Ironing clothes is one of the chores I detest. I miss the convenience of the 'Isthriwallah' coming to the door, collecting my shirts, pants and such and then bringing them back neatly pressed. It looks like these iron men may be a vanishing tribe even in India from what I saw on my last visit. The little carts with the charcoal-filled iron box and piles of clothes seemed few and far in between. The few that were around seemed too busy and it took days to get the clothes back.
I remember the time when the washerman used to come by the house to collect dirty clothes. Back then, my father (and men in general) wore only whites - white shirts and white trousers to work, white dhotis and white shirts for social occasions and white dhoti and white angavastram (a matching piece worn over the upper body) at home. Colour was seen only on the narrow border of the dhoti. Obviously, it was very important to maintain the clothes clean and sparkling white. The very process of professionally cleaning clothes is called 'வெளுத்தல்' (veLutthal) in Tamil meaning, 'whitening'. While everyday clothes were washed at home, others had to be sent out to the cleaner except it was the cleaner who came by and collected them.
The washerman's periodic visits were something of a ritual. He would first sort the pile of clothes and then count them. 'Four shirts', he would call out and my father would note down 'Shirts - 4' in the notebook that was dedicated to the purpose of laundry accounting. Then, 'Five dhotis', and so on went the washerman as the rest of the clothes were sorted and counted. Finally, he would count them all together once again and announce the total number of items. This batch total would be cross-checked by adding the individual item counts in the list. Once the totals matched, he would tie all the clothes up in one of the dhotis and take them away (he usually had a donkey-drawn cart for this purpose). Curiously, as far as I can remember, he did not make a copy of the list for his reference.
When I was old enough, I would sometimes have the responsibility to take down the list and I used to feel important doing it. At first, I wondered how the cleaner kept the clothes from different houses from getting mixed up. Then I discovered that he marked, using indelible ink, each item of clothing (in an unobtrusive location like the inside of the collar) with the initials of the head of the house. But still it was quite a task to wash a mountain of clothes, sort them and bring them back to the right houses. The cleaner got it right most of the time, though occasionally there were mix-ups. When the clothes were delivered, they were checked against the list in the notebook and the charges tallied. The cleaner then got paid for his work. The clothes would take their appointed place in the cupboard where they were neatly stacked.
The clothes were washed at some public tank or in the river. I think there were places dedicated for this purpose. Even today, names like 'dhobi ghat', 'dhobi talao' and 'vannarpettai' stand testament to this. (I understand that many are still active - the one in Mumbai holds a world record for 'World's Largest Outdoor Laundry'). You could see whole lot of clothes being line dried in these locations, like wisps of white cloud, fluttering in the breeze. I have no idea what soaps were used or how the clothes were whitened. But they came back looking very crisp and sparkling with just the right amount of starch where needed. It was very hard work of course, as no washing machines were used.
By the late sixties, the cleaners were becoming hard to find. You now had 'Dry Cleaners' here and there but the traditional ones were disappearing. I guess the income was too meagre and the next generation was seeking and finding more lucrative professions. It became increasingly hard to maintain the cotton shirts and trousers that my father wore to work and so, reluctantly, he made the switch to polyester ones which could be washed at home quite easily and required no pressing. But dhotis still presented a problem.
It seems that washing the cotton hand loom dhotis properly is an art form that the modern launderers were not trained in. The dhotis often come back starched stiff and worse, looking bluish instead of white. Polyester dhotis (ugh!) made an entry into the market, perhaps, as a response to this problem. Luckily, they have not succeeded in edging out the traditional hand loom ones. On the contrary, much to my delight, I still see huge showrooms dedicated to the comfortable soft white cotton dhotis of which I pick up a few on my visits to India. I am quite content to wash them in the machine, but I avoid using the dryer. The twisted and wrinkled mess resulting from a turn in the dryer will be an impossible challenge for the most advanced 'Iron Man'. And, as I already told you, I hate ironing.
I remember the time when the washerman used to come by the house to collect dirty clothes. Back then, my father (and men in general) wore only whites - white shirts and white trousers to work, white dhotis and white shirts for social occasions and white dhoti and white angavastram (a matching piece worn over the upper body) at home. Colour was seen only on the narrow border of the dhoti. Obviously, it was very important to maintain the clothes clean and sparkling white. The very process of professionally cleaning clothes is called 'வெளுத்தல்' (veLutthal) in Tamil meaning, 'whitening'. While everyday clothes were washed at home, others had to be sent out to the cleaner except it was the cleaner who came by and collected them.
The washerman's periodic visits were something of a ritual. He would first sort the pile of clothes and then count them. 'Four shirts', he would call out and my father would note down 'Shirts - 4' in the notebook that was dedicated to the purpose of laundry accounting. Then, 'Five dhotis', and so on went the washerman as the rest of the clothes were sorted and counted. Finally, he would count them all together once again and announce the total number of items. This batch total would be cross-checked by adding the individual item counts in the list. Once the totals matched, he would tie all the clothes up in one of the dhotis and take them away (he usually had a donkey-drawn cart for this purpose). Curiously, as far as I can remember, he did not make a copy of the list for his reference.
When I was old enough, I would sometimes have the responsibility to take down the list and I used to feel important doing it. At first, I wondered how the cleaner kept the clothes from different houses from getting mixed up. Then I discovered that he marked, using indelible ink, each item of clothing (in an unobtrusive location like the inside of the collar) with the initials of the head of the house. But still it was quite a task to wash a mountain of clothes, sort them and bring them back to the right houses. The cleaner got it right most of the time, though occasionally there were mix-ups. When the clothes were delivered, they were checked against the list in the notebook and the charges tallied. The cleaner then got paid for his work. The clothes would take their appointed place in the cupboard where they were neatly stacked.
The clothes were washed at some public tank or in the river. I think there were places dedicated for this purpose. Even today, names like 'dhobi ghat', 'dhobi talao' and 'vannarpettai' stand testament to this. (I understand that many are still active - the one in Mumbai holds a world record for 'World's Largest Outdoor Laundry'). You could see whole lot of clothes being line dried in these locations, like wisps of white cloud, fluttering in the breeze. I have no idea what soaps were used or how the clothes were whitened. But they came back looking very crisp and sparkling with just the right amount of starch where needed. It was very hard work of course, as no washing machines were used.
By the late sixties, the cleaners were becoming hard to find. You now had 'Dry Cleaners' here and there but the traditional ones were disappearing. I guess the income was too meagre and the next generation was seeking and finding more lucrative professions. It became increasingly hard to maintain the cotton shirts and trousers that my father wore to work and so, reluctantly, he made the switch to polyester ones which could be washed at home quite easily and required no pressing. But dhotis still presented a problem.
It seems that washing the cotton hand loom dhotis properly is an art form that the modern launderers were not trained in. The dhotis often come back starched stiff and worse, looking bluish instead of white. Polyester dhotis (ugh!) made an entry into the market, perhaps, as a response to this problem. Luckily, they have not succeeded in edging out the traditional hand loom ones. On the contrary, much to my delight, I still see huge showrooms dedicated to the comfortable soft white cotton dhotis of which I pick up a few on my visits to India. I am quite content to wash them in the machine, but I avoid using the dryer. The twisted and wrinkled mess resulting from a turn in the dryer will be an impossible challenge for the most advanced 'Iron Man'. And, as I already told you, I hate ironing.
