Breathless in Bombay

by Murzban Shroff

  The actual washing was done in the rinsing tanks, but before that the clothes would be scrubbed against a grinding stone, the dhoolayi patthar. The act of scrubbing was called dhona, and it was a real sight to see the dhobis with their strong, sinewy arms raise the clothes like exuberant lassos and slam them against the grinding stones. While they did that, they’d sing quaint songs that they had inherited from their forefathers. The songs inspired the dhobis, brought to their labor a speckled unity, a magnetism that locked them like ants to a hill or bees to a hive.

  Washed, the clothes would be taken up the ghat for drying. It was the women who’d go up, sure-footed like mountain goats, their saris knotted at the waist, their hair twisted in plaits, baskets of sweetsmelling clothes resting delicately on their hips. Within an hour, the hill would erupt in a blaze of colors, tents of wet clothes flapping like joyous birds on bright nylon strings, flapping, fluttering, threatening to leave their place and fly into the sun.

  While the women would be hanging out the clothes, the men would watch from below. Some men would recline on charpoys, pulling dreamily at their beedis; others would be soaping and washing themselves in the tank water they had paid for. One of the men would call from below, “Arrey, woman, how much do you wring that garment? It’s not your husband’s neck, you know?” And she—the one spoken to—would turn and say irrepressibly, “Good thing, no—otherwise he’d be dead by now.” The dhobis would laugh. The women were becoming bold now. It was the effect of those television serials they were watching.

  Their eyes narrow with the glare of the sun, their skins wet with soapy water or sweat, their heart and muscles pounding with a rejuvenated flow of blood, the dhobis on the charpoys would call to Mohan and Sohan, the chaiwalla boys, who’d rush up and pour steaming hot chai from an old kettle into palm-size glasses. The air would be sharp with the smell of bleach; the breeze would bring its own fragrance—of freshly washed clothes wafting down from the ghat—the sun would rise and glower down on the clothes; the clothes would soak in the warm rays eagerly, gratefully; the women would tiptoe down, taking care to avoid the burning hot rocks that could scald their feet; the men would stretch, yawn, and dream of lunch and of a good sleep thereafter.

  Outside, the city would be oblivious to this piquant little community holding its own, frozen, by its own choice, in time. Outside, cars would rush to well-appointed destinations; buses would honk fiercely, admonishingly; taxis and two-wheelers would dart out of their way; signals would flash and fail; cops would arrive; men in cars would roll down their windows and peer anxiously, then look at their watches and make frantic calls on their cell phones. Against this, the ghat would bask in its own space, its own serenity. Life here had its own language, pace, and traditions, which were part of the city’s history of livelihoods. It was Mataprasad’s dream to keep it so.

  THE MEETING AT THE GHAT began harmlessly enough. Mataprasad sat under the banyan tree, flanked by two colleagues, Ram Manohar and Kashinath Chaudhary. Between them they made up the ghat panchayat, managing the affairs of the dhobis and their families. There was no question of an election or a change of leadership ever. Everyone trusted their judgment, their ability to resolve matters, swiftly, decisively, the same day.

  That Sunday, the smaller matters were taken up first: the allocation of time slots at the rinsing tanks, the cleaning of pipes that brought water to the tanks, and the replacement cost for two leaking bambas, which would amount to six thousand rupees and which they’d share equally.

  Someone suggested switching from Ariel to Finex. The new washing powder bleached as it washed; it would bring down operating costs dramatically. But then someone pointed out that the new product scalded your hands. What use was a washing powder that did not respect the tools of your trade? The dhobis nodded in agreement. The makers of Finex were condemned unanimously. The new product was never to be brought up or discussed again.

  Kolsaram, the coal merchant, was acting up with his rates and with his late deliveries. He was charging six rupees per kilo, when all over it was five. He had to be told to pull up or they’d look elsewhere. The ironing couldn’t pile up like that. The kheps couldn’t be delayed. Worse, they couldn’t allow Kolsaram to hold them for ransom. Ishwarilal, the head istariwalla, was told to call in other suppliers and begin negotiations right away. That should teach Kolsaram a lesson.

