You know how we sometimes mentally blog about things we plan to blog about? When I came here to India, one of the first things to hit me was that none of my beautiful indian clothes I had left here two years ago fitted me any more. It was super depressing, the fact that I gained more inches and even more so because these were beautiful churidaars I had rarely worn. I was not even in a mood to make resolves about losing weight and fitting into them, I have other, more recently bought clothes already in that category. Anyways, it was a post that was forming in my head, but I then found a few clothes that actually fitted me and I was thrilled to bits. The sad post was now morphing into a happy post in my head. I never really got around to blogging about any of that.
Soon enough I had just begun enjoying having my clothes ironed by the dhobi, instead of having to do this chore myself. I had forgotten what a luxurious feeling it was, to have all my clothes ironed and ready to wear, so I could choose from several, instead of having to decide what to wear based on whether it needed ironing or not, how much time I had, etc. More happiness to blog about, I thought. However, the dhobis here in Hyderabad (like most services) are extremely slow. They pick up clothes for ironing and do not show up for days together. Overall, I cannot help comparing the work ethic in Hyderabad to that in Bombay, where things are mostly delivered on time, as promised. Here, maids and drivers show up late or never, tailors and dhobis take their own sweet time to return stuff, and things are never ready in the store the day it is promised to be. Now, a mighty rant was soon replacing all the happy thoughts in that "post in progress" dancing in my head. Even that irritation slowly subsided as I learned my way around here, lowered my expectations and stopped comparing, thus making the best of my vacation, and the post that was never made started dying its own death.
Last evening, the dhobi came back with my clothes that were given for ironing last week. There were large, gaping holes in two of my dresses, of the only three that fitted me from my old haul. Rats ate them up, she said, and even made a half-hearted attempt at insinuating that the rats were in our house and we had given partly eaten clothes to the her for ironing. I all but cried, to see my two beautiful kurtas and one dupatta , all of which I have hardly worn, destroyed beyond recognition or repair. The grief has finally made its way into this post, as I see the maid use these newfound colourful bandhini printed scraps of cloth for cleaning around the house.