The Thorn Tree Remedy

It all began ten years ago, in the dusty courtyard of our old ancestral house. My father, always fond of planting something new, brought home a sapling of the thohar tree—known in English as the thorn tree or euphorbia. It was a spindly little thing, hardly taller than my younger brother, and he planted it right by the wall with the same pride one might reserve for a prized rose bush.

None of us paid much attention to it. To us children, it was just another odd plant in a garden that already had more than enough. But my father was proud. He watered it carefully, shielded it from goats, and often admired how stubbornly it grew.

One afternoon, a friend of my father came visiting. He was the kind of man who never spoke without adding a sermon. The moment his eyes fell on the thohar plant, he began praising it as though it were a miracle sent down from the heavens.

“This plant,” he declared with dramatic authority, “is not just a plant. It is a healer. Its milk cures pain, its leaves have strength, its stem holds power. And do you know the greatest miracle? If someone suffers from a decayed tooth, a worm-eaten molar, or the unbearable agony of toothache, one need only soak a tiny piece of cotton in its milky sap and place it in the hollow tooth. Pain gone. Worm gone. Relief guaranteed!”

We listened, half in awe, half in disbelief. He leaned forward, lowering his voice like a magician revealing a secret.

“But beware,” he warned, wagging a finger. “Its milk must never—never—cross the throat. If it does… may God protect the poor soul. The consequences will be dire.”

That was the one lesson we children carried away. The warning echoed in our ears long after the man left.

As fate would have it, the very next day my mother suffered a throbbing toothache. Her molar had a cavity, and no home remedy had helped her. Remembering the visitor’s words, she decided to try the thohar. She broke off a leaf, squeezed out a few drops of the white sap, soaked a piece of cotton, and carefully pressed it into her tooth.

Within minutes, her pain vanished. It was nothing short of a miracle. She was overjoyed, and so were we.

But miracles don’t stay secrets for long in a village. First the neighbors heard. Then the neighbors’ neighbors. And within days, the tale of the thohar cure spread like wildfire. Soon, people from all over the village—and even beyond—began knocking at our door.

Thus began what we jokingly called “the free clinic.”

Day and night, people came clutching their jaws, grimacing in pain. Men, women, old grandmothers, little children—everyone wanted the magic cotton soaked in thohar milk. My mother became the local healer, her hands always busy tearing cotton, dipping it in sap, and pressing it into aching mouths. Each time, the patient would sigh in relief, bless her endlessly, and walk away smiling.

But our poor plant! Within a week, it had been stripped bare. Its leaves vanished, its branches snapped, and its once-proud figure looked like a goat-ravaged stump. Yet still, people kept coming.

The most unforgettable day arrived when an old woman appeared at our doorstep. She must have been seventy, perhaps more. Bent with age, leaning heavily on a stick, she had walked—or rather staggered—fifteen long kilometers to reach us.

Her face was twisted with pain, her jaw swollen, her voice trembling as she wailed, “Oh, my children, help me! My tooth will kill me before my sons do!”

My mother, with the calmness of a seasoned healer, nodded and prepared the remedy. She tore a leaf, squeezed the white sap, soaked the cotton, and placed it gently in the old woman’s tooth.

But in her hurry, my mother forgot the crucial warning: “Don’t swallow it.”

The old woman, poor soul, mistook it for a sweet, like jaggery or toffee. She began sucking at the cotton, rolling it around her mouth, enjoying its bitter sting as though it were some rare candy.

At first, nothing seemed wrong. Then suddenly, her face turned pale. She clutched her head, her body swayed, and with a groan she collapsed onto the cot.

“My God!” she cried in a piercing voice. “You people have poisoned me! You want to kill me! I’ll call my sons, I’ll call the police, you wicked people!”

The courtyard exploded with chaos. My mother froze, horrified. We children stood rooted, our hearts pounding. The neighbors, hearing the commotion, rushed over, whispering rumors that spread faster than fire.

My mother acted quickly. She poured cold water into the woman’s mouth, splashed her face, rubbed her hands. She brought out pickles, forced her to eat, then prepared a glass of sikanjbeen—a sweet-and-sour drink of sugar and vinegar—and made her sip it slowly.

Minutes dragged on like hours. The old woman lay motionless, groaning, her lips quivering. Then, at last, her eyelids fluttered open. She let out a long sigh, sat up slowly, and murmured, “Ah… the pain is gone.”

We all exhaled in relief.

Then, to our surprise, the woman burst into laughter. “Children, forgive me,” she said, her voice soft now. “The medicine was strong. I thought you were killing me, but look—the pain has left. God bless you.”

She kissed my mother’s hands, blessed each of us, and tottered off home, leaving behind both relief and an unforgettable memory.

That evening, when my father returned from work, my mother told him the whole story. He listened silently, his face serious. Then, without a word, he walked outside.

We watched as he dug up the thohar plant from its roots, dragged it to the field, and tossed it away.

“No more free clinic,” he said firmly. “Enough miracles, enough chaos. Let doctors be doctors, and let us remain farmers.”

And so ended the saga of the thorn tree remedy—a tale we still laugh about to this day, though my mother insists it was no laughing matter at all