Dirty Linen and the Dhobi

I think we ought to build ourselves an ark, Noah-style. It's been raining cats and dogs (yes, they're allowed on the ark) for the past nine days in Sydney. Not Bombay-style "thunderbolts and lightning; very, very frightening" type of monsoonal rain (I wrote all about that here) but incessant rain that vacillates from downpour to drizzle, and drizzle to downpour with no silver lining in sight.

Which brings me to the awful truth that our house resembles a dhobi ghat. Everywhere I look, I see socks/singlets/sweaters hanging out forlornly to dry.

Remember those days before we had washing machines and dryers?
Back in the Bombay of my childhood, we had a maid who came to do the "top-work" i.e. sweeping and swabbing the floor and washing our clothes. But big bulky items like bedsheets, towels and blankets were reserved for the dhobi (washerman).

After our beds were stripped each week, mum and my aunt would shove the linen into the Dirty Clothes Box (DCB). This DCB came as standard in all Bombay homes. Ours was a tall wooden rectangular one with a small door at the bottom and slats on the side. The slats allowed us to literally 'air our dirty linen' without them turning musty. Inexplicably, the altar with the Cross, holy water and statues of various saints rested directly above it.

My cousins and I thought the DCB made the perfect hidey-hole for pint-sized people like us when a game of 'Hide and Seek' was in progress. The wooden slats allowed you a glimpse outside as the Seeker looked all around for us Hiders. And if you got the giggles, they were muffled by layers of bed sheets and towels.

Getting back to the dhobi: Every Saturday, our dhobi would turn up for the weekly give-and-take; he would give us the previous week's linen all freshly laundered and ironed and take this week's batch.

Like most families, we kept a tally of the INs and OUTs in an old notebook - an olden-day Excel spreadsheet if you will. Invariably, one item would be MIA.
The following conversation would ensue, with Nana speaking in her version of "Hindoostani" and the dhobi in his shudd Hindi:

"Where's the yellow pillowcase set with the purple embroidered flowers?" my Nana would ask the dhobi.
"Memsahib, I returned them last week," he would hesitatingly offer.
"No, I haven't checked them off in my book. Make sure you get them next week."

The laundry bundled up in a big bedspread, the dhobi would then secure this onto his bhaiya bicycle carrier, and set off to the neighbours' houses. Then to Carter Road or Bandstand where the linen would get a wash and  wallop on the craggy rocks before they were wrung and spread out to dry there.

Next week, same time, same story.
Week after week, year after year...
...until my Uncle C went and bought a twin-tub washing machine.
Then, the dhobi's days were numbered.

So tell me, who does the laundry in your house? Do you separate your whites/brights/darks/linen? Or have a specific method of hanging out the washing?  Do special items go to the laundry? And, in your opinion, what's the best way to spend rainy day?

En Mass(e)

By God, church ain't what it used to be. Today, kids are allowed to colour in their books, chomp down snacks and – gasp – talk(!!) while the priest preaches from the pulpit.


Thirty-odd years ago, things were a hol(y) lot different.
For one, going to the Saturday evening service would not suffice in my dad's (holy) book; he insisted that the best way to start a Sunday was by attending morning Mass.

So our Sundays started bright and early – no sleep-ins and definitely no breakfast; we were expected to abstain from food for at least an hour before mass.

First things first: dressing in our Sunday best. No jeans or sneakers in the house of the Lord.
Those were the days of petticoats (trimmed with lace) and puff sleeves. Of frocks stitched by over-zealous mums who dressed their dolly-girls in frothy frills and lavender lace.

A sweltering 35-degree day meant for nought; the girls were made to wear said dress, that too, with said petticoat under it. The boys suffered in silence, tugging at their stiffly starched shirt collars below their altar-boy vestments.

Mummy powder puffed your face with Yardley talcum powder (gifted by an uncle working in the Gulf) and slicked back your brother's puff with Parachute coconut oil. Then, with two clicks of your Mary Janes (polished by dad the previous night), you were good to go.

We always got to church with ten minutes to spare. So while mum and dad knelt on the wooden pews, my brother and I watched the spectacle unfold before us.

I would spy the usual suspects, er, churchgoers. "Her Sunday is longer than her Monday," I would half-giggle, half-whisper to my brother, while mum shushed us. If you're saying, "Sunday what the..?", it simply means her petticoat was longer than her dress. Don't ask!

One by one, the 'church aunties' would make a solemn entrance, first “crossing” themselves with Holy Water. Tucked within their ample bosoms was the money for their Sunday Collection, tied up in a floral handkerchief. They would genuflect at a particular pew where they sat each and every Sunday. God forbid, you unwittingly took their seat.

The vaulted church ceilings meant that the fans above were for appearances only. So dad tried to sit us next to a widow (black veil in place) who invariably carried a pretty hand-held fan. You prayed that some breeze would miraculously blow your way and stop the trickle of sweat in its tracks.

We watched and tried to keep up as the congregation rose, sat and knelt through the Mass. (During mum and dad's time, the Mass was said in Latin.) No fussing or fidgeting, no giggling or gesticulating, and definitely no talking during that hour of Mass. If the Mass was a ‘High Mass’, my brother and I would be rewarded for our good behaviour with a Ravalgaon hard-boiled sweet from dad.

The readings always filled us with awe: about Eve being created from one of Adam's ribs; about pestilent plagues and prodigal sons, about parting seas and walking on water, about Jesus and His many miracles; about loss and love, about forgiveness and faith.

After the final hymn was sung and the congregation had dispersed, we would badger the parish sacristan for some unblessed hosts as we were too young to receive Holy Communion. And once in a while, our prayers would be answered when mum and dad would say, "Let's go to Hindu Hotel (a tiny Udipi cafe on Hill Road, alas, not in existence anymore) for sheera and medu wadas."

Amen to that!

Did your family have a particular Sunday routine? Did it involve church? Or a Sunday Roast? Do you remember any special outfit from your childhood? When do you dress up in your 'Sunday best' now, if ever?