{"id":27722,"date":"2020-06-30T06:57:15","date_gmt":"2020-06-30T02:57:15","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.mauritiustimes.com\/mt\/?p=27722"},"modified":"2020-06-30T06:57:15","modified_gmt":"2020-06-30T02:57:15","slug":"of-soap-water-and-sink","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.mauritiustimes.com\/mt\/of-soap-water-and-sink\/","title":{"rendered":"Of Soap, Water and Sink"},"content":{"rendered":"
Musings<\/u><\/span><\/h5>\n

By Dr Rajagopal Soondron<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"Coming from a joint family, well surrounded by mother, two aunties, five sisters and three cousin sisters, it was never expected of the boy to go and help in the kitchen. That would have been a blatant attempt to introduce a spy in the female\u2019s realm. In those days boys were meant to help the uncle at the shop or the grandmother at the market place.<\/span><\/p>\n

University life did me no good either: with a student mess to cater for food, I was shut off forever from any good culinary philosophy society might have had in store for me.<\/span><\/p>\n

After marriage my wife monopolized the kitchen \u2013 to my great relief, while after tying the knot my cousin D discovered the obsessive pleasure of doing the dishes… to the utter joy of his better half. My indifference was palpable, not ready to sanction that fellow\u2019s attitude. But what to say of his nephew K, my son-in-law? He takes after his uncle; I just closed my eyes, looked away for my daughter\u2019s sake. Being of the modern generation maybe they belonged to another permissive hippy, freedom-loving feminism era.<\/span><\/p>\n

Fancy my astonishment and utter embarrassment years later during my overseas visit to my friend G\u2018s place; having been my faithful doppelganger since our bachelor days when the kitchen was persona non grata<\/em> to us, he had somehow negotiated a 180 degree turn, becoming a wonderful cook; and who says cook also means an addiction to kitchen and house cleaning. All this was to my great apprehension \u2013 for my wife might raise her eyebrows, airing what this good-for-nothing hubby of hers was waiting for to imitate his pal. She would never appreciate the excuse that my professional commitment always pushed me towards economizing my energy when at home!<\/span><\/p>\n

The straw that broke\u2026<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u2026the camel\u2019s back: For New Year\u2019s Eve, the other good friend N invited us for an end of year party. And about one hour before 2020 peeped in, my faculty of surprise was put severely to test when the groggy N announced he would go to the sink for a much awaited session! Sure enough he soon headed to the kitchen enthusiastically, challenging my speculative theory that men who love outdoor gardening, like N, would stay far away from indoor activities — just to keep God\u2019s good world in perfect equilibrium. Like his brother G, he was out to prove me wrong. Feeling my basic convictions going down the drain, I finally made my way to the kitchen to make a last attempt to save the day — but lo! There was my smiling chump happily soaping, rubbing, twisting, plunging vessels and dishes under the opened tap \u2013 as a duck would take to water.<\/span><\/p>\n

I experienced a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach \u2013 lest my wife should walk in and fall into a plaintive, comparative study of husbands; I guiltily had to reckon that I might after all be out of phase with my generation. But my stubborn bias drove me to a final attempt to restore my failing equanimity, so without hesitation I told N jokingly: \u201cTo pe gate travaille \u2013 mon cher\u201d!<\/em> But that would be as good as throwing water on a duck\u2019s feathers. N was happily enjoying the last minutes of 2019.<\/span><\/p>\n

Convinced that such a U-turn in my behaviour would never happen, especially in my eighth decade, I resolutely stuck to my old concept, secretly and bitterly feeling that I have been let down by my buddies — while promising myself that I would never become a kitchen worm. Little did I know that Time and Mother Nature were out to get my skin \u2013 coronavirus decided to strike!<\/span><\/p>\n

Confinement<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Confinement reduced our activities by about 75% \u2013 so that home life and its multiple well-known hidden traps swept me into another reality. Our maids were intelligently kept away; and my better half found herself loaded with work \u2013 not that this frightened her. Far from it. That should have made me feel relaxed and comfortable. But instead a guilty conscience started seeping in \u2013 the very same that has so often prompted me to hint to my wife that one day she would be awarded a Nobel Prize for perpetually inventing house chores. Which guilt finally had the better of me and burst the cocoon I was living in. It drove me to the kitchen sink.<\/span><\/p>\n

Everyday saw me there sponging utensils, plates and cutlery \u2013 that I have taken for granted for some 70 years; not that I was enjoying myself as D, N or G \u2014 but I was nearly there, taking some sense of duty and mild pleasure to execute the job. Perhaps my subconscious had found the right formula to satisfy the health authorities\u2019 recommendations: keep washing the hands regularly with soap. And here I was \u2013 killing two birds with one stone three times a day.<\/span><\/p>\n

Should you would giggle that soap and water have at last wrecked my archaic, biased philosophy you would be forgiven. For I had lucidly started the hand washing ceremony when I was about 3 years old: building one\u2019s immunity by running bare-footed, playing in the soil of the compound. I had to take an evening bath with soap under the only tap below the longan tree there. And my faculty to compare had already gripped me at that age. I could never understand why my motherly \u2018modiste\u2019 neighbour – \u2018Tantine Marazine\u2019 – had such clean, huge white hands while mine looked dirty and puny. So every day at dusk after my overenthusiastic rubbing and washing with soap and cold water with a \u201cCoto Maiye\u201d below the tree, courtesy mum, I would run to my lady neighbour to compare my hands with hers, much to her amusement and delight.<\/span><\/p>\n

Was the scene set for later obsessive-compulsive behaviour? Maybe. And fate did drive the nail further. Decades later I found myself in a professional speciality where I wash my hands 5 to 10 times daily, most times with alcohol and at others with soap and water! This practice was further encouraged by my ex-boss\u2019 anecdote of his postgraduate days. It appears that his consultant \u2013 a world authority in the subject \u2013 challenged him to anaesthetize three patients to the best of his capacity. He did it brilliantly and was congratulated by the supervising professor; except for one reproach \u2013 he did not wash his hands in-between the cases!!!<\/span><\/p>\n

So finally that ritual of hand washing is stuck to us forever. Too much alcohol would rob them of beneficial protective secretions; so stick to soap and water, Covid-19 oblige<\/em>. And as for those who could go to the kitchen sink twice or thrice daily: pray continue \u2013 for two birds are always better than one. While waiting for the second wave of Covid-19 — God forbid!<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

* Published in print edition on 30 June 2010<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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