The Washerman's Visit

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.

Welcome to America

It was a little late at night by the time I got dressed. The restaurant in the hotel had already closed. My friends and I were hungry and wanted to get something to eat. Being new to the place, we asked the clerk at the front desk for suggestions.

America can be quite intimidating to the newcomer. After a long and tiring flight from Bombay, I had checked into the hotel.  The jet lag was enough to disorient me, but the hotel room did not help matters. Everything seemed topsy-turvy. The key had to be turned the wrong way for starters. The switches on the lamps could be turned in one direction only. Trying to turn the lamp off by turning the knob backwards did not seem to work and I had to unplug the thing from the wall ultimately so that I could take a nap. Then came the shower. Adjusting the single circular control to get the water to the right temperature proved to be a surprisingly challenging task. Let me just say that I ultimately came out about even in my battle with the shower faucet, meaning I barely escaped being scalded. Somewhat humbled by all this, I was a bit nervous by the time I came down to the lobby.

The clerk told us 'to take Lancaster and go past a couple of lights' where we would find places to eat. We looked at each other puzzled. She seemed to be using English words, but they did not make sense to us and so we sought clarifications. She said, 'Lancaster Pike', by way of explaining. When this too failed to register in our foggy state, with a hint of impatience, she pointed to the road outside which happened to be the said Lancaster. Thus enlightened, we asked her if the restaurants were within walking distance since we did not have a car. 'I guess you can go walking', she replied and seemed more than a little puzzled that we did not have a car. Well, we did not even have a driving license then but we did not tell her that. It might have caused her to faint.

Thinking that 'Couple of lights' must mean 'pretty close by', we set off on foot. The road was deserted. We felt pretty self-conscious to be the only people walking. There was no sign that we were close to any place of business. After a few minutes and several lights, it dawned on us that the clerk must have meant traffic lights and not street lamps. It took us a good twenty minutes of walking before a pizzeria came within our view. We decided to get pizzas for dinner there. I must mention here that none of us had actually seen a pizza before. We had only heard about it. This was more than thirty years ago and pizza had not yet arrived in India.

After our encounter with the desk clerk, I knew that it would not be easy but it turned out to be exhausting to get through the whole ordering process because the man at the counter had to explain many things to us and we had to repeat ourselves several times before we were understood. There were many agonizing decisions that we had to make regarding the crust and the toppings without having the slightest idea of what we were choosing. Our multiple Indian accents certainly did not help matters.

After we finished ordering, the man asked, 'For here, or to go?'. It took us a couple of iterations to get this riddle unscrambled. When we thought we had understood the question, we said somewhat triumphantly, 'We would like to eat here and then go' and waited for our pizzas.

It would be nice if pizzas came with a warning, but I think there is a sort of initiation rite to pizzas that everyone must go through. The cheese and the sauce are at insanely high temperatures thus ensuring that the first bite invariably burns your mouth. After we peeled the hot cheese off the roof of our mouths, we ate what we could (it looked like we had ordered enough food to last us a couple of days - another rookie mistake) and got up to leave when we were startled by the waiter asking us if we wanted him to pack up the remaining food for us. We had never heard of this in India. The idea struck us as bizarre and we declined his offer.

Thus ended our first outing in America. We thought we spoke perfectly decent English, but that was obviously not going to be enough. We would need some serious schooling in American.

The Auto Standoff

One of the most harrowing experiences that a visitor to Chennai must face is the encounter with the auto rickshaw or more precisely the driver of that three-wheeled taxi. Come to think of it, I think even residents of the city dread this. The normal protocol for hiring a cab in most places is to hail the cab, get into the vehicle and then tell the driver where to go. But this is not the procedure in Chennai.

You will hail the auto-rickshaw. If the driver decides to stop, he will stick his head out and want to know where you want to go. He may sometimes merely raise a quizzical eyebrow instead of asking. If your destination is not among the places in his approved list, then he will quickly pull his head in much like a tortoise that senses danger and then speed away quite unlike the tortoise (more like the hare), but not before registering his irritation for having wasted his time over you by uttering 'tcha'. You will have seen both the tortoise and the hare imitated in the space of a few seconds by a sourpuss.

Even if he is willing to take you, it is foolhardy to board the vehicle before a verbal contract is concluded with the driver on the fare. You will have to ask what the fare will be. You may get a simple answer or face a few questions about your destination perhaps to determine how familiar you are with the city. The important thing to remember is not to get into the rickshaw until a fare is agreed upon. The driver may urge you to get in and keep pretending that the fare is no issue. This may go on for a while. He may even say, 'Pay what is fair'. I am not sure how you will know what the fair amount should be. In any case, after all these preliminaries, the fare demanded will be astronomical. You will have to negotiate it down to earth. The whole  process generally leaves you with a bad taste in the mouth.

