And Souls Were Saved
At just 60 kg, I have a sumptuous breakfast relative to my weight. Maybe it is the scarcity mindset. Will there be much to eat for lunch and dinner? In childhood, our meals were frugal, the regular staples. Meat was a rarity. We never starved. Small mercies. There was always something to eat. That’s the best an honest government official’s monthly salary would allow. True of most middle-class families then and perhaps even now.
Today, we are probably ‘upper’ middle-class. The open economy has created opportunities for good remuneration, particularly in the corporate sector. Assuredly, I have enough to eat for lunch or dinner. Not true, though, for large sections of our country. But mindsets are stubborn. Saving scarce resources is the dominant financial pursuit for a middle-class family, even with an ‘upper’ prefix.
My breakfast is the ‘Saravana Bhavan’ variety, with several accompaniments. This includes Nendran Banana from Kerala, two boiled eggs, 4 medium-sized dosas, and the sambars and chutneys. The cook prepares and lays out the meal in the dry kitchen, and we help ourselves from there unless we have guests, in which case the table is set for the repast.
We don’t have Saravana Bhavan thalis. So, each element of the spread has its own plate or bowl that has to be transported to the table. To avoid several trips, I carry two or three bowls by hand to the table. On this occasion, my usual adeptness at this daily exercise miserably failed. The trio of bowls crashed to the floor and smeared the walls too, leaving indelible marks celebrating the event. My wife was in attendance. I got gently rapped on the truant knuckles.
The racket caused did serve a purpose. An effort long on the wish list, but ignored, got its due attention. The maids were ordered to have the dishes served on the table, rather than have a man getting on in years display his severely depreciated juggling skills.
The crying baby gets the milk. I got the breakfast served on the table. Should there be a lapse in service, I know how to set it right. Drop a few dishes en route from the kitchen to the table. That’s how the crying baby gets the milk, or perhaps more pertinent today, the toy.
I must tip my hat to the resilience of the Corelle bowls. They emerged unscathed, but the much-touted emulsion paint on the wall did not. The incident prompted me to order two ‘bhojan thalis’-stainless steel laser 5-in-1 partitioned plates.
Why must we wait for a catastrophe to happen before we get an insight to address a risky chore before the inevitable happens? Why must we wait to be forcibly retired before thinking about ways to grow small savings? Or, for that matter, buying car insurance after the accident has happened or a health plan after being diagnosed with a serious illness?
Would it be surprising that people have no problem spending a few thousand on a meal but fret over doctor fees, deferring to attend to a persistent issue with their health, adding manifold to treating the ailment when it is discovered at a late stage? A long-ignored tumour is a prime example of deferred attendance.
Taking the thought further, how many of us think about our soul? Is it in any condition to make the long journey through the stratosphere to reach heaven? Do we even give it a passing thought? To bookmark it for a later review? Why are we so blasé about it?
Do we respond only to what is visible and noisy, like the crashing of dishes, before finding a way to master breakfast logistics, metaphorically speaking, a ‘bhojan thali’ to spare the juggling contortions?
I had the honour of preparing the altar again at the Holy Mass today, because the person in charge was on his weekly leave. I did the needful, including organising one of the congregations to take up the Liturgy of the Word. All sorted, I sat down to identify the hymns to be sung. Someone in the congregation noticed me shuffling the pages of the hymn book while the priest in the sacristy was waiting to enter the chapel to begin the Mass.
I settled on a hymn, announced the page and hymn number and got over the toughest part. Getting the pitch in a scale right to get into the swing of the words to follow. Neither too high nor too low. For me, it is the point where I get it wrong, but I press on regardless, confident that it will fall lockstep with the right beat, hopefully before the hymn is over.
But it was the least of my worries. Just as I began, someone decided to ratchet up a drilling machine just outside the chapel, drowning my hesitant start with tenor-like falsettos that pierced the ears. While that was a saving grace for me, the lady with a gentle voice who was to commence the First Reading would be competing with the drill’s cracking sound.
Being a backbencher has its advantages. I stepped out of the chapel to see if the problem was addressable. It was. It was the grasscutter who had chosen that inopportune time to make his daily wage. The parish priest was nowhere to be spotted. I took matters into my hands and told him to stop for a few minutes. He probably quit and found a job elsewhere. No further ratcheting sound until we exited the chapel.
God, in his goodness, made him aware that the Word of God is read to be heard, and so is the Liturgy of the Eucharist. It is meant to penetrate our heart and mind. It is meant to heal our wounds. To provide direction for the day. To cast out thoughts that will only cause injury. To soothe revengeful thoughts and replace them with words of blessing for the one who is to be scarred with curses. We serve the one who chose to serve us first by going to the cross for us. Do we value the sacrifice made? Or is it just a fancy story told?
- Mathew Anthony
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