Sanju the dhobi stood in front of a wooden table ironing clothes. He was wearing his favourite vest: the one with a small hole in front and two tears at the back. Steam seemed to rise from every piece as his heavy coal-filled black iron glided over it. He desperately wanted to feel ‘cool’ while working: even if he had to look weird to do perfect, professional work. Soon sweat from somewhere under his turban, which did a poor job of protecting him from the slanted rays of the harsh sun, came trickling over his sideburns. Swiping it with his forefinger, he flicked it away. And then started on the next piece of clothing from his pile of pending work.
Sanju was a hardworking laundryman who took pride in his work. He would refuse to wash clothes in the murky waters of the pond in the town. Preferring to walk instead to the stream far away with his huge bundle of dirty clothes. He would carry back the even – heavier pile of washed, and obviously wet clothes, home. And then put them out to dry on the clotheslines in his backyard. Nothing could make him spread scrubbed clothes on the muddy grass by the stream. When Sanju ironed, it was with care. Lifting the heavy lid of his iron he would peer in with brow furrowed. Whenever the pieces of coal inside showed signs of cooling, he would fan them vigorously. If they glowed orange, a look of satisfaction would come into his eyes. And he would get back to erasing the wrinkles and creases; first one side then an expert flick and on to the other side of the piece of garment.
Everyone in the village liked Sanju and his work. But this never stopped them from making fun of him.
‘Poor man,’ they would say, ‘with a brother like his even the laziest of fellows would stay away from their cramped home and keep busy at work in the open shed outside.’
Chhotu, indeed, was difficult to bear. Not just untidy in his ways, he was ill-tempered and impulsive as well. There had been a time when he was allowed into the other homes in the town. He would sit and grumble about anything and everything under the sun. He would even find fault with the tea (if he was offered some)! Before long no-one wanted to entertain him. Left with not a single friend, he spent all his time at home with his hapless brother.
Seeing that Chhotu showed no signs of good-sense, Sanju had tried to tell him about good behaviour. Foolish Chhotu, who considered himself very clever, just ignored the sensible things his brother was telling him. Soon Sanju got fed-up and almost stopped talking to his younger brother. But Chhotu still continued doing silly things and made him really angry. ‘You!!!’ is all Sanju would shout every time and stand there shaking with rage.
Once Sanju had to attend a wedding in a nearby village. The day’s work almost done, there remained just three shirts still not ironed. So, he folded them and put them on his table before leaving.
Unfinished work on the table surprised Chhotu. Then he made a plan to impress his bhai. ‘I’ll iron these shirts so well that he won’t dare to call me “You” again,’ he thought happily. In his haste he burnt a small hole in one of the shirts. Which belonged to Ramdin, who was furious about the damage. Instead of offering to darn it, Chhotu started to argue with him. ‘The cloth must have been bad,’ he said.
When Sanju heard about the incident, he was sorry. ‘I’ll try and get it darned,’ he promised Ramdin.
He rushed home and asked Chhotu why he had touched the shirts in the first place.
‘I didn’t have anything else to do,’ he replied carelessly.
‘So, whenever you are idle you will burn my clients’ clothes and drive them away?’ Sanju asked crossly.
Chhotu just giggled in response. Seeing this Sanju was furious.
‘You!!!!’ he screeched.
There was a special social event in the town hall one day. Sanju was flooded with work since everyone wanted to wear spotless clothes to the ceremony. The onion shaped turban on his head was bobbing furiously as he worked at a quick pace. He did a kurta, folded it neatly and put it on top of the stack of finished clothes. He then turned to pick up the matching pyjama from the pile on his right. His sight suddenly fell on Chhotu.
Chhotu was sitting on a charpai and seemed to be doing nothing in particular except looking at him. The pyjama still in his hand, Sanju asked ‘Have you finished cooking lunch?’
Chhotu shrugged his shoulders.
‘The ceremony will start after an hour so we’ll have to be there. Meanwhile, I still have some clothes left. After the celebration ends, we’ll come home immediately; they will probably serve some tea there. I’ll want lunch when we get back. Chhotu, I have been working very hard since morning,’ Sanju tried to explain calmly. ‘By the way, why haven’t you cooked?’ he asked before resuming his task.
‘When you work like this, your turban bobs back and forth. I love watching it,’ said Chhotu in a mocking tone.
