Gangu, I miss you.
Since I am already on a ‘missing India’ trip, I might as well blog all about it. Actually, there is one thing that makes me miss India, like crazy. Roadside Paani Puri, for sure. But besides that, it’s the very indispensible, dhobi wala. Ok, before you perverts start posting comments with your twisted thoughts, lemme tell you that old joke is a boring one. The topic in question is ironing. I swear, there is no way, I can iron my lazy family's clothes any further. I no longer dream of mirchi bhajjis and indo-chinese chilly-chicken. I day dream of crisp, ironed, stacked, shirts and tees, that arrived every 3 days at my door step, wrapped in my old dupatta. And all he took was a mere twenty rupees. The thought of my mother fighting with him for charging 50 paise extra for jeans, makes me cringe now! And a day late in delivering our clothes, would only tell us how important a person he really was, in our lives. Oh, Gangu, where art thou?
Oh no! Where on earth have I landed? Why is everything a DIY project ? As if, Raj foresaw this, he carried an iron box all the way from India, and on landing here, one of the first buys from Ikea (stuff from where our house is pervasive with), was a nice, sturdy, ironing board. And it is not by a stroke of fate, that he has used it all but once, in the last six months. It’s a gift for me, he had said. I clearly remember.
I have had enough of beaches and bay view apartment stay. I have had enough of ozzie parks and barbeques. I want no more of the Darling Harbour and Opera, and I am sure done with the Great Ocean drive. I want the dhobi wala back at my door. I miss you so, Gangu.
(I once asked Moon, how she managed this problem, and she in her cool as cucumber voice told me- we always buy wrinkle free work wear, duh! If only her brother had more sense…)
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