<p class="bodytext">They say, “It takes a village to raise a child.” That thought came to me recently as I was refilling the spice jars in the kitchen and accidentally knocked over some salt. The tiny white grains scattered on the counter seemed to look up at me, asking if I still remembered the story I had heard as a child.</p>.<p class="bodytext">When I was growing up, whenever a child spilt salt, the elders would gently instruct them to dispose of it respectfully -- not in the dustbin or sink, but out in the garden. And if the child refused, a mild warning would follow: “On Doomsday, the angels will ask you to pick up every grain of salt with your eyelashes.”</p>.<p class="bodytext">As a child, I probably obeyed without questioning the logic behind those words. But what astounds me now is the ingenuity of our elders who came up with such ideas that beautifully teach the importance of respect— even <br />for something as ordinary as salt. <br />Back then, the lessons conveyed to children were not mere commands; they were nuggets of wisdom wrapped in stories that gave deep meaning to everyday actions.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Interesting narratives, it seems, were a part of the traditional parenting toolkit. Parents relied on them for the holistic training of children. For instance, when a child refused to eat food laid out on the spread, they would make the child understand why taking a few morsels of that unpopular dish is important, or else the food would feel hurt and might curse the child. The fear of being cursed by a food item worked wonders on innocent minds -- and even the least favourite dish was dutifully eaten. The idea ensured that any food somehow found its way to the stomach of even the tantrum-throwing young ones. Call it a clever trick if you will, but one must marvel at the beautiful way our elders instilled values without sounding patronising. A relative’s words were an antidote for avarice, as she once told me that repeated counting would reduce the money. To this day, her words echo more crisply than the rustle of currency notes whenever I feel compelled to count them.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Of course, there were times when patience wore thin and gentle storytelling—sometimes eloquent--gave way to stern admonitions and harsh one-liners. The people of my generation are well aware of the popular proclamation, ‘<span class="italic">Bey adab, bad naseeb</span>’ (best translated as the uncouth remains unblessed). This was a master stroke delivered with a certain wrath invited by those unmindful of the virtue of respect. The words wielded a great power; they could also acquire the form of a prophecy, a curse, and a notion of misfortune aimed at the one not enchanted by sweet stories.</p>
<p class="bodytext">They say, “It takes a village to raise a child.” That thought came to me recently as I was refilling the spice jars in the kitchen and accidentally knocked over some salt. The tiny white grains scattered on the counter seemed to look up at me, asking if I still remembered the story I had heard as a child.</p>.<p class="bodytext">When I was growing up, whenever a child spilt salt, the elders would gently instruct them to dispose of it respectfully -- not in the dustbin or sink, but out in the garden. And if the child refused, a mild warning would follow: “On Doomsday, the angels will ask you to pick up every grain of salt with your eyelashes.”</p>.<p class="bodytext">As a child, I probably obeyed without questioning the logic behind those words. But what astounds me now is the ingenuity of our elders who came up with such ideas that beautifully teach the importance of respect— even <br />for something as ordinary as salt. <br />Back then, the lessons conveyed to children were not mere commands; they were nuggets of wisdom wrapped in stories that gave deep meaning to everyday actions.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Interesting narratives, it seems, were a part of the traditional parenting toolkit. Parents relied on them for the holistic training of children. For instance, when a child refused to eat food laid out on the spread, they would make the child understand why taking a few morsels of that unpopular dish is important, or else the food would feel hurt and might curse the child. The fear of being cursed by a food item worked wonders on innocent minds -- and even the least favourite dish was dutifully eaten. The idea ensured that any food somehow found its way to the stomach of even the tantrum-throwing young ones. Call it a clever trick if you will, but one must marvel at the beautiful way our elders instilled values without sounding patronising. A relative’s words were an antidote for avarice, as she once told me that repeated counting would reduce the money. To this day, her words echo more crisply than the rustle of currency notes whenever I feel compelled to count them.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Of course, there were times when patience wore thin and gentle storytelling—sometimes eloquent--gave way to stern admonitions and harsh one-liners. The people of my generation are well aware of the popular proclamation, ‘<span class="italic">Bey adab, bad naseeb</span>’ (best translated as the uncouth remains unblessed). This was a master stroke delivered with a certain wrath invited by those unmindful of the virtue of respect. The words wielded a great power; they could also acquire the form of a prophecy, a curse, and a notion of misfortune aimed at the one not enchanted by sweet stories.</p>