Spice of Life: Wrapping head around ‘turbaning’ a bedsheet
The rain took just two minutes to drench us. That left me worried and scared for I had brought three turbans for a week’s sojourn. With two drenched, I was left with a single dry one!
Our journey from New Delhi to Kankanady (Mangalore) by the Rajdhani Express was an interesting experience.
It was the second half of September but the monsoon was not yet in full retreat. After a hot and humid forenoon, the sky was suddenly overcast. As the train was chugging out of the station, a drizzle started. It accompanied us till Kota. After that, it transformed into moderate rain. The next morning at Panvel (Maharashtra), the rain became incessant. This slowed down the train’s pace to a crawl. The scene outside was verdant but soon water became a dominant feature.
I have a habit of parking myself at the compartment door during train journeys to get a better view of life outside. On that day, I had a partner in crime in a Kannadiga army major, who after stationing himself at the opposite door, started imparting nuggets of information about Konkan Railway and life in the coastal areas. He told me that the track was running almost parallel to the Arabian Sea coast and that’s why the streams looked so wide. For the first time, I saw fully laden lorries dutifully ensconced in on goods train rakes. “The safest mode for trucks to continue their onward journey instead of plying through flooded highways,” the major explained.
We reached Kankanady almost seven hours late. The rain, there again, was incessant. As our compartment stopped in an unshaded area, we could not escape getting drenched. A wet turban always makes me uneasy and here it was literally dripping water on the taxi seat.
An uncomfortable night awaited us at the inspection bungalow, our lodging. Due to the moisture in the air, the beds gave a wet feel. It took time to get used to the dampness. However, the next morning was totally different. The sun shone bright and the rays dutifully filtered in despite the heavily curtained windows. After a hearty breakfast, we got a good two hours relax and refresh. After a light lunch, we headed out to get a feel of the city.
To our surprise, we found everyone wearing polyester (synthetic) clothes and carrying umbrellas. Reality dawned soon for the bright sun suddenly disappeared behind dark clouds that came from nowhere. Before we could find a good shelter, the skies opened up. The rain took just two minutes to drench us totally. That left me worried and scared for I had brought three turbans for a week’s sojourn. With two drenched, I was left with a single dry one!
Something had to be done to avert a crisis. On returning to the inspection bungalow, the first thing I asked the caretaker was the location of a laundry. “Just behind, sir,” he replied, reassuringly. I gave him a bagful of wet clothes to get laundered. He returned within five minutes with a morose look to say that the shop was closed. Another trip after an hour elicited the same response and so did the next. I was getting desperate.
The next morning, I went to the shop only to find it shut again. On enquiry, a kind soul guided me to another shop nearby. The laundry man was engrossed listening to Hindi commentary of an India-Australia ODI cricket match on the transistor while ironing clothes. I asked him in Hindi to show me the rate list. He replied, “Hindi nahi aata (I don’t know Hindi)ˮ. The request in English too got a staccato reply, “English nahi aata.” A neighbouring shopkeeper came to my rescue. He asked the laundry man to check and count the clothes. Lifting a turban, the laundry man asked, “What (is this)?ˮ “Turban, pagri,ˮ I replied, pointing to the turban I was wearing. He nodded and asked me to come in the evening at 6.30.
I was back at his shop at 6.30 sharp. This time, the laundry man’s son was manning the shop. My clothes were properly laundered, ironed and neatly stacked. The boy counted the clothes and handed me the bill. As I was checking it, my eyes popped out when I read, “2 bedsheets”. Bedsheets! I was about to correct him, but suddenly wisdom dawned on me. I smiled to myself and quietly left the shop.
The writer is a Zirakpur-based veteran journalist and can be reached at sstejtribune@gmail.com
