Skip to main content

Weekend at the Washing Stone.

Something bit me. I don't think I will turn into Spiderman. With the soap suds entering my swollen pinky finger, I sure felt like I was turning into a washing machine.

Sweat droplets collected on my forehead, and my baby hairs felt like worms crawling down my face. I was out of breath and flattened my palm on the washing stone. I am eighteen years old.

My seventy-seven-year-old grandmother (she's been the same age for four years now) does the same, not out of breath, only with a soft "ish" as she slaps the cloth against the stone like it committed some heinous crime. Maybe it did—the simple act of existing as a dirty cloth.

Weekends were now reserved for me, my clothes, and the room where I washed them. I despised it. Back and forth—back and forth, again and again and again. Then into unsoapy water and again. Then wring it dry with all your might. That’s just one cloth. Now just ten more pieces to go.

As much as I hate it, once it’s done and the clothes aren’t as soaked as I am, there is a sense of relief which is only going to be broken by the next weekend.

Dipping my clothes in water makes my fingers feel weird, wrinkled in a pattern like tree bark. I scrub and scrub, each garment a small victory, but also a reminder of the laborious task. The physical toll is undeniable. My back aches, my arms feel like lead, and my hands are raw from the scrubbing. Yet, in this weariness, there’s an odd sense of accomplishment.

As I finish the last piece, I realize that, despite my complaints, there’s something profoundly grounding about this process. It connects me to generations before me, to my grandmother, and to a simpler way of life. It's a reminder of the value of hard work and the satisfaction that comes from seeing a task through to the end.

In a world dictated by machines, it's just one reminder of the past. People still do this, of course. In this labour, while I dread the coming weekends and the never-ending cycle of dirty clothes, I find gratefulness.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Varuthaayi.

"വരാം," ഞാൻ പറയുമ്പോൾ, "പോകാം" എന്ന് പറയാനുള്ള ആ പേടി. My legs prickle like the seeds of a strawberry, and I feel like tearing myself apart today. I keep picking at the wound that heals every two days, only for it to break open again—blood and flesh. I feel trapped in my own skin, my body will never be what I want it to be. There are things I’m supposed to become, but time is slipping away. I applied for many things. I have sent my name into the void—eight, ten, how many more? They have to call me today. If not, I won’t be who I need to be. Tomorrow, I’ll be hopeless again. I can’t hold on to who I am, so how will time hold on to me? I eat the yellow as if it might bring some joy. One piece is thin and crispy, the bite sounds, and I feel it. The next is thick and bland—someone like me must have cut it. One is unexpectedly sweet, even though it isn’t brown like I expected. How it lies to me. I look in the mirror, I look away. Another is too salty. I eat 250 grams of ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Permission to Dream.

I had a dream. I ran out of the airport, got into a taxi, then out again, and ran. I ran so fast, yet my left lung didn’t pinch. I ran home. The company house I had called home for so long. I told them it was technically my tharavad. They laughed, and I understood why. But I knew every inch of that place. The way my feet could map the cool tile floors, the small gaps between them, the familiar weight of the air inside, the walls that had seen me through everything. I opened the door, and everything was just as we had left it. It was a dream. It’s been a while since I dreamed. And yet, this one felt jarring—not in a way that unsettled me, but in the way that it confirmed something. I knew I was heading home. I knew the airport, I knew my destination. But as I stepped inside, I felt as though it was telling something. Telling me.  That I could call it home. That I had permission to call it home.
Post a Comment
Read more

The Old Vase.

We remember so we don't forget. Of the pain, of the love, of resistance, of liberation. They will forget, their children will not remember. But our flesh has the memory stored in our bones, as we are born, it is born with us. In us.  Forget about it. Forget about yesterday. Time that's to come is made by time that's gone by. The bones remember, the flesh clings to what was, and with every breath, we resist. The past slips away with parts of us, we must hold it gently without letting its arms turn into binds.  Can we live without leaving scars when we were all made of wounds? Can we make choices that feel like they reach beyond ourselves?  We remember as if by instinct because we were forced to forget once.  I hold the cracked vase gently. I wait for the glue to arrive. I can buy a new one now, but something tells me the old one will last longer. Once we trace our fingers over the scars, let them heal and fill them for all the space it has created.  Maybe then, t...
Post a Comment
Read more