Lost to the pot

My husband’s aunt used to tell us many tales, some of which, even if they were beyond belief, were all true and made us laugh.

The only daughter-in-law of the house, she used to tuck the bunch of keys to the most important almirah into her sari at the waist — the safest place and beyond the access of anyone. No one dared to come anywhere near there. But alas, one day something terrible happened.

Perhaps, a child had tugged at the bunch of keys and aunt had forgotten to tuck it back in properly, or she had been careless and not paid attention to the loose hanging bunch. When she rushed into the bathroom for quick relief, the bunch fell into you-know-where, and before she could say “Jack Robinson” she had flushed it outright without thought.

It was a calamity she could not share with anyone. Nonetheless, she had to inform a few servants so they could get the plumber who knew what to do — clean the bunch and hand it back to her. Until then, the toilet was out of commission and everyone had to share the only other one in the house or the one outdoors, which all and sundry used. Besides, without the keys, no almirah could be opened. The whole neighbourhood now knew what she wanted no one to know.

She told us this story only many years later when she could stand the agony and ‘shame’ and could laugh about it. All of us had a hearty laugh, too, certain that no such calamity awaited us as we needed no locked cupboard to have a bunch of keys for; such was our financial status.

Well, how did I think of it now? Because a similar incident happened the other day to one of my closest relatives, when we were on a two-day trip to Quebec. Everything was hunky-dory on the first day, seeing the Chateaux Frontenac at a height, the broad-bosomed River Lawrence and so on.

Next day, we were looking forward to another fruitful day of sightseeing. But we sensed that something was not quite right with this relative. Lo, our guess was right! After a little persuasion, she admitted that her phone, her lifeline as she was a doctor, had slipped from the back pocket of her jeans to you can guess where!

Luckily, she had retrieved it before anything ‘big’ could take place. And luckily again, she had not flushed it out. What a similar experience to my aunt’s, yet with many saving graces! Alas, despite the luck, the phone had got miserably wet and refused to work. She and others tried many recovery methods, even putting it in rice to absorb the water, but sadly it was dead.

Yesterday, after returning to our base, she bought a brand new phone which works very well, but brings back the sad memory of how the older one conked out. History had repeated itself at a greater cost this time. We didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.