The major surprise about the dhobighat at Lakshmipuram is the absence of any waterbody in the vicinity. If the clothes-washing service is around 50 years old, why did the dhobis choose this spot?
Why is the nearby area called Vannandurai?
Oh, this was a kuttai once, said Rajagopal, ex-president of the Thiruvanmiyur Salavaiyalar Sangam, which manages this vannanchavadi.
Clothes were washed on the banks. Water now comes out of a borewell, but all the water collected in the surrounding areas was let into the kuttai during the December floods. The ground inside the compound is so far below the street level that the sewage connection for the newly-installed toilets/washrooms is proving to be difficult. The sewage from the main-line flows into the compound and the contractor is struggling to make the match between the new toilets and the sewage pipe.
The original area was much wider, said Gangadaran, the current president.
A neighbour has clearly gobbled up part of the dhobighat area, but somehow the service has thrived.
“That is because we have a well-organised system,” he said.
The Sangam has 40 families (200 individuals) as members who use the ghat facilities by rotation, depending on the clothes they bring for washing. Each family works as a unit — one collects clothes from door-to-door, another washes, the third irons them out and the fourth, usually a junior, is the “helper”.
“Whatever they earn is theirs. One bundle has 60-80 pieces of clothing and the average earning is Rs.300 plus.”
Doesn’t everyone have an electronic clothes-washer at home?
This hasn’t affected their income, they said.
Households still give away clothes for a dhobi-wash and the many small hospitals, restaurants and hotels around are clients. The Sangam covers a large area, from Gandhi Nagar to East Coast Road, so there’s enough work for all families except on rainy days when income vanishes with sunlight.
It is a close-knit community. Gangadaran, a BCom graduate looks out for others, brings food for those who start work at 5 a.m.
Work goes on till 8 p.m. Men take turns at the washing area without quarrel. In the last five years, their work came into official focus, with the government building nine rooms in the chavadi for these families. Actually, 40 were promised, but funds ran out at the completion of nine. So, there is some unfinished business to attend to.
Gangadaran and co-workers have a laundry list of requests. They wish to modernise their vannanchavadi with an industries-grade washing machine, but the banks won’t sanction a loan without a proper address.
“The 40 rooms when occupied will give us a common address and we can apply as a collective,” they say.
The old motor-house has to be demolished to make way for a new one, the ironing house must come down, the rough floor of the compound should be paved (the slabs have been dumped in a corner), a roof must be erected to keep the sun out, and the compound wall must be raised to keep bad elements out.
“Even personal loans are difficult to get since we don’t have a permanent income. We are pushed into the usurious hands of kanduvattikkarans ,” they lament. “Why can’t there be self-help group for men? We do a lot of the work ourselves, harvest rainwater, maintain the motor, help Corporation contractors with repair work on the chavadi .”
It is a lovely place, really, if you look away from the soda, soap, bleaching powder and coal. The old peepal tree, tanks brimming with water, the sight of men bending to whip bedsheets on a stone and the colourful saris fluttering on the roof bring up memories of a village you have not visited for ages. It is also a constant reminder of the loss of waterbodies in the present and with the arrival of giant machines, a whole way of life in the future.
