The Chancellor of the Exchequer in the House of Commons recently stated that “the National Health Service is rightly the biggest reason most of us are proud to be British”.
India, on the other side of the former empire, does not have such caring net for all.
QUESTION: Of what, then, is an Indian to be proud? Yoga, rich cuisine, dances, music, languages, stone temples, chess, plays, mathematics, philosophy, multiple religious systems, Kho-Kho or Vastu?
ANSWER: An oven.
This may require context. A few years ago, an HR manager at my American company picked up perhaps from a TED Talk or Tiktok video how important it is to show employees that they are treasured. Presumably identical to the one sent to a hundred thousand of my colleagues, an email voucher for a small electrical appliance thus made its way to my Swiss town.
I decided to give my parents a microwave oven as theirs seemed to behave erratically at times. Besides, they did not need a kettle or a hairdryer. The device was duly delivered to the Indian heartland and occupied a kitchen corner uselessly for years.
A few weeks ago, an aunt’s microwave broke down. The news spread through the family network. Another aunt suggested that my mother pass on her unused microwave. Another aunt got involved and supported the idea. This was followed by the eldest uncle’s approval.
My dear mother was naturally for it — except that she worried that my sentiments might be hurt, for it had been a gift. She confided this to my brother.
He, a Surrey Boy as the Chancellor in the same speech named both the Leader of the Most Loyal Opposition and himself, suggested I would not possibly be disappointed at the oven changing hands.
But, to be certain, he called me up. I had, of course, forgotten the whole thing but confirmed his position immediately.
Seven separate households, thus far. Consensus reigns.
Now, the logistics. The aunt first mentioned — indeed, as all her siblings — is elderly and cannot be expected to lug a microwave around. My mother and an uncle each have access to a car and chauffeur. Both drivers, however, have troubles with their backs, and may not lift heavy objects.
Meanwhile, with the family dog ailing, I arrived for a visit. After a few days of disbelief, and assurances from multiple relatives that “the microwave was not a priority”, it was clear that the transfer was necessary. Not because of any food-cooking utility, but because the mental health of people I care about was involved. “If we do not send across the microwave soon, then she might think we do not really wish to part with it”.
After a visit to the vet, despite the table having been laid for lunch, therefore, I carried the oven to the car, sat in the backseat fiddling with my phone, and drove halfway across town. I took an iron-grill elevator and dropped off the microwave at my aunt’s on the third floor.
Another aunt lives on the seventh and I struggled with whether to intrude and say hello — I had not seen her either in many months. But I did not wish to deny my mother her lunch any longer — my entreaty to not wait for me would be ignored certainly.
But, but — the microwave had been moved. The news would soon spread and bring happiness beyond the one kitchen.
So, there we have the answer: an easily replaceable, mass-produced oven.
Yet it is not just an Indian answer.
A friend from Como assures me that the story could have transpired in Italy. Or perhaps anywhere, really.
Even more, that might be the only thing — whether evidenced by gratis medical services for millions or a trivial unasked kindness — that nations may truly be proud of: solidarity.
