Reading about the crackdown on laundries in Al Ain, I thought about the ones back home that I had dealt with over the years. The washerman came home and picked up clothes, washed and ironed them and brought them back once or twice a week. This was in the age of no washing machines. We did not ask where they washed the clothes and the quality of water they used. Ignorance was bliss as long as we didn’t catch any skin diseases. Somehow we remained rash-free.

Then the visits of the dhobi (washerman), as he is known back home, became erratic. Each time he turned up at our door, we received him with welcome arms. But soon as he set down the clothes, the chastisement would begin. He would be told how we were left with nothing to wear as our wardrobe was in his possession.

Recognising exaggeration for what it was, he would trot out excuses such as fever (so he couldn’t play around with water) or a sickness in the family. After a while, when the excuses began to wear thin, we realised that the next generation that was supposed to carry on the family tradition wasn’t the least bit interested in this job. They wanted something less back-breaking, more dignified.

So, the sullen son who accompanied the father on his house visits was blamed for the loss in productivity. Who could blame him? Didn’t all of us want to better ourselves? The only problem was that the young man wasn’t qualified to take up an office job as he hadn’t gone to school regularly. While the father opened his heart out to us and told us about his errant heir, the young adult stood there with a mutinous expression on his face, not really relishing being the subject of a discussion in which he didn’t have a say.

Eventually, the father was too old and weak to continue with the job. So, the son reluctantly stepped in. But the quality of the wash suffered in his hands as we began to receive limp cotton clothes, which hadn’t been starched, and shirts or trousers that had only a quick brush with the iron.

Soon we were forced into making the hard decision of dispensing with the services of this formerly indispensable worker. It was difficult but there was no choice. So, the maid had to be paid extra to take on this chore. But she, too, wasn’t willing to take on an added responsibility — not even for the love of money.

No choice

After some years of making do, we found mobile laundrymen surfacing on the road with carts on which a huge iron reposed. It was a family business complete with a stray dog lurking in the shade provided by this contraption. So, we had to take our clothes to these itinerant workers who charged as they pleased, knowing full well that we had no choice in the matter.

Fortunately, this development was accompanied by the production of non-crushable materials which didn’t need to have the dirt whipped out of them or starched to stiffness. They stayed relatively clean and didn’t show stains easily.

The few dhobis that are left now ride scooters. Of course, the big bundle tied behind is a giveaway, but they are a more affluent lot and can dictate terms. The housewife meekly acquiesces to the rules he lays down and is grateful for whatever she can get.

So, when I go home, I am told the days he deigns to visit and that I can only give clothes for ironing. Washing is done at home and even this process has designated days. It almost makes me want to turn tail and return to my dhobi in Dubai who appears at my door whenever I require his services.