[Picture: The Dhobie] I AM an amateur philosopher and amuse myself
detecting essence beneath semblance and tracing the same principle
running through things the outward aspect of which is widely different.
I have studied the _Dhobie_ in this spirit and find him to be nothing
else than an example of the abnormal development, under favourable
conditions, of a disposition which is not only common to humanity, but
pervades the whole animal kingdom. A puppy rending slippers, a child
tearing up its picture books, a mungoose killing twenty chickens to feed
on one, a freethinker demolishing ancient superstitions, what are they
all but _Dhobies_ in embryo? Destruction is so much easier than
construction, and so much more rapid and abundant in its visible results,
that the devastator feels a jubilant joy in his work, of which the tardy
builder knows nothing. As the lightning scorns the oak, as the fire
triumphs over the venerable pile, as the swollen river scoffs at the P.
W. D., while arch after arch tumbles into its gurgling whirlpools, so the
_Dhobie_, dashing your cambric and fine linen against the stones,
shattering a button, fraying a hem, or rending a seam at every stroke,
feels a triumphant contempt for the miserable creature whose plodding
needle and thread put the garment together. This feeling is the germ
from which the _Dhobie_ has grown. Day after day he has stood before
that great black stone and wreaked his rage upon shirt and trowser and
coat, and coat and trowser and shirt. Then he has wrung them as if he
were wringing the necks of poultry, and fixed them on his drying line
with thorns and spikes, and finally he has taken the battered garments to
his torture chamber and ploughed them with his iron, longwise and
crosswise and slantwise, and dropped glowing cinders on their tenderest
places. Son has followed father through countless generations in
cultivating this passion for destruction, until it has become the
monstrous growth which we see and shudder at in the _Dhobie_.
But I find in him, at least, an illustration of another human infirmity.
He takes in hand to eradicate the dirt which defiles the garment. But
the one is closely mingled with the very fibres of the other, the one is
impalpable, the other bulky and substantial, and so the torrent of his
zealous rage unconsciously turns against the very substance of that which
he set himself lovingly to purge and restore to its primitive purity.
Indeed, I sometimes find that, while he has successfully wrecked the
garment, he has overlooked the dirt! Greater and better men than the
_Dhobie_ are employed in the same way.
Such are the consolations of philosophy,
“But there was never yet philosopher
Who could endure the toothache patiently,”
much less the _Dhobie_. He is not tolerable. Submit to him we must,
since resistance is futile; but his craven spirit makes submission
difficult and resignation impossible. If he had the soul of a conqueror,
if he wasted you like Attilla, if he flung his iron into the
clothes-basket and cried _Væ victis_, then a feeling of respect would
soften the bitterness of the conquered; but he conceals his ravages like
the white ant, and you are betrayed in the hour of need. When he comes
in, limping and groaning under his stupendous bundle, and lays out
_khamees_, _pyatloon_, and _pjama_, all so fair and decently folded, and
delivers them by tale in a voice whose monotonous cadence seems to tell
of some undercurrent of perennial sorrow in his life, who could guess
what horrors his perfidious heart is privy to? Next morning, when you
spring from your tub and shake out the great jail towel which is to wrap
your shivering person in its warm folds, lo! it yawns from end to end.
There is nothing but a border, a fringe, left. You fling on your clothes
in unusual haste, for it is mail day morning. The most indispensible of
them all has scarcely a remnant of a button remaining. You snatch up
another which seems in better condition, and scramble into it; but, in
the course of the day, a cold current of wind, penetrating where it ought
not, makes you aware of what your friends behind your back have noticed
for some time, _viz._, that the starch with which a gaping rent had been
carefully gummed together, that you might not see it, has melted and
given way. The thought of these things makes a man feel like Vesuvius on
the eve of an eruption; but you must wait for relief till _Dhobie_ day
next week, and then the poltroon has stayed at home, and sent his brother
to report that he is suffering from a severe stomachache. When the
miscreant makes his next appearance in person, he stands on one leg, with
joined palms and a piteous bleat, and pleads an _alibi_. He was absent
about the marriage of a relation, and his brother washed the clothes. So
your lava falls back into its crater, or, I am afraid, more often
overflows the surrounding country.
My theory of the _Dhobie_ is a mere speculation, a hypothesis deduced
from broad, general principles. I do not pretend to have established it
by scientific observation, and am very tolerant towards other theories,
especially one which is supported by many competent authorities, and
explains the _Dhobie_ by supposing a league between him, the _dirzee_ and
the Boy. I think a close investigation into the natural history of the
shirt would go far to establish this theory as at least partially true.
In spite of the spread of “Europe” shops, the shirt is still abundantly
produced from the vernacular _dirzee_ sitting crossed-legged in the
verandah, and each shirt will be found to furnish him, on the average,
with about a week’s lucrative employment. From his hands it passes to
the _Dhobie_ and returns with the buttons wanting, the buttonholes
widened to great gaping fish-mouths, and the hems of the cuffs slightly
frayed. The last is the most significant fact, because it leads to the
discovery of one of those delicate adaptations which the student of
nature has so often occasion to admire; for, on examination, we discover
that the hem had been made with the least possible margin of cloth, as if
to facilitate the process of fraying. As we know that economy of
material is not an object with the _dirzee_, it has been maintained that
there is some connection here. Next the shirt passes into the hands of
the Boy, who takes his scissors and carefully pares the ragged edges of
the cuffs and collar. A few rotations of _Dhobie_ and Boy reduce the
cuffs to the breadth of an inch, while the collar becomes a circular saw
which threatens to take your head off. Then you fling the shirt to your
Boy, and the _dirzee_ is in requisition again. Observation of white
trousers will lead to similar results. Between _Dhobie’s_ fury and Boy’s
repairs, the ends of the legs retreat steadily upwards to your knees, and
by the time the Boy inherits them they are just his length. Remember, I
do not say I believe in this explanation of the _Dhobie_. I give it for
what it is worth. The subject is interesting and practical.
[Picture: Homeward bound]
Did you ever open your handkerchief with the suspicion that you had got a
duster into your pocket by mistake, till the name of De Souza blazoned on
the corner showed you that you were wearing someone else’s property? An
accident of this kind reveals a beneficent branch of the _Dhobie’s_
business, one in which he comes to the relief of needy respectability.
Suppose yourself (if you can) to be Mr. Lobo, enjoying the position of
first violinist in a string band which performs at Parsee weddings and on
other festive occasions. _Noblesse oblige_; you cannot evade the
necessity for clean shirt-fronts, ill able as your precarious income may
be to meet it. In these circumstances a _Dhobie_ with good connections
is what you require. He finds you in shirts of the best quality at so
much an evening, and you are saved all risk and outlay of capital; you
need keep no clothes except a greenish black surtout and pants and an
effective necktie. In this way the wealth of the rich helps the want of
the poor without their feeling it, or knowing it—an excellent
arrangement. Sometimes, unfortunately, Mr. Lobo has a few clothes of his
own, and then, as I have hinted, the _Dhobie_ may exchange them by
mistake, for he is uneducated and has much to remember; but, if you
occasionally suffer in this way, you gain in another, for Mr. Lobo’s
family are skilful with the needle, and I have sent a torn garment to the
washing which returned skilfully repaired.
[Picture: Dhobies]
I suspect I am getting bitter and ironical, and it will be wise to stop,
for we are fickle creatures, the best of us, and it is quite possible
that, in the mild twilight of life, in the old country, I shall find
myself speaking benevolently of the _Dhobie_, and secretly wishing I
could hear his plaintive monotone again counting out my linen at four
rupees a hundred.