The alternate way to engage an auto is to go to the neighbourhood auto stand. This may seem like a better bet since the auto is already parked and clearly waiting for a customer. You will actually be received warmly there. But the problem here is that the driver of the auto at the head of the queue is often away having tea or lunch or something. You have to wait for him. The other drivers will cluster around you asking where you are bound and all that and someone will eventually get the missing driver. Then the negotiations take a different tack since you are now effectively dealing with the whole group.  They will even argue among themselves about the fairness of the fare demanded. You usually end up feeling finessed by a sort of good cop, bad cop routine.

About the worst place to hire an auto in the city is at the Central Station. I used to dread getting off the train in Chennai. The way you can tell natives of the city from visitors as they get off the train is to see who looks tense or apprehensive. The visitor has no idea of the auto standoff and so will be relaxed while the residents will be girding up for the inevitable duel with the driver with tension written all over their faces. Even as people get off the train, while possibly trying to keep up with the quick-footed porter who is carrying their luggage, drivers start accosting them. The hapless passengers are at the mercy of the drivers. The chaos outside the station is unbelievable. I am told that there is a prepaid scheme in place now and so the situation may have improved.

What is the worst that the auto driver can demand? To be paid by the meter! Seriously, if he offers to ferry you to your destination and get paid per the meter, I am told that you should just run in the other direction. Apparently, the meter is always tampered with and will end up costing you enormously. It might as well display 'ha, ha' or 'gotcha'!

The only way to avoid the problem is to use taxis instead. Taxis are not available for hailing on the street, but must be called for. This may not be possible at all times, but they certainly offer a hassle-free transport when available. And, by all accounts, their business is booming. Ironic, considering that taxis were more or less put out of business by the growth of autos in the first place.

Update: I have been informed that there is a new initiative by 'Namma Auto' which will ply autos with digital meters and strict adherence to it (what a concept) among other improvements in service. It sounds really good and hard negotiations may become history if this succeeds and forces all auto owners to adopt the model. 

Summer Tempest

As we waited for the bus, I contemplated the long walk back to my house in the village with some anxiety. Rain was in the forecast and I hoped that it was not imminent but I could already hear the rumble of the approaching storm. When the bus finally arrived and my friend got in, I waved him goodbye and quickly set off  toward my home.

The village was set back about a mile from the main road. To reach it, I had to take the dirt road that cut a meandering path through the paddy fields. I usually enjoyed the walk between the main road and the village using this road. But it was different today. The sky was getting darker by the minute and the sound of thunder closer. I increased my pace and hoped that I would beat the rain. But the wind had picked up now and I seemed to be losing ground steadily. I looked across the fields to the village. I debated if instead of taking the dirt road, I should trot across the field which would be shorter.

Normally, a walk across paddy fields would not be easy for a city-bred person like me. The fields would be water-logged and you would have to walk on the narrow bunds that crisscrossed the fields. You shared this path with other people and the occasional goats. Any misstep would land your feet squarely in the slush. But it was the middle of summer and planting season was still weeks away. The field was completely dry and I decided to cut across through the open fields.

The sky now looked ominous and a blinding streak of lightning flashed close by. My hopes of outrunning the storm were dashed in spectacular fashion as it overtook me within about two minutes. It started with a bang. The rain came down not in a gentle sort of way, but in sheets. Each drop, if you could isolate it, would have filled a cup. I suddenly wished I was in the city. In the city, you could crowd under the shelter at the bus stand or dive into a cafe easily and wait it out. But out in the country, in the middle of these fields, there was no escape.

I was totally enveloped in the storm now. It was too dangerous to hold an umbrella given all the lightning. The umbrella had a steel shaft and would have formed a perfect lightning rod. I threw the umbrella to the ground. I could not even see where I was headed. If I lost my way, I could miss the village and end up in the river. So I just stood my ground. Just then, the rain seemed to get even heavier which I did not think was possible. By now, I was in a panic. I crouched low trying to keep myself close to the ground so that I would not be hit by lightning. I was soaked to the bones. The field was turning into a pond and my clothes were becoming muddy. The frequent flashes of lightning were followed by the sound of thunderclaps that rose above the already deafening roar of the rain. I was petrified and earnestly wished for the rain to stop.

Then it stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The bank of clouds started to move away along with the sound of thunder. I heaved a huge sigh of relief and resumed my now weary walk to the village. When I reached home, I was exhausted and a nervous wreck. I was feeling cold and sick and wanted to throw up. I had always been thrilled by the sound of summer storms. But being out in the open field in an electric storm was one scary experience.

