The Inside Story: Unfurl that umbrella!

MY COUSIN Advaith is a strange guy. He’s tall and gangly. His legs seem to stretch right upto his shoulders. Is that because he’s from Shimla, which is in the sub-Himalayan foothills? Does the cold make you grow and grow and grow? He’s constantly muttering strange stuff under his breath. “What’s that?” I asked him yesterday. He blinked, then shrugged. “Nothing, pipsqueak,” he said in a superior 14-year-old way, “just composing a song in my head.”

Advaith is a whiz at the keyboards. He just listens to a song once, then plays it right off. Is that fair, when my fingers get entangled in the guitar strings every time I try to strum? He’s our guest right now because his Ma’s in America.

This morning, I rose before the sun did. All because of Advaith. “That’s the best time to go for a run,” he declared last night, almost getting under the blankets with his track shoes on. I had to stifle a giggle as I watched. What if he refused to let me run with him?

Huff-huff, pant-pant, sniff-sniff, I go, trying to keep pace with Advaith, two steps to every one of his. I don’t look up at the leaves or sky too much. What if I fall far behind? Will Advaith wait for me? That’s when I feel the first drops of rain on my forehead. “Advaith, shall we turn back?” I ask. “Rain can’t hurt you!” he says, never breaking his stride. “You go back, if you want to…”

So I do, sprinting extra hard for the porch before the skies began to pour. “Imagine running with an umbrella held over you!” laughs a voice in my ear as I tug off my wet shorts. It’s Iffy, my secret best friend, who’s appeared. 

An Egyptian god under an umbrella

 “Did you know that in ancient Egypt, umbrellas were considered to be symbols of power?” asks Iffy. I don’t. So, I quickly change into dry clothes, get under his invisibility cloak, and off we go to the banks of the Nile.

“Aren’t those carvings way out?” I say. Iffy replies, pointing to a figure, “Those ceremonial umbrellas were said to represent the dome of heaven. Look at that hieroglyph. Its umbrella-shape stood for a person’s shadow, which was said to have secret powers that could bring the spirit back to life!” 

Even as questions bubble in my mind, Iffy and I arrive in ancient China. Iffy looks at me sternly when I gawk at the chinky eyes and drooping moustaches around me. “Don’t laugh,” he scolds, “can’t you see they’re dead serious?”

And so they are. We watch Chinese processions walk by, each person under an umbrella of gem-studded gold cloth. Airborne, Iffy and I glimpse one emperor set out on a hunt. It’s so funny. Before him are 24 decorative umbrellas carried by servants, just to announce his presence! Drifting away, we arrive in Japan where the Mikado (the old title for the Emperor) steps out of his palace with a red umbrella, the symbol of absolute power, held before him.

“In the Orient,” explains Iffy, “the dome shape of the umbrella was said to symbolise the sky.” I look at the Mickey Mouse umbrella I clutch at. I’d never thought of it that way!

Ancient Greece is our next stop. Its priests step out for a ceremony, shaded by umbrellas. Iffy holds my hand as we take in a funeral, where the corpse is umbrella-covered. Why, I ask. “That’s to keep the sunlight pure,” Iffy tells me, “not to keep the body from decomposing.” I’d never have guessed.

In modern Europe, we find the umbrella was ignored till almost the 16^th century. “Because the women in Greece and Rome used lightweight umbrellas or sunshades, the men felt they’d be teased by their friends if they followed,” Iffy explains. “But that’s until the church adopted the umbrella. The Pope even declared that only he could confer the privilege on those he chose!” Even my rainbow-hued umbrella, I wonder. That’s nuts!

What were the early umbrellas made of? Iffy and I check out one of whalebone ribs strung on wire, covered with oil-soaked cotton. It’s awful, I whisper. “But that’s not all,” he replies, “it often let the rain drip through!”

Before long, we watch what’s happening in the London streets. One man has an acorn attached to the handle. “Since the acorn was sacred to the thunder god, he hopes it’ll protect him from lightning,” says Iffy. Another elderly figure holds an umbrella that doubles as a walking-stick.

