My Feeble Attempts at Fictions.
Wednesday, 2 February, 2011

Dhobighat- Not the movie.

I come out in the balcony with a bucket full of washed clothes.
My husband gifted me a FBI fully automatic washing machine on my last birthday. But I hardly use it. I like washing clothes with my bare hands. Its not because I am too naive to understand how it works, it is because removing dirt from the clothes gives me weird comfort.

I start spreading the clothes on the cables. Mrs. Mehra from the opposite balcony smiles at me. She tries to engage me in a conversation, I smile and come back telling her my phone is ringing.
I come in and spot the dirty duster in the corner, I pick it up and start rubbing the fingerprints from the glass top of the center table. 
Will those dirty fingerprints on my body come off ever, I always wonder. 
My husband is here. He is going to see water dripping off the wet clothes in the balcony and ask me again to use the washing machine.
He will then ask me to get a dhobi come to our place and collect laundry because everyone does that. 
And I will start screaming on the mention of dhobi and faint. Like everyday.