  Lacchman Dubey rose. He was a dark, fat dhobi, with a shock of gray hair, a puffy face, small eyes, and a hard belly that protruded unabashedly. He was facing a serious problem, he said. Every morning someone was littering outside his doorstep, someone with malice in his heart, for they all knew how pious he, Lacchman Dubey, was; he’d have just finished his puja then.

  Mataprasad suppressed a smile. Lacchman Dubey was unpopular with the kids. He’d chase them from the place at the back of his shanty, where they played their games of cricket and kabaddi. He’d run after them, catch them, and cuff them with a little extra strength. Or he’d confiscate their ball, pushing his fingers into it so that it became unusable. And he’d hold their ears and make them do baithaks, up and down a hundred times, till their knees ached and their breathing turned hard. But the children of the ghat wouldn’t do something so mean. At most, they’d burst a firecracker outside his door, nothing beyond that.

  Mataprasad knew who the real culprits were: the stray cats that lurked at the garbage dump on the main road. They were the ones who brought their excretory habits to Lacchman Dubey’s door.

  Solemnly he said, “I don’t think this should bother you, Lacchman Dubey. It is a well-known fact that anyone as devout as you on the road to spirituality is bound to have obstacles in his path. That is God’s way of testing you, to see if you get flustered and show intolerance to your fellow beings. By being upset, you are playing into the devil’s hand. You are weakening your puja, stopping your own progress. You should show more forbearance than that.”

  “Yes, Lacchman Dubey,” the other dhobis agreed. “Leave the culprit to his own deserts. A holy man like you should remain unmoved.”

  “If you say so, brothers,” Lacchman Dubey said. He sat down feeling pleased and understood, oblivious to the smiles, the snickers, the warm eyes twinkling with mirth.

  Kishore Sahu, an elderly dhobi, rose. He had a complaint about his son-in-law, Daman, he said. Why was Daman still staying with him when he had promised to leave once he got a job? And now the couple was expecting a baby. Was Kishore Sahu expected to look after the baby, too? How could he afford that on eight kheps a month? How could he feed four mouths on that?

  Mataprasad asked Daman why he had failed to move out. He was working as a delivery boy to a jeweler. So did he not make enough to live on his own? To burden his father-in-law at his age was such a shame.

  Daman rose—a thin, worried youth in his twenties. His eyes were gaunt and melancholic; his face was etched with worry lines; he mumbled as he spoke. He confessed he was making two thousand rupees a month and was desperately trying to find a kholi somewhere, but everywhere they wanted a deposit. “How do I raise thirty thousand rupees?” he said. Plus, there was an extra charge for water, electricity, and personal protection—yes, that, too. And some of the tenements were so shabby. Just enough space to crawl in, water one hour a day, and long queues and fights, and rats, mosquitoes, and dogs with disease, and in between huts places serving illicit liquor. How could he live there after living at the ghat? If only Kishore Sahu would give him more time.

  Kishore Sahu said, “Tell me, brothers, how much more time am I to give? It’s been two years since their marriage. Would any father-in-law tolerate as long? Would he support his daughter’s husband? And where is his self-respect? And why did he get married if he could not support his wife and child? And why be a burden on my head?”

  “It’s not . . . not like that,” Daman said. There were expenses he was facing that were heavy. His wife’s pregnancy had turned complicated. The baby had moved into an awkward position. To guard against the risk of losing the child, r
egular tests had to be conducted; the baby’s movements had to be observed. His wife was prescribed massages three times a week and was advised to do yoga, for which she had to attend classes. All this cost a lot more than what he could afford, more than what he earned. He was already in debt, having borrowed from his employer and from two colleagues. There’d be more expenses when the baby was born. All this weighed on him, crushed him, left him feeling sad and defeated. He knew he was a burden to his father-in-law, but how could he help it? He was trying to look after his family. He was trying to keep his job and his child. What was more important: his child or his self-respect? And who could he turn to if not his father-in-law, whom he considered like his own father?

