india

Folding Laundry

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 “It you really want to get your life in order, learn to fold your laundry. Neatly, precisely,” he says.

I stand in his Kerala based dress shop, hoping to find something for my nephew’s wedding to a first-generation American born East Indian woman. It will be a weekend of beautiful saris, bangals, exquisite jewel-colored fabrics. I want to find something beautiful from the motherland.

The thing is, shopping in India is an event. In most Indian shops you can’t just walk in, pull something from the rack and ask to try them on. Most outfits are carefully stashed and stored behind a counter and each one is folded and wrapped in a cellophane bag. To try anything on, you must engage the storekeeper who then pulls out each item you want to see.

There, on the floor before me are at least 10 outfits scattered about that I’d asked to see – bright blue, orange, turquoise, emerald-green. It looks like a fabric garden.

I can feel the heat rise me, that feeling of slight guilt, mixed with some internal pressure to be a nice girl, a good person, to make a decision quickly so that I won’t have to “make him” pull out any more things for me to look at.

He, on the other hand is relaxed.

“Yes, folding things neatly is a sign of respect, of patience, of presence,” he says looking directly at me.

I flash on my own laundry folding skills. Slapdash and rushed. T-shirts end up sloppily tossed together, underwear is haphazardly thrown in the basket, pants are barely considered. Folding laundry feels like a waste of time. I have “better” things to do.

I love the days when my husband folds the laundry – my clothes arrive on the bed in neat stacks, almost as though he’s pressed everything with an iron. I admire the care he takes. I can feel the presence his hands take to crease the cloth, stack each item, just so.

I decide which dress to buy. In truth, I’m not sure if it’s really the one, but I feel the need to decide. And surely, since he’d opened so many packages and will have to refold so many clothes, I have to buy something. 

I stand there while this man patiently wraps the dress I will wear to the wedding. It takes time. 

As he hands me the expertly folded package he says, “Come by tomorrow for a chai and dosa, I’ll be waiting,” and flashes a warm smile.

“Maybe,” I say, returning the smile, “Thanks for everything.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he presses on undeterred by my noncommittal answer.

I leave thinking how perhaps he is right, that if I learn to fold my laundry with care, with presence, my life might just find some sense of order.


Ode to India

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Oh India, mirror of mirrors!
I walk more easily now in your crooked streets and craggy sidewalks.

You are my teacher.

You beg me to let go, to watch my step, to soften my judgment.

I walk as if in wonderland, enthralled by your jeweled colors, billowing saris, bobbing turbins. I am a child in a candy shop and you gently show me my greedy nature.

I want….
…to take a photo.
…to take the jewels home.
…to capture the flavors, smells, scents and sounds.
…to take, to have, to hold and to keep.

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But there is no taking, keeping, holding or “mine.”

There is only flow.
Letting go.
Relaxing into what is.

Oh India, your dust lines my lungs, your dirt a second skin on my body.

My heart aches seeing your brilliance….
…the Taj Mahal
…the snow dusted Himalayas
…your fantastic festival Holi painting people purple and pink
…your plethora of temples honoring the gods….Ganesh, Shiva, Krishna, Kali….

My heart aches seeing your pain…
…the bride burnings
…the man with a deformed arm reaching for rupees into my rickshaw
…the shanty towns butted up against millionaire apartments
…the heaped garbage…

How do you manage?
How do you keep it together?
How does it work?

My heart starts to get the joke. It all works out in the end.

The electricity works.
             For a while.
The hotel room is mostly clean.
The horns ARE the traffic system.
             You must be the flow. No room for doubt.
Squatting and having no toilet paper IS an option.

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I’ve come here to practice.
To open my heart.
To be present.

I practice breathing.
I tell myself, “Let go, let go.”

I remind myself the driver wants to live.
I remind myself they’ve done puja for good luck.
I remind myself I am not in control.

Is this why your people pray so much?
Light incense, roll sandalwood beads between brown fingers?

There are so many paths to God in your vast land, from the Himalayas to the beachy shores. Why are some lives so filled with so much struggle while others flash and sprint around in Lamborghinis?

“Only one rupee, only one rupee,” she says, hand moves towards mouth. The baby needs feeding.

Black hair is matted, her feet dry and crusty.

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Another woman’s craggy face reflects the 100 years it has turned up towards the sun. Brown, with rivulets running through the valleys of her cheeks, she radiates warmth from inside her stooped and bent body that has traversed the Himalayas to find safety in India, away from her homeland, Tibet. She has no teeth. She gently suggests we give her some rupees.

We take her photo.

We take.
We give.
India gives.
India takes.

Give. And
Take.