As I looked outside, the sun was already coming out again. Everything looked fresh and cheerful. Little birds were perched on the electric wires overhead flapping their wings to get dry. The sound of thunder was a distant echo now and no longer invoked fear.

Who Picked My Pocket?

The arrival of mass-produced ready-made clothing changed everything and cast us into well-defined sizes. If the neck size is A, the waist shall be less than B and so on. If you do not conform to these standards, your clothes are not going to fit very well unless you can afford 'bespoke' clothing. A shirt that fits you very well is, therefore, to be cherished. Ask any man and he will agree.

So, the other day, when I bought a couple of dress shirts that fit me very well, I was naturally happy. I liked the colours, the cut and the styling. However, when I put one of them on a few days later, I was surprised and dismayed to find that the shirt had no pocket. I thought that the tailor must have forgotten it but I found that the other shirt too lacked a pocket. This sent a chill down my spine. Are they eliminating the pocket from men's dress shirts now? After all, it has been eliminated from most of the tee-shirts and polo shirts.

If I thought there was one thing that was safe from designers, it was the pocket in a man's dress shirt. They could do what they liked with collars, pleats on the sleeve or the back, the buttons on the collar (or lack of them), but the pocket was expected to be there on the left chest. These shirts would not be considered very formal and the absence of a pocket was completely baffling. Few men wear suits or sport coats to work these days and the shirt pocket is indispensable.

I need the pocket to hold my reading glasses and optionally a pen. Without my glasses, I cannot read anything except perhaps large traffic signs. I have already dropped my glasses on the floor a few times trying to put them in the non-existent pocket. Carrying them in a case, I find, is impractical. How do I carry the case itself? I will likely misplace it somewhere. If you want to suggest the pant pocket for keeping the glasses, well, they are going to get damaged before long. That's a gamble that I am not willing to take. A hard case will protect the glasses but, unfortunately, it is too bulky fit in the pocket. Besides, the pant pockets are already occupied by my wallet and my cell phone. As you can see, I have got a 'Yes, but' to counter every 'Why don't you' you can throw at me.

I am usually careful in selecting clothes at the shop and wondered how I missed seeing that the shirts lacked pockets. Then I remembered. You see, there was this whole bank of other shirts on display in the most startling colours - the loudest red, magenta, neon green and so on - that had overwhelmed my senses and sent me reeling. Seriously, they were loud enough to startle a sleeping bull and perhaps give him lifelong nightmares. Wearing them in public can be a traffic hazard as otherwise sane drivers may lose control of their cars upon being stunned by their appearance. They ought to carry a warning. Small wonder then, that after seeing them, I had overlooked the missing pockets on the shirts I bought.

I remember the time when shirts had pockets on both sides of the chest. You could see men sporting whole sets of pens in their pockets at work - different colours for different purposes. Some shirts even came with a safety pocket on the inside where you could store valuables out of the reach of pickpockets. Other shirts had flaps over the pockets and/or buttons to close the pockets, making them more secure and imparting a military look to them.

While having no pocket is a bit of a nightmare for me and for most men I am sure, I wonder how women put up with a pocketless existence. There are many puzzling things about women's clothes, but the lack of pockets is the hardest to understand. Women must find the constant need to carry a bag exhausting. I bet one of them cracked under the strain, became a designer and took out her frustration by removing the precious chest pocket from men's shirts.

Men have always preferred practicality in the matter of clothes. That is why we have 'Relaxed Fit' style available for everything  (I do not believe that such a phrase will ever be associated with women's clothing). So it is deeply distressing to note the absence of pockets on new shirts. One hopes this does not become a trend. We should firmly resist this attempt by misguided designers. Equally firmly, we should reject the new loud colors for shirts in the interest of public safety.

The Violin in Carnatic Music

As I read the news of the passing of the great Lalgudi Jayaraman, I started thinking about the place of the violin in carnatic music. The adaptation of this instrument into carnatic music is so complete that one does not even think of its western origins. It is the the melodic accompaniment of choice in a vocal concert. I don't know if any other instrument is even considered for this purpose anymore.

The violin made its entry into carnatic music more than a hundred and fifty years ago. Though it has an exalted position in carnatic music, I feel that there is still scope to enhance the role of the violin. Specifically, I find that the way it is used as an accompaniment has a couple of issues.

Firstly, when the singer is presenting the raga alapana, I would humbly suggest that the violinist lay down the bow and just enjoy the exposition. After all, the violinist gets to present a solo version later and, may I say, without interruption from the vocalist. As the singer weaves the raga together, I do not want the violin intruding in the gap between successive phrases. I find this rather jarring. This gap with just the drone of the shruti, serves to enhance the meditative mood and builds expectation.

