Going nuts over the coconut

We Konkanis love our coconut.  The morning begins with the sound of garr garr i.e the scraping of the coconut and then the mixer goes whirr with it  being ground for the chutney. In earlier days, once breakfast was over the women would oil their hair with yes…some coconut oil and then plait it. Next would be the turn of the kids. As soon as they were caught their hair was oiled and then it was the turn of their massage. Yes, kids were massaged  with oil regularly till they were 10 or so. And I believe that it is for that reason my ma-in-law, & my parents still have healthy skins even though they are in their 70s.

And then again started the process of garr, garr, the scraping of coconut for the lunch. The process of scraping coconut comes naturally to us. I never remember our elders ever teaching us how to  scrape coconuts… we just knew. Coconut is used to make chutneys, in gravies, in desserts. My mom I remember used to panic if there were no coconuts in the pantry, ‘how will I cook’, she used to scream.

So dependent on coconuts we are that the very first thing that the women used to do whenever some land was bought, was to plant saplings of the coconut. Men would just have to build their buildings around it.

My earliest memories of my tryst with coconut for personal grooming is when my mom would call me to oil my hair. I would do my best to avoid her. And if I got caught I would keep screaming, ‘enough’. So there was no scope of oil massages but then I went to hostel. Few months gone and I understood with the state of my hair and skin, that indeed I needed something. With my hair I was not that adventurous and stuck on to the good old coconut oil. But for skin I did. I tried everything that my hostelmates did, ripened banana, papaya, egg whites (ughh) everything and then realized that there was no need for all that. The family potion was good enough. And just before bath, applied some oil to myself and rubbed it nicely. Not for me the packs of egg whites and messy papayas. I was  fine with my coconut oil.

And then post delivery, my ma-in -law arrived with some special oil. It was of course coconut oil with some added herbs. My mother used to apply it liberally and then bathe me with boiling water. It was torturous then but my skin … it was soft and glowing.

Today I am a busy mom juggling too many things. And I do not have the 10 minutes required prior to bath. So what do I do, I just reach for my Parachute Advansed body lotion. Result a soft and glowing skin which does not need any more botheration.

This post is a part of Women’s Web Goodness of Coconut contest

What next?

I straightened my hair

With the promise

That I will use Sunsilk from now on

Though Dove does send me samples now and then

 

 

Then I went on a virtual tour

Of shopper’s stop

And shopped this and that

 

What next you may ask

Well I asked my man to shave

His stubble, and I say;

And while you are it

Can you write about it or should I

Well there is a trip to Paris, you know.

 

And while I write and write to Get published

While oohing and aahing at Vikas

I ask; What next??

To the rescue-II

Presenting the conclusion of To the rescue. Though I had presented it as a contest, there were no entries and so my dear readers you will have to bear with my narration only 😦 SO here goes.
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When I couldn’t hear Mrs’ Mishra’s footsteps, I was elated. Happy to have made the escape this time, I continued with my work, but I could still hear the knocking sound. Now you may ask why I was so bothered with a sound. But you see, I grew up reading Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys and ever since anything different from the routine makes me curious.I tried to concentrate on the noises outside.There was Azaan from the nearby mosque and the knocking sound. At this time of the day, there were no vehicles.

The knocking continued, I opened the window and peeped out. You may think that how I could lean out of the window but I can. You see windows in Bahrain are without bars. The sliding double doors of the windows are secured only with a tiny button something like the electrical switches. And so I leaned out and listened. The A/cs were off, November is a cool month and also in the day time very few were at home.

The sound came from Mishrajis flat. AT first I thought there must be some carpentry work going on but then my curiosity took the better of me and I ran.

I rang the bell but no one opened the door. Instead the knocks began frantic. I put my ear to the door and listened…..I could hear the faint sound of a ….HELP ME …..help… And I ran again. the Mishras flat being on the ground floor, all the windows could be peeped in from the outside. I ran towards the bedroom but the window was screened, then I ran towards the kitchen. And peeped in. Mrs. Mishra was lying on the floor her right leg in a bad angle.. obviously a fracture and with her hand was a spoon with which she was making as much a noise as she could. I banged on the window signalling that I would help her. I tried to open the window but it was closed. I tried to break the window but could not.

All this banging and yelling woke up the Filipina living next door and she leaned out with a ‘WHath Happenned?’ I told her that Mrs. Mishra had had a fall. Meanwhile her African boyfriend too came near the window, he signaled me to wait, came out and with expertise (or was it practice… don’t ask me, I don’t know) lifted out the window and we climbed in. Mrs. Mishra on seeing me burst into tears and held me tight and both of us sobbed together. Angelina (the Filipina) gave us water and made her comfortable. We didn’t move her.I had already called for the ambulance and the team arrived and lifted her. I locked both the houses, took my mobile and purse and ran along with her.

Some oil it seems had spilled on the kitchen tiles. Mrs.Mishra had not seen the spill and had stepped on it and had fallen down. She had tried yelling for help but because of the closed windows no one had heard her and when she had heard the sound of the ladle falling in my kitchen had started knocking with the spoon in her hand on the floor, hoping that I would listen.

I became the heroine that day and for once my husband was proud of my butter fingers.