Dhobi

Dhobi and his family lived and worked in the building across the street from our place. Their space was between the wall and the stairway to the upper levels. He ironed our clothes.

When defending him, or generally talking him up, his wife would say, "हमारा धोबी B.A. फ़ैल है," or, "My Dhobi failed his B.A." She meant that he went to college, and though he irons the neighborhood's clothes, he's not that different from you all. She was proud of him.

One evening I saw him outside our place burning a plastic bottle. We watched it melt into a gooey liquid. He told me that he'd learned that plastic is made from oil, and if you burn it, you can see it turn into oil again.

Dhobi and his wife had one daughter, Ruby. My mom used to tutor her. I remember she used to come to our place like any other student my mom tutored.

They also had more than one son, I can't remember how many, but they died as infants. Once, I remember Dhobi coming to our place telling my mom. My mom gently scolded him to stop taking this family to his village in the high north Indian summer heat. I don't know if anyone cried in that exchange. Even now, my heart sinks.

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Postscript:

We did go back and visit our old neighbors a few years later. I only saw Dhobi and his family in passing in the dark. I remember seeing Dhobi, his wife, and their daughter. I want to say I saw another person, but I just can't remember now. I gave them the same respectful namaste I gave all of the old neighbors we met.

I also find it unfortunate that I don't remember his name. I don't think I ever learned it. It was (is?) just so common in India to call people like him by their occupation rather than name. It didn't even occur to me to question how strange and dehumanizing it was.