My THIRD photo and almost the last—laundry has really been wearing on my hands and arms.
My skin’s chapped and my joints ache. The boiling water doesn’t help.
Photo context: After visiting the TAJ and paying a delicate tribute to Mumtaz Mahal (without stirring Shah Jahan’s jealousy, of course), I headed toward the "Little Taj" on the other side of the Yamuna River. Agra was too noisy and bustling, but the other side offered peaceful countryside vibes.
It was laundry day by the Yamuna, and you could find everything there: washing, wringing, drying, and packaging.
I took this photo from my tuk-tuk, rented for the occasion, on the Yamuna Bridge. The bridge was chaotic with triple traffic—two-wheelers, four-wheelers, and trains—all adding to the noise on the potholed, treacherous asphalt.
The weather was nice those days. I followed the Yamuna upstream, visited what I think was Shiva’s birthplace (he’d stolen the clothes of girls bathing in the river—what a mischievous little god!), and around Mathura, I spotted more washerwomen and laundries in constant use.
I don’t remember at all who I gave my laundry to or where that month… sometimes we’re really shameless when traveling. But one time in Bombay, another year, I distinctly remember getting my nice shirt back—minus all its buttons except one! The washboard had turned them to bits. That’s when I discovered India… its quirks, its clothes, its saris, and its dhobis.
