July 17th, 2005 AD

I never imagined that getting a house whitewashed, and then cleaning it up would be such a soul stirring experience. My home has turned topsy-turvy, and the whole family is at sixes and sevens and on tenterhooks…I must stop using those clichéd idioms and words, or they will recommend another action item in the Development Action Plan for me at my workplace. If you clear your throat, they recommend a new action item in the Development Action Plan.

The house is filled with dust; the dust pervades everything; dust rules the universe. If a camel were to be in the house, you wouldn’t see it - it would be hidden under all that dust. I fear I may turn up at work looking like I myself have whitewashed the house. On the other hand, the workers think they own the house. They typically demand half a dozen rounds of tea per day, and would be glad if we fed them lunch too.

The most interesting aspect of the whitewashing was the revelation that my mum likes to hoard stuff. Once all the mysterious cardboard boxes were taken down from the loft, and we approached the caverns with torches, reading with every now and then the ancient hieroglyphic on the walls, we realized that we had a treasure trove on our hands. My mum dug out all the utensils my grandma had given her, and got sentimental. Women like to get sentimental on such occasions. But the contents of some of the boxes were stupefying. One had old ceiling-fan regulators and switches, “just in case we need them”. Many cardboard boxes contained such odds and ends; I had to use all my influencing skills to induce my mum to throw them away. However, she put her foot down when it came to throwing away a box full of Rath containers. Rath was the cooking medium widely used before they discovered something that was more fit for human consumption - like blubber, for instance.

”Why do you need these Rath containers? To set a Guinness World Record”, I said.

“We need them,” said my mother logically. “Some things are not given away. That Grundig tape recorder is still with us.”

This was the first time that I realized that the old Grundig tape recorder, which my parents had bought 35 years ago, was still with us. “But it does not work.” I said her.

“I know. The tape spools too are with us. But they all have sentimental value, see?” she said. One can’t argue with that.

“You had sentimental value for the old Phillips radio, since you bought it after I was born. That did not stop you from selling it, did it?” I said grumpily. I needn’t have worried.

Quite soon my Dad announced to me, “We have hit another archaeological find.” One of the items in the cardboard box looked vaguely familiar - a stout green medicine bottle.

“Isn’t this...?” I said.

“Yes,” said my mum, looking fondly at me.

It was a bottle of a tonic called Ferodol, which I had when I was three years old. Since nothing had been stored for years, I assume that also had sentimental value. I never imagined that a bottle of Ferodol tonic would become a family heirloom. Dear old Ferodol! I wonder if kids still eat it.

If I should get married, I hope my mum does not dig out the bottle and fondly announce to my wife, “You husband used to eat Ferodol from this bottle!” Who says you miss out on a lot if you are only child?!

I didn’t have the gall to ask my mum what had happened to the Farex tins…