All the workers in the place, the scrubber/thwackers and the ironers, were male. I wondered why.
When we first entered the premises, we passed through the ironing building, to the walkways between the washing booths. I felt more comfortable outside, not quite such an intruder as I felt passing through the quiet of the ironing area. But by the time we came back through, it seemed our presence was part of the place, that they had accepted us there and maybe were as quietly curious about us, as we were about them.
In contrast to the athletic thwacking of the washers, the ironing room was a place of precise, almost serene movements. We stood and watched while the huge electric irons glided back and forth, making precise folds in the shirtsleeves and panels of the shirts. The finished ones in a pile were sculpture-like, beautiful in their curves and crisp lines.
Perhaps accounting somewhat for the tranquil atmosphere of the place was the shrine, high on the end wall, where a small light bulb took the place of a candle, and Hindu icons reminded workers of the presence of their deities.
In the midst of this, a tall thin fellow scurried in on his spindly legs carrying an impossibly large bundle of laundry on his shoulder, and depositing it in the room opposite the ironing, where sorting took place.
