Without warning, with just a pirate's dazzling grin, Azad stopped the auto rickshaw - we were parked next to a sun seared wall, pierced by a narrow doorway - the auto rickshaw was like an oily dragonfly, at rest now, no longer quivering and skittering through the teeming streets -
We walked quickly towards the doorway, following Azad - the air was scented with petrol and diesel - Azad turned towards us, dancing through the traffic - This is the Laundry he said -
Once inside the doorway, we stood inside a large hall - down each side of the hall, men and women stood ironing garments - I saw a woman lift up an iron heated by smoking pieces of charcoal - she wore a blue sari - I watched her ironing - the movements of her powerful brown arms were unhurried and graceful -
Outside, across a broad yard, women stood in small cubicles, beating wet clothes against stones - beyond, there was a field, with a forest of poles and a web of ropes to dry the clothes - white sheets billowed in a sudden breeze - starched shirts were laid out like bizarre giant postage stamps -
There was a garden of sorts near the entrance to the Laundry - a sign read Do not pluck leaves and flowers -
Azad told us that work started in the Laundry at four or five in the morning -
I pictured the women, beating the sodden washing against the stones, their delicate features creased with toil -
How many tens of thousands of shirts might they wash in the course of their working lives, I wondered -
Azad beckoned us towards the entrance of the Laundry - Madam would like to buy some silks?
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