From Pakistan’s Punjab: The Healing Ritual of Mustard Oil
- Huma K.
- Jul 29
- 3 min read
In the early chill of a Punjabi winter morning, before the sun fully climbs over the rooftops, a ritual unfolds quietly inside many homes: a bottle of mustard oil is set in a bowl of warm water or gently heated on the stove, its pungent scent soon mingling with the steam rising from chai. It is not just a smell but a signal of care, of healing, and of generations looking after each other in the most intimate, tactile way.
Growing up in a multigenerational household in Pakistan, I learned early that wellness was never something bought off a shelf. It was prepared in the kitchen, whispered in side conversations between aunties, and passed hand to hand in gestures that required no translation. And among the most enduring of those traditions was the sarson ka tel (mustard oil) massage.
Every winter, our grandmother would line up her grandchildren, sleeves rolled, oil warmed, and palms ready. She would rub the oil in strong circular motions on our chests, backs, and feet, always finishing with a blessing under her breath. According to her, the oil “sealed warmth into the bones” and kept colds away. The scent lingered for hours, as did the comfort.
But there was more to the ritual than just the oil. In many households, the oil is infused with crushed garlic or ajwain (carom seeds), both believed to have antimicrobial properties and enhance circulation. My aunt insists on using a small copper-bottomed pan to heat the mixture, claiming it “brings out the strength of the oil”.
In rural Punjab, I have witnessed older women place flat, cloth-wrapped bricks, heated by coal or firewood, on joints after an oil massage, especially for elders with arthritis or postpartum mothers.
"We didn’t know the word for ‘circulation’ or ‘inflammation,’" shares Amma Nazeeran, an 82-year-old retired midwife in my village. "But we knew how the body reacts to touch, to heat. We could feel what the body needed."
Sometimes, the remedy began even before the oil was prepared. When coughs or digestive discomfort surfaced in our home, someone would simmer clove, cardamom, and mint in a steel pot, creating a warm herbal steam to ease the throat and lungs.
These massages were never medicalized, but they were deeply functional. Children with coughs and colds were rubbed and wrapped. Pregnant women were given weekly oil rubs on their feet and backs. Newborns were bathed, then gently massaged to grow stronger. And for elders, it became part of care work: a way to soothe pain and restore dignity.
What fascinates me most is that this knowledge was rarely written or explained. You learned by watching, by being touched, and eventually by practicing it yourself.
My cousin, now a new mother, tells me she was surprised at how naturally she began massaging her infant with oil every evening. "It’s as if my hands remembered before I did," she laughs. "I saw it my whole life, and now I’m doing the same."
These rituals have persisted not because they were preserved in books, but because they were preserved in people. Even as urbanization, fast-paced routines, and Western wellness trends creep into our homes, the mustard oil bottle still stands by the stove each winter. It has changed form, perhaps, with some families switching to store-bought infused oils, or adapting the ritual to modern comforts, but its emotional core remains intact.
What continues to anchor this practice is not only its physical warmth but its emotional temperature. It’s the act of slowing down, touching someone with intention, and remembering where you come from. In my family, a winter without mustard oil massages would feel incomplete, like chai without cardamom, or a story without an ending.
In the end, it’s not just about the oil. It’s about the way it smells when mixed with garlic and memories. The way it softens the skin and carries the weight of countless winters. The way it warms, yes, but also connects.
