Many housewives have unusual talents and abilities, but often they remain suppressed and unknown albeit to the few members of today’s nuclear family. My wife has one such. She can sense and predict the contents of any packed gift, even before opening it; and once opened she can classify the gift down to its origin (margin-free shop or supermarket) and life history (new, recycled or re-gifted).
The other day, I came back home late after the medical seminar where I was an invited speaker. My sleepy wife opened the door with a sardonic smile on her face.
I tried to impress her by handing over the gift-wrap that I got as a speaker. But with a cursory glance, my wife announced: “One more Kerala boat.”
Common mementosFor the uninitiated, the Kathakali-style mask and the Kerala row boat, often called the snake boat, are the two most common mementos local speakers get.
My son snatched the box and started unpacking it with a zeal that clearly showed he expected nothing short of a iPhone inside, but once again my wife was right; it was indeed a Kerala-style row-boat, We already have three such boats displayed in each of our bedrooms, one each in the living room, dining area, kitchen and another two dozen under the cot collecting dust. The organisers have made sure that it cannot be recycled and re-gifted by inscribing the donor association and recipient doctors name in the largest available font.
The local temple priest had been my patient right after he sustained his heart attack five years back. A balding, middle-aged gentleman, a bit too heavy around the middle, he lives alone. Over time, we have developed a good rapport and understanding. I dispense medicines and he in turn reimburses it in the form of God’s blessings. While my pills come with an expiry date, his offerings carry a lifetime warranty that will probably be valid even beyond this lifetime.
On Deepavali-eve I rushed back from hospital. The candles were lit and my son was ready with the fireworks. As I entered home my wife told me that the priest had come and left some Deepavali gifts for us, and handed me a plastic bag. Inside was a home-wrapped ribbon-bound small box. My son snatched it and said, ‘could be a 64 GB thumb drive’, and started tearing the wrapper.
The guessMy wife was watching television. She glanced towards my son and said: “Has to be an idol, after all it’s from the priest, na .” After 30 seconds of stressful silence out came a cute little statue of Lord Krishna. “So beautiful, I shall put it in our puja room,” said my wife.
At that time another small plastic packet, lying on the side of the carry bag caught my attention.
“What is that?” shouted my son. Out came the new, unexplored package. “Looks like a food packet,” said my wife promptly. Indeed, it contained four parathas and some vegetable curry.
“The priest may be poor but look at his big heart,” I told my son.
“It is not the cost of what you gift, but the attitude that matters. He bought for us whatever little he could afford,” I added.
“I like parathas,” announced my son. He was hardly listening to my lecture and attacked the contents of the packet. “At least priest uncle could have bought some chicken-fry instead of peas curry, commented my ultra-non-vegetarian son, as he polished off the contents.
The moment of truthMy cellphone rang and I saw the priest’s number on my screen.
“Yes, yes. I reached home and thanks for the cute gift. I am so fond of Lord Krishna, you know,” the emotion in the response was evident from my choked voice.
“Doctor, I know it is a small statue, but you know I live alone and have little income, this is all that I could afford.” The priest’s voice was apologetic.
“By the way, the reason why I called was, I accidentally left my night dinner packet of a few parathas in the same carry bag, just tell your wife that I shall come back and collect it in another 15 minutes.”
From thatday, my wife decided to quarantine all edible gifts for at least 48 hours. Chicken-fry included.
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