{"id":2274,"date":"2016-07-29T04:29:10","date_gmt":"2016-07-28T22:59:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/13.201.39.237\/indian-parents-quick-fix\/"},"modified":"2016-07-29T04:29:10","modified_gmt":"2016-07-28T22:59:10","slug":"indian-parents-quick-fix","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/13.207.105.184\/?p=2274","title":{"rendered":"Broken Bones to Broken Heart: My Family\u2019s \u201cThuk Patti\u201d Quick Fix for Everything"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

\u201cT<\/span>huk Patti\u201d is an urban Indian slang for a temporary solution or a half-assed way out of distress. Literally, it translates to \u201cspit bandage\u201d \u2013 from the myth that spitting on a wound will momentarily make it better. It is what \u201cbut we can <\/p>still<\/span><\/i> be friends\u201d is to every teenage break-up or what a Netflix subscription is for a single person on <\/span>Valentine\u2019s Day<\/span><\/a>. Or any day. <\/span>\n\nWhen my father and his two brothers got married and had children, each of these three micro-family units decided it was time to move out of our grandparents\u2019 large home. In India, whether you are 25 or 52 years old, if you abandon your <\/span>parents\u2019 home<\/span><\/a>, all of society looks at you the way the <\/span>Catholic church<\/span><\/a> looked at Galileo in the 17th century. <\/span>\n\nI imagine my dada would have, on this fateful day, in a state of complete shock, announced every parenting effort as an act of martyrdom to my fully-grown dad at his doorstep. \u201cDon\u2019t ever forget that I wiped your poop-stained ass clean <\/span>that one time<\/span><\/i> in 1961. It wasn\u2019t even my job. Your mother happened to be out buying prunes.\u201d The sons\u2019 departures were grudgingly sanctioned off, but not without a bit of thuk patti: My grandmother (amma) laid down the rule that as make-good, every family would have to come visit her every Sunday. <\/span>\n\nThat\u2019s the thing about thuk patti: It\u2019s not just a temporary fix, it is a spot of amelioration. A dab of spit that takes away only a little bit of the sting from a wound. \u00a0<\/span>\n

Sweet coconut oil on her ailing back, turmeric on her fingers for knife cuts, or eucalyptus on her temples to destress.<\/blockquote>\nSo every Sunday, as a fifth grader, I had to put on my cleanest frock and be dragged out of the house to go see amma and dada for our mandatory social call. As a fifth grader, here are things I\u2019d rather had been doing on a Sunday evening: watch The Jungle Book reruns, make glitter pink hearts around my crush\u2019s name in my geometry workbook, make blank calls to his house to hear his sweet voice say Hello, if you call again we\u2019ll have to inform the police<\/i>. Or if it was my lucky day \u2013 all those three things together. They lived a kilometre or so away from us. And if there was one thing I disliked more than the girl who was lucky enough to be my crush\u2019s neighbour, it was walking. For my father, walking there meant saving \u20b913 on a cab ride and thereby notionally contributing to my marriage fund. <\/span>\n\nDada would open the door, we\u2019d walk down the long hallway to the living room where amma sat majestically in the middle of a wooden settee right in front of the television, walking stick by her side, eyes glued to some <\/span>daily soap<\/span><\/a>. My ma and pa would touch her feet, she\u2019d raise her hand just an inch as if her blessings were a \u201climited stock\u201d<\/span> sale, scratch the side of her lip, much like Don Corleone, and say to me, \u201cYou come to my house, you don\u2019t give me hug?\u201d <\/span>\n\nThis was my cue to run to her, jigsaw fit my head between her head and shoulder, which would instantly fill my nose up with the smell of one or another thuk patti on her body. Sweet coconut oil on her ailing back, turmeric on her fingers for knife cuts, or eucalyptus on her temples to destress. <\/span>\n\nOn one such Sunday, we entered her building through the back entrance, as the front gates were blocked by construction work.\u00a0My parents had baited me with some chicken lollipop to endure the walk. The street lights were off and the only thing on my mind was to be in front of the TV before 8.30 pm for the annual <\/span>Filmfare Awards<\/span><\/a>. As we walked past the gates, the spirit of Usain Bolt took over my chubby laziness and I started running toward the house in pitch darkness. And banged my forehead against the sharp, uncovered end of a scaffolding.\u00a0<\/span>I mustered every bit of my and said \u201cMy lollipop fell down\u201d. And my mother responded, \u201cBut you\u2019ve already eaten five, now get up so we can fix it quick.\u201d <\/span>\n\nThe next thing I knew,\u00a0I had given my Amma a rather bloody hug, was lying on amma\u2019s settee, watching a hallucinating ceiling fan, feeling a bag of frozen peas being pressed against my left eyebrow. My family belted out ingredient names for my wound as if they were spells from Potter land: Aloe Vera Kedavra, <\/span>Whiskey<\/span><\/a> Episkey, Lavender Leviosa. But the blood simply refused to stop. <\/span>\n\nMy classmates would boast about their fathers \u2013 one\u2019s dad was considered cool because he owned a women\u2019s lingerie store, another\u2019s was well-known because he was a second cousin of Suniel Shetty. My father\u2019s talent? He can find and pin down a doctor no matter the place or time. So Pa sat with the landline in his lap, and called his <\/span>divorced friend<\/span><\/a> whose sister\u2019s neighbour\u2019s son had recently had a head injury \u2013 he got him to call his sister, get the doctor\u2019s phone number and like a film neatly edited, I was carried to a doctor\u2019s <\/span>private clinic<\/span><\/a>, right across the road from amma\u2019s house. Pa was smart enough not only to have found a doctor on a Sunday evening but one that didn\u2019t require a taxi ride. <\/span>\n\nThe doctor, a man with a soft sweet face, arrived in a few minutes, still in his nightclothes. He put on a pair of surgical gloves and looked at my wound. A nurse took me into a separate room from where I could just see the Filmfare magazine\u2019s cover on a side table and the doctor mumbling something to my folks. <\/span>Madhuri Dixit<\/span><\/a> was on the magazine\u2019s cover sporting a set of bangs with an off-shoulder top. I was certain my father was asking the doctor how expensive would it be to close up my eyebrow, calculating the blow to my marriage fund in rupees per stitch. His jaw would then drop at the proposed number and my mother would softly ask, \u201cCan she just cover it with bangs instead?