But why’s that fashionable lady sniffing at her handle? I nudge Iffy. “It’s filled with perfume,” he replies, “while others held daggers, writing materials or even flasks.” Isn’t that fantastic?

Suddenly, we’re in 19^th century Scotland. I’m puzzled until Iffy ushers me into the writing room of Robert Louis Stevenson, as he pens ‘Treasure Island’. “He felt only ninnies and sissies carried umbrellas. Or those who were scared of falling ill,” Iffy tells me. “Others feared society would laugh at them for being too poor to afford a carriage.”

I know I’ve got to dash back home in time to get ready for school. But before that, Iffy takes me on a quick trip to Ethiopia, where priests carry the most gorgeous sunshades of red velvet with gold decorations during a ceremony. I’m so dumbstruck that I can’t say a word. But I burst into laughter when I watch a Frenchwoman in a tiny skirt walk through Paris yesterday under a see-through bubble that’s her umbrella.

I have a sudden urge to share our adventures with Advaith. But will he understand? I’ll have to figure that out as Iffy and I gently drift home under the shelter of my Mickey Mouse umbrella. And then he vanishes ~ until our next trip together.

The Inside Story: Are you worth your s-a-l-t?

WE ARE halfway through dinner at this swank hamburger joint when my cousin Sahir nudges my foot under the table. He’s caught our youngest aunt, all cool in her flared jeans and linen top, cooing to her fiancé in the manner of all foolish couples on TV. Sahir, on the verge of a gust of laughter, doesn’t want to be rude. He catches my eye, then gives me a fierce kick that almost takes my sneaker off. As I turn my head to catch them being comic, my elbow turns the salt cellar over, right into the bowl of ketchup!

“Throw a few grains of salt over your shoulder! That will keep evil spirits away,” shrieks my aunt superstitiously, jostled out of her dream world. Sahir and I pant with laughter. She’ll never guess what it’s about.

But why is salt so much a part of our daily lives, I wonder as we all drive home, each as stuffed as a tubby hamburger. “Like plants, human beings need salt as much as air and water,” whispers a voice under my anorak. “Without it, we’ll all die of dehydration…”

I recognize the voice. It’s Iffy, my secret best friend. Invisibly, clutching his hand tight, we flit away to find out more. “Isn’t it strange,” he says as we float over a laboratory, “that common salt or sodium chloride or NaCl is made up of two elements that are hardly life-supporting?”

 I shudder with fright as white-coated science students below us place some metallic sodium in water. It bursts into flames! Next, they place a cockroach under an upturned jar into which they release pure chlorine. I almost puke when it dies, as if poisoned.

”And yet, these two elements make up salt, which has made empires rise and fall,” notes Iffy.

What does he mean? “Some historians say that, wherever there was enough salt,” he continues, reading from a book taken from his gigantic pocket, “the rulers could govern well. Take Britain, which is surrounded by seas. But look at early Sudan, where southern tribes had gold mines, while those in the north had salt deposits…”

I gasp as we watch tall, lean warriors in colourful robes and every-coloured beads meet in central Sudan in those days. Each brought animal-loads of their precious commodity, placed in ceremonial heaps in the no-man’s land between them. With much bowing and scraping, amidst fierce, guttural calls, the salt and gold were traded, each tribe delighted to have some of the other.

“You mean they were worth the same then?” I ask, puzzled. Of course, nods Iffy.

Before I know it, we’re in ancient Rome, in the thick of queues of toga-clad citizens and armed soldiers. What on earth is going on? “They’re receiving their salarium or salt ration,” Iffy points to what each is collecting.

Then, like our English teacher, he drones on, “When folks began earning money instead of salt, that was called a salary. Remember the expression ‘to be worth one’s salt’? It means that you work hard enough to earn your pay…”

He tugs at my hand. We’re airborne once more. We watch as angry masses trigger the French Revolution. I turn away at the sight of the executions. Too bloody for me! “Did you know that a salt tax was one of the reasons for that uprising?” Iffy surprises me with this information. 

