Age Seven: A Festive Frolic, Castor Oil Conundrum, and aTumble-Phobia Tale

Amidst the luminous chaos of Deepavali in Raichur, where the air was thick with the scent of crackling fireworks and the promise of sugar-induced bliss, an eccentric family tradition emerged. Gathered in the hall like contestants on a whimsical game show, we, the unsuspecting kids, were subjected to a ceremonial head massage marathon orchestrated by none other than my great grandma. A small bowl of castor oil became her tool of choice, and, alas, I had the dubious honor of being the inaugural castor oil canvas.

Post this oily anointing, our feet became works of art, adorned with turmeric paste resembling a peculiar shade of sallow. Basking in the sun for an agonizing half-hour, we resembled a miniature troupe of turmeric-tinted sun-worshippers. The aftermath? A mad dash to the lone bathroom, where, armed with the swiftness of a swallow, I outpaced my bewildered cousins in the quest for post-sun-soaking cleanliness.

Emerging from this post-castor oil chic ordeal, we adorned ourselves in new attire and paraded through the household like royalty – not out of bumptiousness but a delightful surrender to the regal essence of post-castor oil elegance. The reward for enduring this peculiar pre-festival ritual? The joyous symphony of bursting crackers and a grand feast of sweets fit for jubilant kings and queens.

As the evening descended, a pilgrimage to the hilltop temple awaited, where the setting sun painted a mesmerizing canvas between twin peaks. A sight so picturesque that even the most seasoned artists would envy its capture. For me, it was a Kodak moment, albeit one that my seven-year-old self failed to comprehend.

Amidst the divine embrace of the temple, where prayers echoed, lamps flickered, bells resonated, and prasadam disappeared like fleeting dreams, a daunting journey downhill awaited. Darkness descended, and the specter of the nursery rhyme ‘Jack and Jill’ haunted my hesitant footsteps. Fearful of a Jack-like tumble, I clung to my dad’s hand as a lifeline.

Concerned about my nocturnal navigations, my dad, the worried parent, promptly scheduled an eye checkup. The ophthalmologist’s diagnosis unveiled a deficiency in the vitamin A department, prompting a routine of vitamin A pills. Naively, I embraced the belief that these pills held the magical cure, akin to antibiotics vanquishing a virus.

However, the plot twist awaited – Retinitis Pigmentosa. Mom, troubled by the doctor’s solemn prognosis, fretted about my future. Yet, in my blissfully ignorant seven-year-old world, the gravity of the situation eluded me, leaving the readers to unravel the conclusions of this peculiar chapter in the grand tapestry of my life. 🌟🕶️🚀