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.
6 comments:
share similar sentiments about polyester dhotis!
fortunately, we now have these 'istriwallas' or an 'istriwalli' in our case, who comes home, takes clothes - almost similar counting : no of small pieces [all charged the same whether it is a duppatta or a dhoti, trousers/ shirts etc], no of sarees - they are charged higher, and school uniform - which used to be at a concession!
home pickup and delivery!
These days the 'isthri amma' and 'isthri sami' occupy street ends with their mobile trolley complete with charcoal heavy iron and other gear. The charcoal also serves to make tea, cook or warm their food and serves as a barbecue for corn in the season. What is nice about this scene is the smell of charcoal which at times clings to the clothes along with the odd 'spark' hole and black!
While pressing of clothes is still a luxury you get to have in India (at least I do at Bangalore), the laundry man or the Dhobi is out of public memory. Everyone washes regular clothes at home (all of us use a washing machine) and the more delicate or expensive ones find their way to the dry cleaners.
I do remember the Dhoni coming home to pick up my grandfather's clothes. The clothes get piled up in a cane basket and is taken once in a fortnight or a month by the Dhobi. I vividly remember the bound notebook that thatha used to note down the number of clothes which are tallied at the time of delivery. :)
And if the Dhoni comes a couple of days later than his usual schedule, he can be sure to get a nice volley of words. Thatha used to run out of fresh shirts or dhotis by the time he returned for his next round. But he was loyal and despite the admonishment would always return for the next set of clothes.
Thanks for reviving such fond memories.
The Dhobi used to visit even as in the late Seventies. While the Laundry was resorted to only for dry cleaning of suits and silk sarees, the convenience of the Dhobi who used to pick up from and deliver at home was too good to forego easily. With the advent of washing machines, however, Dhobi's have all but vanished from the scene.
The ritual of counting and noting down the itemised list in a diary and the totalling mistakes that resulted in recounts are unforgettable.
Although washing machines have evolved quite a bit, sorting and ironing has not seen much improvements in the past few decades. sorting socks is no fun. With so many technological breakthroughs in face recognition, I would have expected a reasonable socks sorter. Ironing boards are available but I don't know how effective they are. For now, I am sticking to wrinkle free pants and taking shirts to the cleaners.
I can relate to the ironing challenge. Try using a shorter drying cycle: long enough to remove most of the moisture, but shot enough to allow for tight stretching, folding and a final drying on the line. The dhotis will not look ironed of course, but much better than after a full drying cycle. Some trial may be required to get the cycle right...
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