Taken to the cleaners

People Like Us

When my wife's best friend Sarla dropped in last evening to borrow some books, I had to restrain her from heading for the study. "Why don't I find you something nice to read?" I begged.

"How will you know what I've read, or haven't?" asked Sarla, looking perplexed. "Oh, he knows everything you've read," said my wife, "since you always borrow your books from us."

"Besides," I added hastily, "I know your taste in authors so well, I'd like to surprise you with a selection of my choice."

"In that case," said Sarla to my wife, "you can show me the sarees you bought on your last trip," and headed in the direction of our bedroom. "No, wait," said my wife, "let me fetch them here for you to see, while you sit on the sofa and have a cup of coffee." Sarla eyed her speculatively: "Why are you preventing me from coming in?" she asked. "I can make out you are hiding something."

At this, my daughter, emerging from her bedroom, started to giggle. "You," said Sarla to her, "I want to borrow some hair clips and your best party dress for my daughter to wear this afternoon.

And show me shoes that match, you know how fussy your friend is." "I'll get them for you Auntie," said my daughter barring the way to her bedroom, "you don't need to come in."

"If you don't tell me what you're concealing," said Sarla, "I'll never come borrow anything again." "Promise?" I said, but I don't think Sarla heard, for my wife had taken her aside to whisper conspiratorially into her ear: "I'm afraid, with it raining so much, the rooms all have clothes drying in them, and look terrible."

If anything, that was an understatement, for if my wife is obsessive about anything, it is washing clothes. She re-washes clothes that have already been washed by the washing maid; she re-washes clothes regurgitated by the washing machine; she washes clothes early in the morning and late at night.

She even washes clothes that have been returned by the drycleaners. And these days, while it pours outside, towels and sheets and bedcovers, Ts and jeans, tablecloths and curtains continue to be grist to her mill, even though there's no way you can dry them outside.

Because school uniforms are spread out to dry on our beds, we sleep on the living room carpet at night. Towels and sheets are draped over the cupboard doors, winterwear that should have been mothballed is patted into shape on the dining table, desk drawers spill open so wet petticoats and slacks can be wrapped around them.

The electric iron hisses ineffectively over damp socks, and fans whirr overhead in a futile attempt to absorb the moisture in conditions of 100 per cent humidity. For two weeks now, we have been living, breathing and eating in what resembles a gigantic laundry.

"Is that all," laughed Sarla at our mortification, "where do you think everyone else dries their clothes?" I nodded dumbly: how was I to know? "Silly," she said, "I've hung a line through my living room.

That way, no one can come to my house, while I'm free to spend time in theirs." I thought that ingenious, even though I baulked at the idea of bustiers and blouses being spread to dry on the sofa's arms.

"And Lalitha," continued Sarla, "uses the kitchen counter to dry her husband's office shirts, so she doesn't have to cook and can order dinner from takeaways every day."

Turning to me, she asked, "What I can't understand is why you won't let me enter your study?" "That's because," said my wife, "he's embarrassed that with our underwear drying over his computer, you'll think he's on a sabbatical, even though he's not."