Reflecting on my family heirloom

Some families have jewels, lovingly passed down from generation to generation, shining gold watches and heavy jewelled necklaces designed to weigh down the flabbiest neck.

There was the tennis racket me and my sister shared. Indian families form a reliable section of the tennis racket purchasing market, albeit a sluggish one. One tennis racket is purchased by one family. It is then passed around reverentially from one plump Indian kid to the other. Stored in dusty cabinets for years upon years, because you never know - one day the British might invade again. And demand to play tennis.

There was the winter jacket my mother gave to us. One winter jacket is always purchased by one Indian family, usually furry with buttons the size of Frisbees. 

This is then passed reverentially down to the plump Indian youth who is Going Abroad (because as god and all tourists know, India is a Very Hot Tropical Country, rendering the winter coat useless here, except as a quick collector of dust). The plump Indian youth then sends home a sheaf of pictures of him standing proudly in front of the Statue of Liberty, wearing the aforementioned winter coat, his face glowing with sweat and sexual desire for white women.

One plump relative who works in the government is purchased by one Indian family. This relative goes on to collect many many, many sheets of typed upon paper. Mountains of it. These sheets without fail have one blank side. This blank side is spotted by the plump relative, and a light bulb pops above his head. He waddles home with the sheets stuffed under his already bursting shirt, and then fastidiously binds them together over a length of many days with miles of shoelaces. The blank sides can be used by the family! What if there’s a paper emergency?

Just in case
And lastly, one bottle of mangy hair oil (usually concocted with bits of elephant faeces and motherly love) is purchased by one Indian family. This stays on a particular shelf in the home till it is required. Suddenly the mother (or other miscellaneous female relative) takes a sharp look at the bowed head of the studying plump Indian child. Can it be! Yes it is! It is dandruff/lice/horse flesh on the unsuspecting child’s head! The motherly relative bellows to the young girl in the adjoining room, “Get me the hair oil!” It is pounded into the plump Indian child’s scalp until he is reduced to a heap on the floor, whimpering uselessly. But yes, after a short period of recuperation, he awakens with shiny healthy hair that billows in the wind, albeit with a death grip on his scalp. The hair has been to hell and back, and has been taught A Lesson.