  To everyone’s horror, Daman started crying. He raised his hands and said, oh yes, he was trying, but it wasn’t enough; even the Gods seemed to be against him in his fight to bring a child into this world, and—if things got worse—he was ready to kill himself. He blurted his sorrow in between sobs, and promptly all the dhobis rose to their feet and said no, that was not the way. What madness to speak like this, to think like this, when God had conferred so fine a gift on him? Kishore Sahu felt ashamed. “Why didn’t you tell me this?” he said, turning to Daman. “So much responsibility you are taking . . . I never knew.”

  “I was scared,” Daman said. “You might have insulted me and said it was my fault. You might have said, ‘You don’t even know how to make a child properly.’ How I would have felt then?”

  The dhobis laughed. Yes, indeed, this was Kishore Sahu’s style; he was capable of saying that.

  Mataprasad leaned over and whispered to Ram Manohar and Kashinath Chaudhary, who heard him intently, nodding from time to time. When he spoke, it was in the clear voice of a leader.

  “You can’t throw them out, Kishore Sahu. Not at a time like this, when the parents are fighting to save the child. And you cannot expect the boy to hunt for a house when he has so big a burden upon his head. The ghat panchayat understands that you have expenses to meet, that the times are hard, you cannot have extra mouths to feed when your own business doesn’t amount to much. But, surely, in your life you have seen worse. You remember how you came from the village, driven by dreams and hunger, and how you did not find work for days? It was the ghat that gave you food, shelter, and the means to build your house. This same ghat will stand by you now, Kishore Sahu. It will see that you receive a thousand rupees every month from the dhobi fund. This should help to ease your burden. Then, when the child is born and brings luck, the parents will move to a better place, leaving you to your own life.”

  “Arrey wah! How can that be?” Kishore Sahu exclaimed. “If there is luck, I must share it, too. How they can forget me then?”

  Everybody laughed and agreed. A family that comes through the bad times must stay to enjoy the good times.

  “How much do you owe by way of debt?” Mataprasad asked Daman suddenly.

  Frowning, Daman did a finger count and said, “Three thousand to the office and four thousand to my colleagues. That would be the full sum, Mataprasad.” A murmur went through the crowd. In these hard times that was debt.

  Mataprasad leaned on his side to confer once more with his colleagues, while Daman stood fumbling at his kurta.

  After a while Mataprasad spoke. “You may borrow four thousand rupees from the dhobi fund, Daman, and pay back your colleagues with that. But you will swear never to raise your hand again before an outsider. As for your employer, you can ask him to cut from your salary every month till you have paid back every rupee. That way you will feel the pinch of your folly and yet free yourself from debt.”

  “A thousand blessings on you, Mataprasad! A thousand blessings on the panchayat members! And to you, my brothers here,” Daman said, with tears in his eyes, for he knew that the fund was a result of their collective effort, their quiet contributions that helped overburdened dhobis out of a mess. In a voice that was choked and raised with emotion, Daman said, “My child, my future child, knows not how many fathers he has, what a big family there is to welcome him. I will tell him that when he arrives. And I will also tell him that he has to obey all of you, all you sons of the ghat. And even if we go elsewhere to stay, he must return to visit you and to give you a full account of his life. And he has to make you all very proud of him—for all that you have done and for helping with his arrival.”

  The dhobis cheered. They insisted Daman was going nowhere. How could he, now that he had appointed them fathers of his son?

  Making his way through the crowd, Kishore Sahu came up to Daman and embraced him. His son-in-law was okay, a little nervous but okay. The ghat panchayat had shown him that. It had also shown him that the dhobi ghat would stand by him as it always had. And soon he’d be a grandfather to a brave little boy, a child dhobi whom he’d dunk every morning in the rinsing tank and teach how to swim and sparkle under the morning sun. Things did seem better once expenses were met, once the tension was removed and you knew for sure you had help at hand. Kishore Sahu clasped and raised his hands to the ghat in a gesture of fervent gratitude.

