Like many of his ilk, my grandfather used to wash his clothes himself, drawing water laboriously from the cavernous well in the backyard. During summer, when water receded to the bottom, he gave us a lecture-demonstration of the art of bathing and washing one’s clothes using just one bucket of water and nothing more. ‘Don’t waste firewood even if you are near a forest’ was his favourite quotable quote.
Since the water was brackish, his dhoti and upper cloth would progressively lose their whiteness and become dull brown, accentuating their historic value. To tackle that, once in a while, he used to entrust the task of steam washing and bleaching to Samikannu, the washerman of the town who owned two plump donkeys that carried his load with mute, asinine sullenness. His wife Vembuli, a taciturn woman, was in loco parentis to the donkeys, whose milk she drew and gave to the locals who sought them for its medicinal properties. They paid good money ungrudgingly for it to get cured.
“Only an ass will believe in such medications,” my grandpa said with cynicism.The crisp, dazzling white clothes fresh from the ironing table would not be straightaway worn by him, as one would expect. He would take them to the backyard, dip them in water and dry them. To him, well water was sacrosanct. When my grandmother, his stern critic, chided him on his post-laundry rewashing routine, he threw her a poser.
“What if Samikannu had worn my dhoti for kicks?” Grandmother bristled with indignation. “How can you say such uncharitable things? No, he would never do that,” she said with finality.It so happened my grandmother accidentally poured sambar on her newly acquired sungudi sari, a colourful Madurai product that accentuated her fair skin. Even my grandfather, who misses such niceties of showering a word of praise where and when needed, clapped his hands mildly in appreciation, much to her embarrassment.
Such a coveted sari sent for laundry to Vembuli to obliterate the stains professionally was not delivered even after two weeks. Piqued, grandma walked to her place three streets away, identified by the two donkeys standing close by in a meditative stance. She knocked on the door. The door was opened by Vembuli, standing in all glory draped in that sungudi sari.