The Dhobi Ghat (cont'd)

(cross-posted to my personal blog)

On Monday we went to the dhobi ghat on Lazar Road. A dhobi ghat is a place where washermen, known as dhobi wallas, wash other people's clothes by hand. Ravichandran, one of the dhobi we spoke to, said that he picks up clothes from the surrounding neighborhood, charging three rupees to wash a shirt or pants, a little more for a blanket or a bed sheet.

In Mumbai, one of the dhobi ghats has hundreds of washing stations, and the fact that it stretches out under a large bridge has made it a bit of a popular tourist stop; visitors often ask the auto drivers to take them to it like an overlook. According to Frommers, “At the very least, it’s a great photo opportunity, though most locals think it rather amusing that their everyday work arouses such curiosity.”

The dhobi ghat on Lazar Road is much smaller, perhaps two dozen stations, not all of them even occupied. It's situated near the train tracks, in a neighborhood full of one-way roads that seem to point outward. It's a fascinating tradition and it's visually (and aurally) interesting. But there's something below the surface of this, something the tourists don't realize as they shoot video off of overpasses: the dhobi wallas are a dying breed.

We spoke to one dhobi walla whose interview we didn't use in the slideshow piece. Now that there are washing machines, he said, people don't give them clothes anymore. People do the small clothes in the washing machine, and mainly give the dhobi blankets, rugs and bigger clothes — the end result being less work.

The impact of this is quietly huge. In Koramangala, a neighborhood that is now a major software hub and Bangalore's self-described "Most Happening Place," a dhobi ghat that existed just a few years ago is now gone. I'm writing this post at a Coffee Day in Koramangala; the mood is chatty, the air, conditioned. Outside the plate-glass windows, the Bangalore Development Authority has erected a commercial park.

These developments are great for the economy; looking outside, the first floor of the BDA complex houses storefronts, their names written in English and Kannada; "Maruthi Stationers," "Vijayanand Travels." Above that there are two floors of offices; none look vacant. I see a man with a plastic shopping bag; an older man, sharply dressed, with cellphone and an attaché; two younger men now with plastic name badges hanging from belt loops. There's bustle here, and bustle is good for business.

But across town, there's Ravichandran. Despite his occasionally broken English, something he said at the end of our interview hints at a growing dillema:

"I want [a] nice job," he said. "But no, I don't know which one. I can't work..." he trailed off. "[This is the] only job I know."

Ravichandran learned the business of the dhobi ghat from his father in the seventies, and in a job that passes from fathers to sons, it's not difficult to imagine that chain going back a century. It's a chain that may be broken in this generation; for his part, Ravichandran never married and has no children — no son to teach to wash the clothes, and fewer clothes to teach a son to wash.

This post was written by me and co-reported with Ranjana Thomas, who stunned me by conducting interviews in English, Hindi, Tamil and Kannada.