  Ram Manohar rose. He was the official treasurer, the man who understood money at the ghat. Everybody fell silent. The peace of the Sunday morning washed over them. The sky appeared higher than usual, white, ethereal, and aloof. “Brothers, dear brothers,” he said, “I won’t take up much of your time, for I know that you have deliveries to make. But I would like to draw your attention to the dwindling state of our dhobi fund. As you know, over the last few months things have not been so good. We have not been able to contribute because we’ve all had difficulties, our growing personal expenditures, which are like the morning sun. They never fail to rise, huh.”

  A ripple of laughter followed. Ram Manohar waited for the laughter to subside before continuing. “I request you brothers, should any of you come into some extra money, please come forward to contribute. Think of your needy brothers, the elder dhobis who are unable to manage heavy kheps because of their age and who have no sons or daughters to help.” He sat down, and Mataprasad, who had remained seated, said softly, “Friends, I would also like to caution you that this year we will not be able to make elaborate arrangements for the Ganesha festival. We will have to conduct our festivities on a much smaller scale, so don’t be disappointed.”

  The dhobis clicked their tongues and looked down at their feet. To lack the funds to appease the Gods was a matter of shame—but what to do? Such was life. That’s what it had come to.

  Someone shouted the name of Lacchman Dubey. “Arrey, Dubey,” he said. “Where is the money you got for that land you sold in your village? The government must have paid you well. Are you saving it up for your third marriage or what?”

  The dhobis laughed. Lacchman Dubey was an easy target. He hated spending.

  Lacchman Dubey got to his feet. “Arrey, bhai, why would I want to sit on it if it was in my pocket? The sad thing is, it is only on paper. You know our government. They say they will give it only after all the formalities are complete. That, too, in the form of bonds, cashable after seven years.”

  “No problem, Lacchman Dubey; we can always take a loan against the bonds,” Ram Manohar said, with a gleam in his eye. “It is good to know they are there for an emergency and that we can use them—with your blessings.” The other dhobis agreed, fixing their twinkling eyes on Lacchman Dubey.

  “I don’t know about that, Manohar bhai,” Lacchman Dubey said shrewdly. “The bonds will also have my brother’s name on them, so I’ll have to ask him first. On my part, I will be happy to offer them as security, but I don’t know about him. He is such a finicky, tightfisted fellow.”

  The dhobis shook their heads and said what a shame that someone like Lacchman Dubey, with his largeness of heart, had to have a skinflint as a brother. Lacchman Dubey nodded sheepishly and sat down, looking resigned yet palpably relieved.

  The mukkadam rose and pushed his way through the crowd. He was a tall, serious man in his fifties, bald almost, with a tuft o
f hair in front. His shirt was out, his sleeves rolled down; his dark face glistened with sweat. “Friends,” he said, “I was at the municipality yesterday and my contact there tells me that we are soon going to face a water cut. We should be getting the notice in a week or two. So I thought I would warn you. You can decide what to do.”

  “What sort of a cut, mukkadam? What percent? And how long will it last?” Mataprasad asked.

  “It will be quite heavy, Mataprasad—fifty percent of what we get now, and, according to my contact, the cut is going to stay for a long time.”

  The dhobis stirred. Hey Ram! Fifty percent? That was too much. How would they cope? How would they manage? If they didn’t deliver the kheps on time, it was over to the washing machines.

  Turning to the panchayat members, the mukkadam said, “It can’t be helped. All the water is being diverted to the new buildings coming up in the area. They get priority over us.”

  “So why should we suffer? Why should our water be cut? As it is, our work is less, and with less water how shall we manage?” The voice was shrill with panic. It was followed by a wave of indignation, murmurs of disbelief and anger. The sun appeared like a dot in the sky, sharp, fiery, and precise. The dhobis felt its heat on their necks and shoulders and mostly in their minds.

  “Relax, brothers,” Mataprasad said. “Don’t behave like old women and run the minute there is a crisis. We will try and manage, and if we can’t, I am sure the mukkadam can arrange for a little hand maska. We know how well that works with our friends at the municipality.”