The other issue I have is with the niraval/swaram phase. Often, the violinist simply plays the same notes that the vocalist sings making the whole thing sound like a class. I wish they would instead engage in a sort of a friendly duel where each would feed off the other's energy and also challenge each other. This usually happens in a dual violin concert or a concert involving two instruments. The format then changes from one of leader-accompanist to collaborators. Why not adopt this in a vocal concert?

One of the most memorable concerts that I have ever listened to is a collaboration between Lalgudi Jayaraman and the flute maestro N. Ramani from 1971. The synergy and understanding between the two in that concert is simply fantastic. I keep going back to this every now and then. Some of the songs from that concert ('vatapi gananptim' and 'cakkani raja' to name two) have become benchmarks in my appreciation of other artistes performing them. I am yet to hear better versions of these, I must add.

I see no reason why the vocalist and the violinist cannot perform in a similar fashion. The raga exposition can be a collaborative venture with the voice and the violin complementing each other. The violin can extend the range into higher and lower octaves. Instead of being two separate solos, the alapana can be a duet, where the voice and the violin work in tandem building the raga so to speak.The niraval and swaram phase can be a true jugal bandhi.

Would the artistes consider this format?  I am sure this will provide more freedom of expression to the violinist and enhance the listening experience for the audience. And judging by this article from The Hindu, it appears that this is an idea whose time may be at hand. I, for one, would love to see such a concert.

The purists may say this goes against pakkavadhya dharma, but Carnatic music has been very progressive. While it has remained true to its traditional roots, there have been many innovations. Apart from the violin, other instruments have made their way into the system - the clarinet, the mandolin and the saxophone for example. New concert formats are being tried. There are also attempts at fusion between carnatic music and western music (though these are still somewhat sketchy in my opinion). The carnatic tradition is thus a living tradition capable of absorbing many new elements. I hope the format suggested here will find a place in it.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

"So we say, grow your hair for peace" - John Lennon 

As I sat down to wait my turn at the barber shop, I was somewhat amused to see a man having a 'trim' when his hair was already very short. I mean it was about an eighth of an inch long. Why would he need a hair cut? He must really enjoy the whole experience, I thought. I, on the other hand, generally don't like having haircuts. I end up postponing it often and then I start looking a little grungy and unkempt. It eventually gets to a point when I must get my hair cut. And, unlike David Crosby who felt very strongly about it (you can listen to him sing 'Almost Cut My Hair'), I end up getting a haircut.

This dislike of haircuts probably goes way back. When I was young, I dreaded the hand-held trimmer that the barber used to shear my locks. He would have my head in a vise-like grip and run the trimmer up and down and left and right with absolute abandon. Sound technique if you are mowing a lawn perhaps, but not for cutting hair. This trimmer (I am sure many of you will remember it) was not electric but mechanical and had a jerky motion. It was utterly unpleasant.

The best haircut in my opinion is one which leaves you looking like you had not had a haircut at all, but nevertheless does some trimming in the right places. This was all but impossible when you were young and accompanied by a parent when you went to the barber shop. Your father invariably wanted your hair cut very short. Even if he was not there, the barber himself made it his mission to cut it short over your protests. After all, you were not the one paying him. The result was you came out looking like a freshly shorn sheep.

A good haircut has been mostly elusive through my adult life as well. I feel very few barbers and stylists understand my hair. This is perhaps the reason I never like having a haircut. All the same, I cannot completely avoid it. While I am all for world peace, I cannot follow Lennon's advice even if I wanted to. You see, now that my hair has thinned considerably, it is even more important to have regular haircuts. It sounds counter-intuitive, but if you have thinning hair and a bald patch, you will understand. It is more difficult to cover up a bad haircut (or bald patch) if you don't have enough hair in the right places!

It seems that when you start losing hair from your head, hair around your earlobes and in your nose seem to take up the void. This is the way of the world, I guess. What you don't want you will get plenty of and what you do want will be hard to come by.

My hair started turning grey fairly early - around forty. I could never bother with dyeing my hair. It seems to be too much work. About all I can do is to run a comb though my hair in the morning. But when the first silver threads made their appearance, it was with some sadness that I greeted them. And when I got used to these pioneers and their tribe increasing merrily, I was comforted to note that the problem would go away eventually anyway because I was also beginning to go bald! The race has been going on for a few years now. Whether all my hair will turn grey before falling out seems to be an even bet. And I am not going to lose my hair over - well, you know what I mean.

(Picture courtesy: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Manual_hair_clippers.JPG)