Comfort Food

Well, well, well. There seem to be some rumours swirling about amongst my reader(s) that I have a food disorder (don't try and hide..I know who you are!)

So, so, a story..which I shall call 'Do not go gentle into that night'.

I'm feeling sick. I think I've swallowed some ants. Don't ask me how-we had some stale rye biscuits that had to be disposed off and throwing anything away in this house is a cardinal sin, nearly as bad as losing money. Losing anything under ten pounds will get one branded an utter disgrace for the rest of one's life; any larger amounts are written off. A loss of a thousand pounds, for example, is taken with stoical calmness. The ant explanation has produced great hilarity-but everyone knows that the ant killed an elephant.

If anyone is ill in our family the cure is invariably related to food. Headache? Take some 7-up; Poor stomach? Kichiri. Fever, did you say? A broth made from old chicken bones; Acidity? A glass of milk; Facial paralysis ? Quail ! (I kid thee not); Depression? Chocolate; Leg blown off? "Don't worry, you'll be fine, have you tried some haleem?".

When Saida moti (Saida-the-fat-one) was unwell the doctor told her to eat two slices of white bread. (Eating 'English' bread is something of an insult amongst the plebs back home). She came back holding her stomach. "What's wrong?" they asked. It transpired that she ate two loaves, not slices! It's still not clear to me in that story why a doctor should make such a ridiculous recommendation (unless he was from our family, of course). Ubo's old joke: a man goes to the doctor with an upset stomach, having stuffed himself silly. The doctor says: take these two pills four times a day. To which the man replies: doctor, if I had space in my stomach to eat those I might as well have had an extra bar of chocolate!

Uncle M was a hopeless speedster, recklessly driving his Vespa scooter between cars, dodging the horse-drawn carts and donkeys alike. Well, one day he had an accident. A crowd soon gathered around him as he lay there sprawled on the road. There's nothing the Lahoris like more than a road accident. They will usually just gawp at the smashed vehicles for hours on end , discussing what happened in the minutest details with all of its ramifications. Passers by on the other side of the road will invariably stop what they are doing and be drawn to the crowd like flies around a sweet pastry cake.

A few weeks ago there had been an accident in a place not to far from this one. Around the site of the crash the following conversation could be heard:

"Did you see the accident, a man and his seven children, all gone. Just like that" said one.
"It was the Will of Allah," said another.
"Well, why did he have so many children in the first place?" butted in a third.
"Not all of them looked like him, if you understand my drift" chipped in another, as he winked to his friends.

And so this discussion went on and on, and that was a real pity because the man in the accident was actually alive when these stories were circling over his head like so many black vultures.

And so it came to pass that the incident about the passers by and their stories itself became a story.Uncle M was mindful of this story and what had happened to the unfotunate man. Already he could hear the muttering of the crowd that had assembled from God knows where. "Take him to Services hospital" said one."No, he'll be fine. Leave him be" boomed a deep voice from somewhere in the mass of faces. Pretty soon everyone had their own idea of what the best course of action was and speculation then arose as to who exactly this man -a man who looked rather too important to be riding a scooter-was.

As luck would have it, a family friend, Dr. Rashid, was passing by and took one look at Uncle M and said to the crowd, "don't worry, he'll be fine. Just quickly get two boiled eggs and he'll be on his feet in no time". But the banter of the crowd did not subside."He looks as white as a ghost" said someone, shaking his head."Is he going to die?" asked a small child."Why was he driving so fast, he could have killed someone" remonstrated an old man. My uncle felt the blood draining from his legs. Was he to die like this amongst the rabble? The sun blinded his vision but he mustered all of his strength and managed to just lift his head off the floor. He gasped for breath and knew he had but a few words left in his body."

But what did you say, dear uncle?"I asked. To which he replied:

"For the love of God and his Prophet, someone listen to Dr. Rashid!"

Two boiled eggs was not an offer one could refuse lightly...