Double-Roti-Biscuit

In my childhood, there were no antibiotics. Mortality rate of mothers and infants was at a very high rate. Had the penicillin been invented a little earlier than 1948 and come to the market well in time, my mother could have escaped her death at the age of 37 when I was in 6^th class. Mothers used to deliver many more to ensure survival of the few. My mother was not an exception. She had a score of eight; six male and two females. Two males and one female went back before their first birthday.

Mothers would mostly die of delivery for want of any gynecologist around and proper diet and medical facilities. Option for remarriage was open choice for the Pundit ji. To get a mother for his infant orphans used to be an excuse. Very often offspring from the new bride would be cause for miseries to the motherless orphans. Murran and a few villages around were the pockets readily available to wipe the tears of the widower.

Infant mortality was mostly due to chickenpox and smallpox besides other diseases. For want of antibiotics and other medical facilities the medical assistants with little education used to subject his patient to starvation until normal temperature would get restored. Temperature would not come down to normal before three to four weeks. After four weeks, the patient was put on ‘brinjabea’-(rice water). In case of static normalcy, a piece of bread was prescribed.

Those were the days when no bakery was around. I vividly remember the face of one Sardarji hawker who used to shout at the pitch of his voice: “Double-Roti-Biscuit”. The whole city was his area of operation. He was tall and slim with a desk type box on his head carrying doubleroti (bread) and biscuits. The box top had slope on either side. The top and sides were transparent through glass fittings. Sunken eyes of the patient reduced to skeleton due to starvation and prescribed a piece of bread after three weeks

of fasting used to be fixed on the door. His ears were eagerly awaiting and vibrating to the call “Double- Roti-Biscuit”.

Once in mid fifties, I was taken ill. I was on the treatment of Asli Hari Krishan, typist in the Education Department. For more than one week mixture prescribed remained ineffective. In the meantime a doonga trip to Tulmul matured. One litre mixture was taken along with as safeguard. It was presumed that once we reach Tulmul, a little of soil at the outlet of the spring water (Padh-feet of the deity), rubbed on my body would have a miraculous healing effect. A number of examples in support of the miracle were cited by those who were interested more in the trip than in my life and survival. Unfortunately the blind faith turned a myth and did not work. After three days stay when the doonga finally turned its back towards the deity for return, mutton was purchased from the nearby shop on the marshy land. It was a wonderful view through the water channel with paddy fields on either side. Fragrance of different dishes of meat was additional curse for me, the patient put on starvation. While crossing the River Sindh to go to the other side of the bank of the river Jhelum our doonga amidst the confluence was almost glued to the boat of a fisherman. The doonga was finally anchored at the ghat across Shadipore ghat to dress the fresh catch of fish purchased from the fishermen ferrying around the holy confluence of the river Jhelum and the Sindh. My temperature continued to be 101 degrees Fahrenheit, but my appetite for the fish could not be resisted any more. My father yielded to my cries and finally the fried fish leveled my temperature down below normal at 97 degrees Fahrenheit.  In view of my normal temperature the dinner at weir was no more denied to me. Roganjosh, keliae, meatch te muji gadea did miracle by the next morning. Today’s dollar salaried youth can’t imagine taste of the dishes prepared in terracotta ‘ledge’ on the flame of firewood. With the entry of the pressure cooker and LPG gas stoves in our household items, my father used to say: “Yeth ne pakh su gav na pakh.”(Any dish that is not given due simmer on gentle flame of firewood in an earthen pot, is not worth.” Next day the doonga was rowed through keteakoal to the river Jhelum and by 5 in the evening we were back to our swinging palace at Zaindar Mohalla.