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V Gangadhar

The Romance of the Stone

Silent. Efficient. Safe. Quick. Modern washing techniques are all these and more. You put the clothes into the washing machine, add some detergent, start it and your work is almost over. After about 45 minutes, when the machine stops and you hang the washed, semi-dry clothes in the sun.

Initially, I was not too keen on a washing machine. The financial situation was was tight. Besides, the maid did all the washing along with her other chores. So why did we need something so expensive? And, as someone brought up in a traditional south Indian family, I was accustomed to washing my own clothes and was inspired by the thought that Gandhiji did the same.

But my wife did not share my reluctance. It was an investment, she insisted. The maid was already overworked and was threatening to quit. Further, with two daughters at home who changed their clothes three or more times daily, the washing mounted. Finally, I had to give in.

I continued to sulk, long after the washing machine was installed. Life long habits do not change so easily. As boys, we used to walk to the river for our baths and do our washing. By the time, we reached home, the thin dhoti (a kind of sarong tied around the waist) and towel had already dried.

At times, we sat under the shade of the huge banyan tree close to the village temple and ogled the dark village beauties swaying seductively towards the river, with huge bundles of washing on their heads. The girls knew we were watching and became self conscious and talked loudly among themselves.

Once our clothes were dry, we went home. Some of the better clothes were handled by the family dhobi (washerman) who arrived every morning to deliver the washed clothes and take the soiled ones with him.

The family dhobi was a kind old man. But the mortality rates of the clothes handled by him were rather high. Shirts, trousers and other items seldom lasted under his onslaught. When we grumbled about the havoc he was causing, he would smile sheepishly and mumble, "Kizhinju pochunga (they are torn). Mother regularly changed dhobis, but the mortality rates of the clothes remained the same. The village had a couple of laundries, but we seldom tried them.

But most of the washing was still done at home. Inside the bathroom or adjoining the well, we had a big, rough stone for this purpose. Often, it was mounted on a platform so that we could wash the clothes if we stood and bent over it. The clothes were soaped and banged against the stone. Then they were squeezed and put out to dry. Whenever I did not go to the river, I did my washing with the stone and the results were quite satisfactory.

These days, supermarkets offer an amazing variety of detergents, both in the powder and cake form. And there are special detergent powders for washing machines. The powders, which come in white, yellow, blue and green colours, are packaged attractively. The qualities of the detergents form a major part of the TV commercials. Housewives compare them. Men and women fall in love with each other, provided they've washed their clothes with the right detergent.

We were not blessed with so many varieties in the olden days. The most stable and popular washing soaps were the Sunlight and 501 cakes. Later, the same brands were marketed as bar soaps, each bar being around two feet long. These were cut into small pieces and distributed among the family members. The bar was always kept in the bathroom.

As we moved from town to town all over south India, we had to adjust to different types of water, some of them extremely hard and others very soft. Washing clothes in the hard water was a back-breaking experience. The soap did not generate enough lather and the clothes seldom became really clean.

The soap bars remained in the markets for a long time. In course of time, we switched over to detergent powder. Yet, we only used it when there were lots of clothes to wash. Otherwise, the good, old bar was still effective. We are all familiar with bathroom singing, but we also sang while washing clothes. As I raised my arm to smash the soaped dhoti, shirt or other items of clothing against the washing stone, I reeled off one Tamil film hit after the other till other members of the family strongly objected to my loud and off-key singing.

Later, after I began writing, I found inspiration for new articles while in the process of washing clothes. I do not know how this happened, but my ideas blossomed as I soaped and squeezed clothes.

With the advent of polyester, drip-dry and other modern apparel, washing became easy. It was no longer necessary to bang clothes on the washing stone. The last time I visited my village, the washing stone near the well had disappeared. "Who needs it?" asked my aunt. "We wear only terene or terrycot."

I do not know how the washing machine works. To me, it is a sort of magic because I do not know what happens inside the machine. There is a whirring sound for sometime, water gushes out of the pipe, the lights on the panel blink and it is time to remove them. The washing machine is very convenient and all that, but it does not give me any fresh ideas for my articles. I have to go back in mind to the days of the washing stone and those dusky buxom females who, to use the language of Kalidasa, walked like swans to the river to do their washing. The washing machine is convenient, but it has no romance.

Illustration: Dominic Xavier