Issue 6 | 23 Dec. 2006

Of Colds And Neighbourhood Aunties
By Deepak M. Rao

There is a very famous saying which, I am sure is right, if one can trust the gray matter that is, which goes on to say 'Never not take advice; it may help you one day' or something to that effect. I had never believed in that until September 12 2005, a day which has gained an overwhelming importance in my life. I must admit, it had been a bad week for me. The corn in my leg seemed to make its first public appearance to the outside world on Monday. I had lost the key to my wardrobe on Tuesday. And from then on till the month-date-year mentioned my mother had been dissatisfied with my irresponsibility. Not that my mother being dissatisfied was very uncommon; but this time she made it a point to walk to the bureau every twenty minutes, shuffle some papers and come back with a wile and satisfied look on her face. I knew she was getting at her will. Getting back to the topic at hand, about September 12 2005, I have strongly felt and expect my audience to feel as strongly too that it was a rainy morning. There were just enough clouds in the sky, a dull purple blanket they formed, swirling overhead as if playing 'who can hide the sun better' with one another. And it must have been a severe game with severe teams; some strong emotions it evoked. There were a few grunts and a few flashes of anger and before I stepped out and decided to look back to smile a bright one at the old housing, I was wet, as the expression goes, from head to toe. A pill or two and I thought I was safe. And so it started. One pill after the other; a yellow one followed by a blue and then a dislikeable pink. Then a small white one and then a big white one. A tonic and a few multi-coloured syrups. None of it seemed to abate the arguably most irritating malady.

As the day wore on, what with no appreciable change in the colour of the sky nor an improvement in my state of affairs, I played host to a number of neighbourhood aunties and essayed an award-winning role of a one-man audience to all the babble. It was a challenging evening and my position as a host was particularly tricky, what with not one of the ladies agreeing with the rest on any topic and me, the perfect host having to nod at everything thrown my way. This breed, trust me on this, happens to be make decisions faster than any other and in the course of our their current discourse, of which I had begun to learn to give a deaf ear for some time, decided on a unanimous remedy for the cold in my head. It was a home-made syrup which used the most unlikely of ingredients - roots and shoots and a few flowers and leaves and some unmentionables - that tasted like rotten meat and would have smelled like a damp shoe had it been preserved for a day or two in a dark corner. It hit me like no spirit has ever. It gave the old creaking muscles in the trachea the jolt of a lifetime; the after-shock still persists. But the cold, believe me, got the sack and had left me for the rest of the week. Only an occasional sneeze or two and its gone. Next time I meet those great medicos, I shall get the recipe. And I shall publish it for all of you out there with a cold to use. That September I learnt a lesson. "never not take advice…"
(Response: :raomdeepak@gmail.com)