“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.