One garment that I do
not attempt to dry outside is my underpants. It is not because I am scared of
someone stealing them. I swear I don’t wear golden fabric underwear. Modestly I
wear mostly from Jockeys – they are comfortable and last pretty long.
I live in a clustered
housing colony where I get to see every day the fanciful shirts, pants, bras
and underpants hanging in every porch of the house. I have acquainted with the
colors and fabric of the clothes that distinguish from men and women. I have
come to know that most men wear ash colored underpants and a few black. Its
counterparts are mostly pink and some red. There is yet another distinction of
fairness touched upon on pinkies and reds from the ashes and blacks by offering
silky threads as their wearers’ skin. But I am always taken aback by their
confidence to hang them outside unlike my few ashes and blacks that have never
breathed the air or seen the sun. As much as I have the capacity to draw many
opinions just from the sights of them, I stick here to why I don’t attempt to
dry my own tiny clothes outside. That way I maintain some form of decency to myself
and show some respect to others. However, it is not that I have not tried to
hang my underwear in all this time. One fine Saturday, I slotted it in between
my two big linens and went out for a long drive away from my home. I can still
remember experiencing some sense of achievement in doing it so – not the long
drive but from hanging the V shaped garment in the sun.
As unpredictable as the
summer season, it started to rain and then I panicked. I thought of my bed
sheets and towels getting soaked just as when they were about to get dried up. But
in the clustered colony where I live have many kind-hearted aunties who for
many times had taken my clothes to safety. I was relieved with the thought. I
continued my journey. It was raining cats and dogs.
The sun had already set
when I opened the main door of my house. I did not get in. I took three steps
backwards and craned my neck to see my clothes gone from the rope. All the
clothes have reached to safety except those belonged to me. I went in and sat
on the dining chair, the nearest I could find to ease my declining mood.
My neighbor aunties did
not do me the favor. They failed to take my clothes off the slack. But I knew
they must have tried. They are all kind-hearted aunties. I came to the
conclusion that the fate of my important linens were doomed all due to my tiny
underwear that I had slotted in. From there on, I make sure my underpants of
whatever the colors – ashes or blacks, do not see the light of the sun or
breathe fresh air of any season of the year. They chose the fate by themselves to remain inside the house taking forever before they get ready to come to my skin.
Happy Underwear. I mean Happy New Year.
Happy Underwear. I mean Happy New Year.
