Cow-Mother’s ‘Gaunyle’.

            “In the good old days…” I was about to tell Sri Husband something when he interrupted. He won’t let me complete a sentence in peace (pun unintended, it could well read ‘piece’).

            “Which old days?” Sri Husband, interruption one.

            “…illnesses were few, life was less stressful, food was organic, family members ate together…”

            Interruption two: “I thought you were talking about when you were young, wondering what was good about those days.”

“I’m talking about even older times. When people were healthy.”

He: “Health in ancient times? Life-spans were short. Small-pox was a killer. Sixtieth birthdays were landmarks. Today, sixty’s the new forty. How far back would you like to go for the good old days? The cave age?” Then he began wagging a forefinger in front of my face and yakked on: “Hunting boars and gathering berries was stressful, ‘specially when chased by a hungry wild canine or cat. Or another brutal hunter. When they began to grow crops, they were dependent on the rains and at the mercy of plant-disease.  Locust attack meant no food at all. Thousands of years later, the smarter ones invented money and careers in loaning. If you couldn’t return what you borrowed, off went your cow/wife/house/right thumb…”

            Me: “… still, people were happy, they didn’t fight…”

            Interruption three or four: “Check out the Mahabharat and the Ramayan. Quarrels, sneaky cheats and family ‘nataks’ are described in great detail.”

            Me: “At least food was organic, no? And cheaper.”

            He: “Very long back, food wasn’t cheap, it was free, If you consider plucking fruit off trees that didn’t belong to anyone. But later, earning a ‘bhakri’ was hard work. You produced whatever you needed.”

Me, slightly changing track: “My grandmother used every bit of the banana tree, from leaves to stem to the threads that could be drawn from the edges. And from the fruits, so many things were made. Same was true of jackfruit, mango, guava, coconut…”

 He, changing track further: “Who’s stopping you from living like that? Build your own home on government-owned land with material that grows on it and fish or kill birds for your supper, chop wood. Let’s sell the fridge, the fan and invest in ‘kalsi’, pulleys and ropes.”

‘Lecture-baazi shuru’, I thought. I’d lost count of number of interruptions anyway, with all this ‘gyaan’ being tossed to me.

He: “Be pragmatic. Use less plastic, petrol, water, follow the mantra of reduce, reuse and recycle, leave a better planet for our coming generations, etc., I can understand, but...”

Me, breaking in: “Olden times’ people were more ‘xianey’.”

He, bashing on regardless of my interlude: “…this stuff about all old things being good is debatable.”

Me, confident and loud: “Old is gold. Everyone says so.”

He, matching my tone and tenor: “Your and my ancestors had no old-gold, no nothing. Get back to the keyboard and finish whatever you’re writing.” Then, mumbling to himself, making sure he’s audible enough for me to hear: “Where does she get these ideas from?”

Me: “The newspaper.”

He: “?” (Wordless question, eye-brow raised, precursor of bad mood.)

Me: “Mrs Gandhi says all government offices should be mopped with Gaunyle.”

He: “Is that an Italian fad?”

Me: “Not that Mrs Gandhi nor the dead one.” Even in 2015 Anno Domini, Sri Husband is capable of asking ‘Indira?’ to annoy me.

Distinctly, I pronounced: “Ma-ne-ka.”

Sri Husband, grinning evilly: “Tu ne kyaa kaha?”.

I snapped: “Maneka Gandhi, yaar.”

He, pleased that he’d got me irritated at last: “Tell, tell more.”

Me: “Gaunyle, made from cow-urine, is a modern cleaning product, based on an old science and state of art technology married to ancient evidence, traditional, acceptable to all, anti-micro-organism, effective, easy to use and sacred, too.”

He: “Say that again. I didn’t follow.”

Sri Husband does this on purpose, just to confuse me. I don’t fall for that bait any longer. I continued: “It’s good for the environment, not like the bad other products like phenyl.”

Sri Husband: “Does it come in many fragrances?”

Me: “I’m sure Madam Gandhi would have added ‘mogra’ or rose extracts to it.”

He: “The odours… sorry, aromas might also have healing properties.”

I never know when he’s serious. I said, “Maybe.”

He: “In which case, hospitals, too, should use Gaunyle. Say, khus-scented for appendectomies, sandalwood for amputations, jui for cataracts, melony-lemony Gaunyle for tooth-extraction.”

            I’m never sure when he’s serious and when joking. I said: “How can one use cow-urine for tooth-extraction or surgeries?”

            Sri Husband, googling to find out how mother-cow’s excretions were used for medicinal purposes by the ancients: “I wonder whether the concept of informed consent existed in the days of gold and honey.”

            “It’s milk and honey,” I corrected him.

            “Good old days,” he kind of agreed. “Maneka’s going back to those, eh? If Gaunyle can work for her, it can work for us. I’m going right away to buy a jerry-can of the stuff. Now with the ban on ‘gauhatya’ being enforced strictly, I might get it at a discount. So much ‘gaumoot’ to harvest.”

            He walked out, maybe to buy Gaunyle. I’m hoping it’s not yet available in the market. I trust the wisdom of the ancients, but not sure whether I want this part of it right now.    

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