Mahatma Gandhi leads the Salt Satyagraha

 

“Just like the 1930 Salt Satyagraha, led by Mahatma Gandhi, in Indian history? Why did the British expect us to pay them for our own salt?” I exclaim, thinking of dreary afternoons in history class. Exactly, says Iffy.

“I know, I know, salt is used to season our foods. And to reserve them,” I show off to Iffy. “But that’s not all,” he responds.

Then, what is? “Salt is used in over 14,000 industrial processes,” he says, as we peer into plants that make chemicals. Then, to my amazement, we look at steel, glass, leather, plastics, and even colour TVs. I’m in shock.

There’s more to come on Iffy’s list of surprises. Hovering over icy Sweden in winter, we watch burly crews sprinkle salt on to melt ice and snow as they build roads. Suddenly, a hum catches my ear. Because we’re in an ice-cream plant, where rock salt is used to freeze that delicious, creamy treat.

“But won’t we use up all the world’s salt at this rate?” I ask with some fear, thinking of nations warring over petroleum.

“In 1970, over 150 million tonnes of salt were carved out of mines or evaporated from salt water. The US came up with a third of it. Though the world has produced almost double its earlier quantity of salt since 1960,” Iffy reassures me, “I don’t think we’ll run out of it for centuries.”

The edges of the Dead Sea are encrusted with salt

How can he be so sure? Winking at me, Iffy takes me on a whirlwind tour over the earth’s surface, over ripples of blue where dolphins and sharks jump and play through the waves. “That’s why, dumbo duck!” he mock-scolds me. “Because just the salt in those waters is probably over 100 million times what mankind uses every year.”

I pretend to faint, double over like a bag of salt over my sneakers, and imagine Iffy’s expression. But I keep my eyes shut tight.

When I open them, I’m safely back in my own bed, far away from the rumble of ocean waves. Sahir, hugging his favourite teddy, is fast asleep in our guest bed.

Should I tell him of our salt adventures when he’s up? Let me know when I stir awake in the morning, ok?

The Inside Story: Locks ~ The key to it all

“STUPID LOCKS! Who on earth invented them? Look at the mess we’re in now!” I stamp my foot outside our house, kick at the door, mad at being unable to find the right key. My parents, who are visiting my Didima, were sure my cousin Rohit and I could let ourselves in. After all, it’s only 4 p.m.

I empty out my schoolbag, but all I find are a clutter of pens, pencils, erasers, a tangle of string and too many textbooks for any one child. “Have you tried your pocket?” suggests Rohit. I stick my hand into my pinafore. And withdraw it sheepishly ~ with the key gripped tightly in my fist.

Rohit, who’s two years older, two inches taller, and almost smarter than me, offers to put together tea for us. He’s a whiz at baking, believe me! As I run up to my room to change into shorts and a T-shirt, a gentle breeze ruffles my hair, while a voice whispers, ”Do you know how old the oldest locks are?”

I hug Iffy, almost knocking him over. He’s my secret best friend, who’s appeared out of the blue. “Can we find out more about locks?” I beg him. Wordlessly, he wraps me in his invisibility cloak ~ and off we zoom.

Unusually, our first stop is a Bible showroom. What on earth are we doing here, I nudge Iffy. In response, he points out references to keys in the Isaiah passages. “They opened the oldest lock known to mankind, the pin-tumbler or Egyptian lock,” explains Iffy, as I gape at the rusty remains of the 3,000-year old contraption, found on the door of a palace in Khorsabad in Iraq.

In seconds, we zip over to look at some Egyptian carvings or bas reliefs dating back to 2000 BC. “Isn’t that a lock?” I point to a drawing in shock. Iffy nods. “These locks contained pins that kept the bolts from moving. When a brush-like key was put in, its pegs lifted the pins, unlocking the whole,” says Iffy. That’s cool!

