Saree Not Saree: India 2013

It's funny how time and distance change you, the roads you take don't always lead you home.

Ode to Indian Washing Machines


Let me say this is not my first attempt washing my clothes here, I have been here a month and am not an animal after all. However, this was my first time battling the stone age washer and drying that inhabit the washroom on my floor.

Washing machine–i dont understand why none of your buttons seem to do anything or where the water eventually comes from to fill you. You appear to be a free standing object. No cords or wires attaching you to the the plaster walls on tiled floors. Yet, you fill, to the brim, with water I am not sure is cleaner than the clothes I hope for you to wash. I let you do your job for an hour, yet you never seem to finish spinning my helpless clothes round and round. Even when I return on half an hour intervals. Finally, after I think my clothes have been submerged longer in this one sitting than anytime in their previous existence, I decide to free them from the gurgling high water level you have provided.

Now onto how to extract them safely without a miniature tidal wave occurring on the second floor. I locate a bucket in the hopes of constraining the flood that is about to happen. My feined efforts fail as gallons splash unrelenting over my feet as I grasp for my soaking clothes in the hopes of escaping unscathed and dry.

To my dismay, the dryers in this corridor are all humming with warmth as they tumble the clothes of the previous victim who fell prey to the evils of washing. I stand–wet clothes soaking my arms, socks fleeing themselves at the wet floor, and my ankles deep in water that is even more questionable than before.

I waddle down the hall trying to gain traction on the tile floor. I leave a trail of undergarments as if I need help manoeuvring the labyrinth of halls in the building I have come the call home. I stand before an empty dryer and toss the remained of my load in and go back for the stragglers. My pant legs rolled up making me feel like Tom Sawyer, I finally press “start” on the dryer and a feeling of accomplishment wafts over me.

Success, I hope. Fingers crossed I trek back to my room to continue packing for my early AM trip to Mysore!

To complain about the temperamental luxuries my accommodations provide feels moronic. Around the city, I see naked children bathing on the side of the road and women wringing out saris on rocks next to heaps of flaming trash. This city is truly beautiful chaos, yet each feat is a first for me. I have come to accustom myself to less and the excess which the Uniter States presents will never appear the same to me again.


One comment on “Ode to Indian Washing Machines

  1. Deborah Floyd
    January 23, 2013

    Ah, the perfect poetic form to write an “ode” for the odious washing machine!

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This entry was posted on January 23, 2013 by .
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