“Sharing is caring” was an empty phrase to me. I did not like to share things as a child, especially food, and that included the lunch Ma packed for me every day to eat at school during recess. But I shared some anyway: not because I learnt the virtues of sharing but because I had learnt about nazar. It is actually called mukh laga in my culture, something that is guaranteed to wreak havoc in one’s life. Both my grandmothers, Nani as well as Aaita, were particularly concerned about it since I was a gluttonous child.
Mukh laga is triggered due to different reasons: a kid wolfing down her tiffin without sharing a morsel with classmates, a dual income family with a pucca house, a beautiful woman who is not humble about it… And the phenomenon is manifested in just as many ways: it can be something minor like an upset stomach or getting diarrhoea, and sometimes it can be as big as someone’s house burning down. Maybe that’s why my aunt had soothed my upset cousin back in the day when she started getting acne as a teenager. “A girl should not be too pretty; it is alright. Now you won’t draw much attention,” she said.
I still remember when we all woke up that night to the suffocating smoke of Lata’s house burning. Most of us neighbours had gathered on the street outside their house, watching; I saw the red flames become a tongue and eat up their chicken coops and then their kitchen. The dried paddy stalks on the roof of the kitchen burnt like how a meji burns during Magh Bihu. Once the uproar had calmed down and the fire department people had gone in with huge water hoses, someone had loudly whispered.
“They had it coming if you ask me. Didn’t they buy some land near the highway recently? Also their kid placed first in her class again this year, and they are not even humble about it.”
“Tell me about it. That Lata’s father, he goes around bragging about it everywhere. I walk the other way if I see him coming.”
My Aaita was apparently an expert in curing cases of mukh laga, especially the ones that caused minor reactions like diarrhoea, bloating, random aches and pains, etc. I would often see her hard at work whenever I visited her during school holidays and summer vacation. Neighbours would come with different problems, some she could not solve and she would ask them to go to the doctor just in case. Other times, she would pick up an inch of ginger, or sometimes a vial of mustard oil, mumble some mantra or dua over it and hand it over with utmost seriousness on her face. Ginger had to be eaten on an empty stomach, the oil had to be massaged thoroughly into the skin. Her treatments must have been very effective because she never lacked eggs or fruits which were what she collected as fees from her patients.
She would often hold me, mumbling something with her eyes creased and blowing all over me. She said I was too pretty, too cheeky, and the way I ate was too appetizing to watch. She fretted over the ire the child-me might draw from others. I remember that one time when I visited her in the village and my backpack was loaded with snacks my father had generously bought me on the way. And as soon as I reached Aaita’s house, I nearly leapt to the room I usually slept in and proceeded to stow it all on the highest part of the shelf there. I stood on a stool and then tiptoed to secure my fortune. In the following few days of my holiday there, I kept eating the lollies and biscuits with relish as I played with the kids from the neighbourhood. I did not think to share; their fathers could buy them food too if they wanted to eat. But one evening indeed ended with me whimpering from a stomach ache. A very bad episode of bloating and a dose of Aaita’s anointed ginger later, I fell ill with vomiting and diarrhoea. My mother was in the middle of her shift when she got the call, she yelled at me in a broken voice while rushing to come and get me. My parents had a falling out with Aaita and with each other over it. My father had stood for his mother while my health worker mother was enraged and derided the superstitious mother–son duo. All said and done, after I had recovered I resolved to become the number one humble child ever just in case.
The number one humble child remembered her lesson well into decades, that is until I woke up one night gasping for air. I don’t remember when my partner woke up and fetched my inhaler but when I came to myself, it was easier to breathe. I felt a hand soothingly yet strongly pressing along my back as my discomfort eased. Straightening my back, I smoothed the frown between my brows with my fingers.
“I indeed laughed a lot today at the party, don’t you think? What a thing to do and beckon misery…” I looked warily at Savi who looked annoyed.
“Yeah, right. You clearly got an asthma attack because you had too much fun in the evening today and it has absolutely nothing to do with forgetting to take your medicines.”
“I get what you are saying but I believe I have been too show-offy these days, haven’t I?”
A smack landed on my back.
“Why ask me if you know everything? Laugh, don’t laugh. Eat, don’t eat. Do what you want.” Showing her back, she promptly lay down to sleep.
Exasperated, I texted Jaya. My best friend responded almost immediately.
“Ay, don’t worry. You always work yourself up over nothing. Live loudly, who cares.” Her response read, closely followed by another string of “You deserve to show off a little at this stage. Also is it even showing off in the first place?”
“Really? You think so?”
“Of course. People’s envy means jackshit! Wouldn’t everyone go around being fancy and flaunting their power if they had some? You have been brainwashed, I am telling you.”
I was rarely convinced by Jaya’s assertions. I remembered something.
“Yeah, right. What do you have to say about that ‘travel and tell no one, live happily and tell no one’ bit?”
“In what world are they even the same thing? Own what you have earned, no? What point is there in presenting as lesser than you are?” I could imagine Jaya furiously typing away.
“Alright, alright. I will work on my self-esteem. Proud and loud, amirite?” I hoped my acquiescence would soothe her.
“Whatever! Go to sleep now. Do you really have this much time for nonsense mental gymnastics?” I could almost see her eye roll being conveyed through the screen.
I sent a “good night” and was about to turn off the screen when an “Adjust the settings to limit who can see your statuses on WhatsApp tho. We don’t want people knowing about us too much” popped up. This time I found myself rolling my eyes.
It was late at night. I made a note to change the app settings the first thing in the morning before sleep took me over.
Rini Sultana is from Rangia, Assam, and teaches English literature to undergraduate students. On weekends, she unwinds with anime and experiments with creative writing.
Instagram: @traversing_eccentricity
Featured photo by Imad Clicks (Pexels)