Does that mean the ancient Greeks and Romans, who had a hand in everything clever, were left out? In a trice, Iffy and I frown over a bolt buried deep inside a door.
”That’s what the ancient Greeks used,” he says, “while the Romans came up with the ward lock…”

What’s that, I pester him. Peering into a strange-looking device, he answers, “Look, the wards or baffles project into the lock. Only a key to match the wards could unlock it.” Magically, he holds a tiny key on a ring out to me. “That could open a teeny-tiny lock the Romans invented,” he says mysteriously.

But we watch dozens of clever thieves pick the ward locks, common even in 18^th century Europe, with keys coated with wax to make duplicates. Not such a smart idea after all, I mutter.

“Watch this!” offers Iffy, as we catch up with Robert Barron, an Englishman who invented a lock with two tumblers in 1778. What’s a tumbler, I ask. “It’s a lever or pin whose position must be changed to open the lock,” Iffy tells me.

To my amazement, Iffy whizzes us off to London around 1790, where we watch a locksmith named Joseph Braman hang a notice in his shop window. It reads, “The Artist who can make an Instrument that will pick or Open this Lock shall Receive 200 Guineas the Moment it is produced. Applications in Writing Only.”

Then what happened, I wonder, intrigued by it all. “Braman’s design placed the slides, which kept the bolts in place, in a radial manner. It opened with a cylindrical key,” Iffy points out. For 60 years, even after Braman died, no one could best him.

Suddenly, we’re at London’s Great Exhibition of 1851. A New York locksmith named Alfred Charles Hobbs decided he would rise to the occasion. He worked on the lock for a few hours a day over a month ~ and then asked the Braman representatives over. What did they find? Their lock with its hasp open! My mouth hangs open at the sight.

           Iffy next takes me to visit Linus Yale, Jr., a painter who gave up on canvases to take up his father’s profession as a locksmith. In the 1850s, we watch him unlock all the best locks of his time, even the Parautopic Lock. “Guess what?” adds Iffy. “Often, he’d lock his own locks so that even their own keys proved useless.”

By 1861, Yale patented his cylinder lock. “It could be used on a door of any thickness, based on the Egyptian pin-tumbler principle,” explains Iffy. “These were mass produced, the world’s first unidentical objects thus turned out.” Isn’t that mind-boggling!

 

            As we hover close to our house, Iffy produces a bunch of strange locks. “Some locks today can be unlocked only by magnetic codes,” he says. “Others respond to small cards, which are actually electric circuits that trigger radio transmitters inside the lock. And very recently, there’s a lock that responds only to the sound of its owner’s voice.”

            “That lock would be perfect for me,” I shout out loud, as I reach home in time for Rohit’s scrumptious tea. But he hasn’t been with Iffy and me on our finding-out adventure. Should I tell him all about it? What do you think?

The Inside Story: Soap ~ a sudsy soak

Flower-shaped fancy soaps

LATHER, LATHER, all over me. Bother, bother, every morning. I’m trying to compose a non-rhyming poem ~ my teacher taught us about blank verse ~ so that I don’t have to think about being in the bath. That’s the part of the morning I hate the most. Scrubbing all over me with a loofah and soap, when I could be reading more of Enid Blyton and Jacqueline Wilson instead. Suddenly, my eyes begin to sting, my mouth shapes up for a scream. I’ve got some soapy bubbles in my eyes, and eaten some besides, as I wash by face. Yuck! That makes me cry.

I was pouring water all over me, trying to be brave, when my invisible friend Iffy arrives. “Hey! Soap’s caused loads of other problems down the years,” he whispers. Really? I stop towelling furiously, get my clothes on double-quick. And get set to join my secret best friend on a finding out adventure.

Our first stop is ancient Rome, after hovering over Greece. What do we see? “Iffy,” I pinch him. “Why are they having such strange baths? Was there no soap at all, then?”  True, he replies, for all they did was to scrape the dirt off themselves with a knife-like instrument. ‘That’s a strigil,” Iffy says.

