When I was small, about seven, I had a sweet tooth. No, not the normal kind of sweet tooth, where people enjoy just sweets, chocolate or cake. I had the kind of sweet tooth that inspires one to put sugar into everything. Yes, everything. The number of dosas I’ve had with sweetened chutney is testimony, as are the countless jam rolls after dinner and aloo parathas dipped in sugar. Of course, my mother was strict about my not eating too much sugar, and I always brushed my teeth at night (obviously, because I’m very careful about my dental health, and maybe because the toothpaste was minty and sweet) and at home, my sugar intake was limited.
But once in a while, rather, twice a year, I travelled to my paradise of freedom and fun and sweetness (of both kinds) — my grandparents’. I stayed there for two months every year — sans-worry, sans-school work, and most important, sans-‘no more sweets for you!’, only the best food in the world. I would come downstairs, walk into the kitchen, proud and tall, and claim my daily dose of one spoon of sugar, in all its refined glory, for the morning. Then in two hours’ time for ‘midday snack’, then as second-dessert for lunch, and next at tea and later for a post-dinner treat.
Then, the problem arrived. One day, I, the supreme lord of the TV, relented to lending it to my grandfather for the headlines on the news channel. Following the brief period where I unsuccessfully attempted to keep up with the words scrolling across the screen, I resolved to simply listen. The health programme right after caught my attention. I did not pay attention to what it was called, or who the doctor speaking was, but only two words registered — the diabetes risk .
What was this curse? Why would a disease come upon those innocent souls who had a little extra sugar, of all things? Surely it was no crime, simply an understanding of how we beings perceive taste and pay homage to the evolved sense. Then, worry gripped me. I dared not ask about it nor speak its name. But I couldn’t stop having sugar, no. My brain ran through different possibilities and outcomes for hours. Then it struck me.
The next day I woke up and headed down, proud and confident as ever. I knew the answer no one else did. Eager to put it into action, I stormed into the kitchen like a thundercloud, unafraid to take what is mine. ‘Treasure precedes’, I decided, and had my beautiful spoonful of sugar and basked in its ambrosial taste. Sigh, now it was time for the cure. I took out a new alien spoon, whose glinting round face was mocking me. With a scowl at it, and a deep breath, I planted it in the strange glass jar from the strange creaking cabinet.
Shaking, I drew it out slowly, stared for a moment and shoved it into my mouth. The awful taste exploded in my tongue, and I nearly gagged. I must do this. I can bear this. Soon but not soon enough, it was done, and I could breathe again. Belch. I looked down at the glass jar of salt in distaste. I definitely wouldn’t get the odd disease now!
I revisit these experiences now with a smile and contemplate – is this what we do? We take what little we know, and the even less we have and do what we can with the two. Who tells us if we’re wrong? Who corrects and educates? When do the consequences of our incorrect actions come?
But there’s another line of thought too. What is the consequence? We do what we think is right. There’s no law or supreme order against trying. Is that not sufficient? The attempt is a prize to the problem in itself – the effort to gather information, however limited or incorrect, the patience to analyse, and the satisfaction of completing the self-prescribed solution, unfruitful as it may be. Is that not at the heart of our very civilisation?
The energy and enthusiasm of the action makes it pure, of picking up that spoon and plunging it into the salt, because maybe, just maybe, I could be right.
nanda.variar@gmail.com
