The present lockdown has flattened the joy of weekends, all days seemingly holidays and taking the charm away. Longingly I look at the past.
Memories of childhood flood the mind when weekends were eagerly awaited. It was the seated on the ground grandmother’s duty to lay me on her legs and mercilessly infuse Gingelly oil from head to toe. Initially, I tried to slip off, which resulted in a tight slap on my buttocks, the oil increasing the burning sensation. I stopped my tricks. No, there was no consideration for any private parts in circumstances such, and one had to succumb to the situation quietly. I guess there was a sadistic pleasure for the old lady when she would keep rubbing oil into the head, which will ooze and reach the eyes which seemed too weak to protest and the tears vanishing under a deluge of oil.
The last Saturday was the most dreaded one each month. This was the day when we were administered the bio-laxative, long before Baba Ramdev was born or his Patanjali was conceived. My granny followed what her predecessors followed and practiced. ( I wouldn’t say I liked the Woodwards Gripe water the only alternative more.)Almost 50 mL castor oil was thrust into the throat, with milk, I guess. The world could not have been crueller towards hapless children. Her prying eyes would now watch us jumping, as high with our hands up in the air, like we are trying to pluck mangoes from our neighbour’s backyard tree hurriedly. One-two-three, she would count until ten. We could rest, but barely for a few minutes. The castor oil now had entered the intestinal systems and started its work. We would repeatedly hurry into the WC in turns, tummies getting cleared, with splashes shaming the thrust of the street hydrants in vogue then. Not even a drop of water was allowed, and the throats were drier than anytime before. I guess there could have been a system collapse, but none bothered. We are offered a distasteful curd-rice in the evening to calm down the aggressive castor oil. Completely drained out, outdoor games were banned on the last Saturday evenings, an additional reason for my angst.
My sisters and I would sit and finish the homework at double speed as early as Friday late afternoon, soon after our return from school. We had lots of fun in an adjoining park, which is now a huge garbage collection centre. I remember my dad buying me a cricket bat. I broke the bat on the very first day, a Saturday, trying to hit the deuce ball for a sixer, the bat suitable only for cambis ball. I had to smuggle in the bat and hide it under the cot. How would I know that my mother would clean under the cot the very next day? The consequences weren’t child friendly, and the child rights guys would have taken her in had it been today.
There were no air-conditioners and no refrigerators. Fruits and vegetables, therefore, were fresh and bought every day. There was a problem regarding milk, which was a government supply, and hence in perpetual short supply. I was the envoy to coax the ‘didis’ staffing the milk booths and charm them into giving an extra 250 ml or, on special occasions, 500 ml. It was like winning a state lottery.
Dinner time was crucial when my mother would prepare the food, sambar rice, or rasam rice or curd rice with the accompaniment of stories, mostly mythological, embedded to this date. Later, wheat replaced with an acute shortage of rice, and roti intruded our cuisines. But the stories continued every night.
Nothing can compare to the childhood Saturdays, green in memories to this day.
Sampath Kumar
Intrépide Voix