\u201d <\/span>\n\nWhile I was mentally making these plans, the doctor came in to desensitise the injured area on my head, gave me two stitches, and after the almost painless procedure, sent me away with a bottle of iodine and the magazine to keep me smiling. On our way out, he handed rather ceremoniously to my dad, a cheap black-and-white pamphlet that had \u201cSuperior Healing: Reiki\u201d printed on one side with a bunch of asterisks and star symbols. My good eyebrow should have started to twitch at the fact that a fully qualified medical professional, dressed in his night suit, actually taught Reiki on the side. Another thuk patti for my family, I should have thought.\u00a0<\/span>\u201cNow how would you like to become your family\u2019s own doctor? Think about it and call me.\u201d he said\n\nGiving someone Reiki in the <\/span>\u201990s<\/span><\/a> was just like using a dial-up modem. You focused all your positive energies into one little \u201cConnect\u201d dialog box, pressed it with all your faith while it made an <\/span>ommmmmm<\/span><\/i> sound, and hoped to god that it would make a connection for a whopping 12 minutes of uninterrupted internet. <\/span>\n\nWe were a family threaded together by illnesses. My mother often had to check my dad\u2019s breathing closely on days I needed his permission for a sleepover. She\u2019d report back, \u201cAll passages are clogged this evening, quietly go to your room and cry if you want, but softly.\u201d Between my dad\u2019s sinusitis and psoriasis, mom\u2019s <\/span>lactose allergies<\/span><\/a> and appendicitis, and my tonsilitis and alopecia \u2013 we made sure we visited doctors more regularly than we paid taxes. <\/span>\n\nMy father\u2019s mental math seemed to conclude that spending \u20b94,000 on the first three levels of Reiki was indeed wiser than having to maintain a directory of specialists. In a week within his training, we saw my pa starting to make weird circles (known as chakras) on various parts of his body and cupping both his hands over a painful limb to pass on warm energy that would activate some self-healing. By level two he\u2019d learnt how to give Reiki to others. For a family that usually scampered away like squirrels at the mere idea of exchanging \u201cI love you\u2019s\u201d or hugs, it was so refreshing to see my father cupping his hands over my mother\u2019s arm or amma\u2019s knee or my own sniffling nose. Each ailing part with every passing minute would gradually begin to feel perceptibly warm, under his hands \u2013 proof that something was changing for sure. <\/span>\n\nBy level three he was taught that energy can be passed on to inanimate objects as well. And thus began my ritual of waking him up prematurely before every Algebra quiz so he could mid-sleep-drooling draw a chakra over my head and cup his powerful hands over not only my brain but also my calculator. <\/span>\n\nWe had found the ultimate thuk patti. <\/span>\n\nOn another regular Sunday, we were all sitting around amma watching the daily soap. My chachi, however, wanted to see something else and asked my father to change the channel. He pressed the remote, but it seemed to be running out of battery. He did what any sensible human would do \u2013 hit the remote on all four sides. When that failed, my chachi looked over her spectacles and said to pa, \u201cYour daughter claims that you can make anything work with your Reiki, why not the remote then.\u201d <\/span>\n\nI eyed my dad to show her how it\u2019s done. He drew the familiar chakra and I quickly began to say three Hail Mary\u2019s under my breath. My father closed his hands around the cellophane-wrapped remote control, and shut his eyes. I was ready to go on to Hail Mary number four, and just then my father clicked a button, the channel switched and we saw Madhuri Dixit swinging her hips and dancing to a song about the many joys of off-season rains. <\/span>\n\nToday, after 20 years, I am more than 13,000 kilometres away from my family, as amma is being attached to life support in the same house. I choose to walk through the park over riding the bus, and on my way, I Skype with my father and ask him smilingly, why don\u2019t you give her a little Reiki. A little thuk patti goes a long way. He claims that he\u2019s long forgotten all of it. I cup my hand and hover it over my heart so he can see it through his phone screen and tell him: \u201cJust like that\u201d. <\/span>\n\nThe connection breaks off. But I can still feel something warm slowly building inside of me.<\/span>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Thuk patti is not just a temporary fix, it is a spot of amelioration. When my father left his parents\u2019 home, my grandma grudgingly agreed but not without thuk patti: We had to visit every Sunday.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":112,"featured_media":2275,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[25],"tags":[4583,4584,1712,19,2633,4585,4586,4587],"class_list":["post-2274","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-people","tag-cool-jobs","tag-families","tag-friends","tag-india","tag-indian-parents","tag-lingerie","tag-quick-fix","tag-thuk-patti"],"yoast_head":"\nBroken Bones to Broken Heart: My Family\u2019s \u201cThuk Patti\u201d Quick Fix for Everything<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Thuk patti is not just a temporary fix, it is a spot of amelioration. 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