics, I recognized a sizeable gap when I saw one.

The next day, I went back to Pooma’s. The troupe of helpers perked up again, recognizing a repeat customer. Yes, sir? More vests, sir?

“I need bigger vests,” I did the fish-story thing again with my hands. “One-hundred and ten centimeters.”

The troupe stared at me blankly, helplessly. I repeated my request, in a louder, slower voice (which is the habit I have unwittingly gotten into in Tirur when a person does not understand me.) “One…hundred…and…ten…cent…i…meters.”

They continued to stare. And then one of them—the same one who had helped me the other day—began shaking his head sadly. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “Too big. No have here.”

I walked out, resigned to my vest-less fate. A giant among Indians, I began plodding slowly home.