Hearing this the hungry washerman felt fury. He shook with anger. ‘You!!!’
Then summer came. Sanju would finish his work at the far-away stream before dawn. Harsh sunlight forced him to his shed during the day, but heat from the iron and the ironed clothes made him hot and sticky. Sweat now flowed into his eyes as well, its salt making them sting. So much so that even the headgear came off. But he would find tolerating Chhotu, who also got irritable in the heat, most difficult of all …
‘Oh God,’ he would sigh, ‘please take mercy on this poor man and give my brother some wisdom.’ But nothing happened except that his business grew. Almost the whole town gave him their clothes to do.
‘What a huge mountain,’ Chhotu would exclaim, rolling his eyes, looking at the pile of washed clothes every morning. ‘When you have finished ironing and stacking them, the column will reach up to the sky,’ Chhotu added one day.
This gave the hardworking man an idea.
Sanju did not iron the clothes that day. He folded them and arranged them in a pile in a rare shady spot close to his tin-roofed shed. He did the same the next evening. The third day he added more untouched clothing to the heap.
‘What are you doing? You return their ironed clothes to those who own them as soon as you can. They might start getting irritated if you keep them for so long.’
Sanju could not believe his ears: his sibling was actually reminding him to do the right thing.
‘Are you feeling OK?’ he asked in disbelief.
‘I’m creating a pile that can reach heaven,’ explained Sanju.
‘Why?’ asked Chhotu as excitement gripped him.
‘I’ll climb right to the top,’ said Sanju ‘and meet God.’
‘Meet Bhagwan!’ repeated Chhotu clapping his hands. Then he paused. ‘Why?’ asked Chhotu.
‘So that I can ask Him to make you less foolish,’ said Sanju feeling happy.
At this Chhotu grew angry. ‘I am not an idiot!’ he screamed stamping his foot.
‘Don’t you want to be smart?’ asked Sanju trying to calm him.
‘Yes, I want to be intelligent. But I don’t want to be less foolish because I am not silly in the first place,’ he said stubbornly.
‘OK then I’ll ask Him to make you clever and brilliant,’ said Sanju.
Within four days Sanju’s ‘tower’ was ready and disappeared into a teeny-tiny early-dawn cloud. He put on his best attire.
‘Even though God knows everything, He won’t believe that I’m a true dhobi till I wear clean clothes,’ he said to himself.
As Chhotu stood watching, Sanju quickly scampered up his creation.
Just as Sanju was about to knock on God’s door, he heard Chhotu’s voice. It was pleasantly far-off and less harsh on the ears.
‘What are you standing on?’ he was asking.
Sanju bent down and poked his head out of the mist. Chhotu was like an ant on the ground.
‘On top of the pile is Dukhiya’s brown vest. Naturally, I’m standing on it,’ replied Sanju in irritation.
‘Arre,’ screamed back Chhotu, ‘that horrible vest with patches all over? God’s eyes might fall on it. What will He think about us? After all, a professional washerman is associated with clean and good clothes! You will have to prove your karma. Come down and take a better garment to put on the top of the pile,’ he urged.
‘Silly fellow,’ scolded Sanju ‘do you think I have the time to keep doing up – down?’
Now Chhotu was really keen to become smart so he hastily cried, ‘OK wait, I’ll throw something nice up with all my might; be careful to catch it.’ Chhotu searched the house but nothing was nice enough for the One in Heaven. Worried, he came out. Then he saw something beautiful in orange with golden embroidery all over. Which was third from the bottom in the tower his frere was standing on.
The horrified dhobi watched his tiny bro rushing to the cloth tower with a matchstick-like outstretched arm. By the time his loud ‘No’ reached him, Chhotu had already yanked the garment out. In a second the spectacular pile was no more. And the washerman’s backyard was full of clothes raining from the sky. Quick to fall was Sanju. As he tottered up, from a heap of clothes, holding his behind, he started shaking with rage.
“You!!!!!!!!’
*****
Nidhi Srivastava Asthana’s stories have been accepted by Indian Literature IL340 (Sahitya Academy), Manushi, Children’s World (Children’s book Trust), Kitaab.org, Indianreview, Literally Stories, Flash Fiction Magazine and 1455’s Moveable Type. Her essays have been published by Kitaab.org, India Currents and liveencounters.net.