But I can’t help laughing out loud as I watch them wash their togas. You know, those baggy dress-like garments belted at the waist? “Stop!” mutters Iffy. “They’ll hear you. The Romans just washed their togas in lye that’s made of wood ashes, steeped them in stinky urine or pee…” I hold my nose at the very thought. But Iffy continues, “Look, they’re treading on the garments with their feet, then rinsing them in clean water.” Why the  pee, I ask. That’s to bleach the cloth and protect the wearer from gout, the deposit of uric minerals at the joints that make movements painful, he explains.

As we drift from place to place, Iffy and I find that people long ago used plant juices that created lather, like soapwort, for a while. Then, to the marching of armies, we find the Gauls storming Rome. Their supplies included real soap. “Would you believe it if I told you that the Romans used to call the Gauls barbarians?” Iffy asks. I blink at the thought.

What was this basic soap made of? “Just tallow or animal fats, mixed with wood ashes or potash,” Iffy shows me. “The Gauls used it to keep their hair shiny, while the Romans found that it cured horrible sores.”

Off we go to the Dark Ages in Europe, when folks thought it was godly to be filthy. Whew! The stink almost bowls me over. Their skin is crusted with dirt, their hair with lice, and their sewers are overflowing. But from the 10^th century onwards, the upper classes decided they did not feel clean without a bubbly bath ~ and soap’s been a part of our lives ever since.

In the European Middle Ages, we watch candle-makers working on soap. Why them, I ask Iffy, puzzled. “Because they rendered fats and oils for candles, similar to what was needed for soap,” he responds.

A soap-cutting machine today

I try washing my hands with a bit of their soap, which was cut to order from a huge hunk at the shops. Ouch! It stings. So, soap remained a crude, harsh product till the 1830s or so. And then, the soap industry began to boom in both Europe and North America. “What about soaps like ours?” I want to know. “The first ones in wrappers, cut to small sizes, were made in Newburgh, New York, about 1830,” Iffy says.

How did soap come into our daily lives? Iffy points to a spiffy office in America. It’s an advertising agency. “They quickly made soap seem like something we couldn’t live without,” he says. And so, advertising transformed even the Lifebuoy soap, which was first kept with the family’s medicines, into a ‘health soap’ during the American influenza epidemic of 1918.

Why are some TV serials called soap operas, I ask. “That’s because soap products usually promoted these tear-jerking stories,” Iffy replies.

But what about environmental pollution from soap, I say, recalling all our weekly classes, which made us give up on crackers at Diwali because of the pollution. “That’s a huge problem,” Iffy says. “The first synthetic or non-natural soaps or detergents were non-biodegradable.” What’s that? Their bubbles could not be destroyed by sewage systems. So, mountains of foam grew in lakes, rivers and other water sources.

That’s awful, I think to myself. “But that’s not all of it,” Iffy continues. “These synthetic detergents were very popular because they could be used in hard water with a high mineral content, as well as in soft water. Often, other chemicals were added to the soaps, making them worse for our water bodies.”

Browsing the Net, Iffy and I find that Americans buy soaps and detergents worth over $2.2 billion a year! But will that make the Great Lakes vanish in a froth of bubbles, I wonder. That means each person there uses about 30.2 kg. of soap per head! The very thought makes me want to scream.

“I wish we could do something to stop Indians using so much soap,” I tell Iffy, though we don’t have figures on that yet.

Our soapy, sudsy adventure reminds me of my three-year-old cousin, Adil, who refuses to wash his hands ~ because they’ll only get dirty again, he says. I think he’s right. From tomorrow, I’m going to start on a campaign to persuade Amma not to use soap. But won’t she think it’s queer if my bar of soap lasts for over a year?

As Iffy and I rush back to my bedroom to pick up my schoolbag, I look around for a palette knife. I find two. I give one to Iffy. We’re going to use them to scrub the dirt off ourselves until we find an original strigil to do what the Romans did best. Are you on a strigil hunt, too?