‘Atishoo, atishoo!’ I sneezed. ‘Tissue, tissue!’ I heard a distorted echo and two boxes of tissues landed on my lap with a plop. A hand thrust a third box under my twitching nose the moment my auto jerked to an annoyed halt after a failed attempt to beat the traffic lights. It was a street vendor taking advantage of these moments of compulsory traffic stoppage to do some quick business at the traffic lights junction. His enterprising family was around, trying to sell various items.
The box under my nose set me off again, making the man drop it. Two sneezes later I heard him say, ‘Three big boxes, only a hundred rupees. Please take, Madam. Very cheap, very useful.’ I sniffed into my hanky. I'm a great believer in the good old handkerchief for wiping everything from snot to blood, soil, tears and sweat.
The paper tissue is the rage now, having edged out the faithful handkerchief with clever advertisements that touted the disposable napkin’s superior hygiene quotient. As far as historical evidence suggests, the kerchief originated in China in 1000 BC when the Zhou dynasty had its long innings. It was then used mostly to protect the head, but its fame spread and its potential for other uses made it a popular sartorial embellishment for the rich in Europe. Ladies flaunted their kerchiefs made of exquisite material in ancient Rome where games and races began at the drop of a lady’s delicate kerchief.
Originally known as kerchief, the word ‘hand’ was prefixed to it in the 16th century when people began using it to wipe their faces. It worked its way into dowry lists and sometimes led to tragedy, as evidenced by the famous story of Othello whose suspicion that his innocent wife was up to some hanky-panky when he discovered her handkerchief in another man’s possession led to deaths all around.
Handkerchiefs served as good luck charms, fashion accessories, status symbols, mementoes, gifts ( though in some parts of India there is a superstition that giving hankies as gifts severs the relationship; therefore a token amount of money should exchange hands too) and for advertising during election campaigns.
Who would believe a small piece of embroidered cloth can speak a language? Ask ingenious lovers who used the handkerchief to add a punch to their flirtatious moves. Interestingly, Queen Elizabeth I invented her own handkerchief language by creating a whole vocabulary of kerchief gestures to communicate in silent eloquence with her staff. Another brilliant innovation was during the World Wars. Aviators wore handkerchiefs around their necks that carried maps of the areas they were bombing; so if they were shot down, they had the escape route on their persons.
And then came the disposable paper tissue in the 1930s. Its telling slogan, ‘Don’t carry a cold in your pocket,’ did the trick. Health-conscious people promptly dropped the hanky from their hands and their shopping lists. But now, with scientists of various hues stating that the kerchief is a healthier and an ecologically friendlier alternative to the disposable paper tissue, things look brighter for the handkerchief.
‘I don’t want these,’ I protested. ‘Bye.’ ‘Buy, Madam, buy,’ the man implored. I gave up and said, ‘I’ll take one.’ But I had no change. Holding two boxes in one hand and waving a hundred rupee note with the other, I was about to request him to give me the remainder when the lights changed and the auto driver took off with a flourish.
‘Tissue!’ The man cried and ran across, paying scant attention to the vehicles now on the move. I heard the mad screeching of brakes as the man gave chase to my auto. ‘Stop!’ I said to the driver who snapped, ‘Are you crazy?’ The man, cheered by his family from the other side, sprinted like Usain Bolt and managed to reach abreast the auto which slowed down marginally. I still had the two boxes in one hand and the hundred rupee note in the other. He neatly plucked the hundred but my protests were drowned in the impatient honking of a big fat SUV right behind that forced my auto driver to accelerate.
On reaching home, I again hunted for change; then looked at the pile of tissue boxes. Reading my mind, the driver said, ‘paper cash, not paper tissues. And I have change.’ I paid him and spotting my environment-conscious husband open the door, left the boxes on the seat. ‘You can take the paper tissues too,’ I said and went in.
