Dhobi ghat
Washing clothes has always been a passion. The warm soapy suds, the swish of clothes as they sink into the embrace of bubbles, the way they emerge- clean and fresh, is a like a rejuvenating experience. Waxing eloquent about this mundane task may seem unpoetical, but it is an inherited genetic trait.
My earliest happy memories have been of lazy Sundays when I woke up to the sound of clothes being washed. (On other days, school took away that pleasure) The rows of clothes hung out to dry on the terrace and their sun-dried warmth cannot compare to the 'dryered' clothes of today. Sunday was also the day when the bedsheets were changed. So going to bed was a pleasure, lying on clean, sweet-smelling sheets.
My mum was of the opinion that washing one's own clothes was good for the character. So, once I crossed into teenage, washing clothes became a compulsion. It was an amazing cathartic ritual. All the frustrations and angst of the difficult age found a release in the pulverization of denim.
When I moved into my own place, one of the first things that I did was erect a clothes-line. Nothing said 'home' better than wet clean clothes hanging at the window sill. As I hung out my first lot of clothes, I could remember my mother doing the same thing every time we moved to new cities. I used to find it amusing then and slightly foolish. But now, the familiarity and comfort of the 'dhobi ghat', I can understand.
The entire exercise is one that I still follow. Not for me, the washing machine or the 'bai'. I do it the old fashioned way, with the warm soapy suds for company.
My earliest happy memories have been of lazy Sundays when I woke up to the sound of clothes being washed. (On other days, school took away that pleasure) The rows of clothes hung out to dry on the terrace and their sun-dried warmth cannot compare to the 'dryered' clothes of today. Sunday was also the day when the bedsheets were changed. So going to bed was a pleasure, lying on clean, sweet-smelling sheets.
My mum was of the opinion that washing one's own clothes was good for the character. So, once I crossed into teenage, washing clothes became a compulsion. It was an amazing cathartic ritual. All the frustrations and angst of the difficult age found a release in the pulverization of denim.
When I moved into my own place, one of the first things that I did was erect a clothes-line. Nothing said 'home' better than wet clean clothes hanging at the window sill. As I hung out my first lot of clothes, I could remember my mother doing the same thing every time we moved to new cities. I used to find it amusing then and slightly foolish. But now, the familiarity and comfort of the 'dhobi ghat', I can understand.
The entire exercise is one that I still follow. Not for me, the washing machine or the 'bai'. I do it the old fashioned way, with the warm soapy suds for company.
posted by bruja at 6:06 AM
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