India, June 22 -- One pile, another pile, yet another one. Precariously perched bundles of clothes wait in limbo. Early in the morning, our neighborhood dhobi (washerman) usually rings the bell, collects the load, and returns a neat, crisp stack by evening, ready for the wardrobe. But his week-long visit to his native village has stretched into another week, and yet another, leaving a towering backlog in his wake. The sight of the growing pile of unpressed clothes sends me down memory lane. On our way to school, we used to cross a huge dhobi ghat in the cantonment area. It was a fascinating, synchronised spectacle: Rows of men flogging clothes against hard stone slabs, others rinsing them in huge water troughs, while a tributary of white foam rushed toward the drain. Endless lines of linen hung neatly like flags of hard work. Soon after, they would press the clothes with heavy charcoal irons and load the pristine piles onto handcarts or bicycles. Those were the days when cottons ruled the wardrobe. Sarees, school uniforms, and formal wear were expected to be stark white, stiffly starched, and impeccably creased. Since water had to be hand-carried into homes and washing was a backbreaking chore, the bulk of it was entrusted to the family dhobi. He would arrive, hand over the fresh clothes, and collect the soiled ones while Ma cross-checked the count with her diary. The client-dhobhi bond had deep roots; families patronised a single lineage for generations. There were no barcodes or tags like today's modern laundries, yet mix-ups were surprisingly rare. Then came polyester and cotton blends, making home maintenance much easier. Electric irons made their debut, and slowly, the laundry load eased off-first the washing, then the ironing. In her bid to teach us self-reliance, Ma taught us how to iron our school uniforms. The habit stuck, extended to casual wear, and was duly passed down to my own progeny. Yet, the dhobi remains indispensable. In the present scenario, when my children come home for the weekend, a hectic laundry regime ensues. The moment they step through the door, I have them empty their bags, segregate the clothes, and whirr goes the washing machine. By the next morning, a fat bundle awaits our genial iron man. Once, I requested a quick turnaround because my son had to leave for his hostel. Ever since, if a bundle includes the boy's clothes, they return within hours because "Bhaiya ko hostel jaana hai." Scrupulously honest, he always returns every stray currency note, coin, chit, or handkerchief left behind in the pockets-all neatly ironed. Mostly migrant labourers, these iron men have mushroomed across city streets. A simple thatch roof over a couple of poles, a sturdy wooden table, and a temporary hutment are all it takes to set up shop. Slowly, the business grows through the catchment area-one man caters to a few lanes, his nephew takes the next block, and his son covers the street behind. Their stalls double as the fountainhead of local grapevine, where house helps, green grocers, and delivery agents gather to trade news. From acting as matchmakers in ancient folklore to navigating the modern gig economy, the humble dhobi has quietly traversed history. But right now, history can wait-we just need Babban to come back....