Loo-baroo....

Bathrooms are generally considered areas of cleansing. Sadly, in a hostel, entering a bathroom entails a simultaneous feeling of increased dirtiness. Call it physical, psychological, philosophical or plain comical but the moment you set foot into a hostel sanitation area, you feel like all the plagues of Egypt descended upon you at the same time.

Consider my first hostel bathroom. It was truly posh, really. For one thing it was an actual room! (As in we had to take at least two steps to touch the opposite wall). Secondly it did not supply 'mineral' water that literally turned us into stalagmites if we stood under the flow of water for too long. (please note the use of "flow of water" as opposed to shower). But these virtues were overshadowed by the fatal hamartia of the Hanging Gardens of Underwear. Take this scenario: After a sweltering night, first thing you see when you enter the bathroom are rows of drying lingerie, this followed by the swarm of mosquitoes that the opened door stirred awake, while M.S' suprabhatam mocks you in musical amusement. I assure you such a welcome blinds one to the magic of space and decalicifying possibilities. Furthermore, the bathroom was attached- A cloaked killer that. Because you see, this meant that the person in the bed closest to the bathroom (me) bore the full brunt of the mosquitoes that were spawned in the damp reaches of the damned room. And my first hostel's bathroom was apparently the Big Apple of mosquito-dom. I am surprised I survived with any blood at all!

Times changed as did hostels, but bathrooms go on forever. Or not, considering that my in second hostel there was always a shortage or available cubicles in the morning when you desperately crave ablutions before battling the day. I made my inaugural bathroom entry with a bang: I dropped a detol bottle right in the middle of the place and it obligingly smashed into smithereens with an accompanying twash! This gained me the everlasting displeasure of most of the inmates thereafter. Well,the anus sanctum (that was the motto of the hostel, not a pun) came with luxurious effects of 4-5 bathing cubicles, even smaller toilets, 'mineral water' baths, live music (neighbouring bathroomers) and the eternal "excitement" regarding the fickleness of water supply. This last quality, by the way, is a constant in every hostel.

Some of the most awkward and hilarious (on hindsight) situations arise when the water stops halfway through whatever sanitary activity you are indulging in. Following such a misfortune the hapless individual will embark upon a series of hollers and yowls imploring the staff to PLEASE TURN THE MOTOR ON! which may or may not be heard (ignored) by the implorees. Tis a terrible fate indeed to be stuck in a waterless bathroom. Worse still if the bathroom in question already induces nausea and is rather claustrophobic to add to it. Funny in the future perhaps, but when you're you are marooned in a bathroom caked with soap and with merely a millimeter of water left in your bucket, nothing can be farther from humor. Another hostel bathroom constant is darkness. All the hostel bathrooms I have been exposed to have suffered from light shortage at some period or the other. And in the case of the Old Women's Hostel, we were perennially in the dark regarding whether there will ever be light. In many ways it is a blessing - at least you don't have to see what you might see. But it is rather funny considering it gives a whole new twist to the phrase "dark doings". Couple that with groping in the dark for the tap and you have a comic scene worthy of Laurel and Hardy.

There's nothing new about the New Women's Hostel's bathrooms. Same old water problems, same old faulty locks, same old dysfunctional light bulbs. But what is different is that the users love to leave behind memories of their presence in the form of shampoo sachets, plastic covers, newspapers and often rather vile things I'd rather not defile the blog by naming. As the law abiding pacifist proletariat we went to the authorities and got zilch. Which is when, in true University spirit,the the posters went up. The revolutionary literature was posted on bathroom doors in eloquent terms running along the lines of " Pull the flush!" and "Get toilet trained!" Surprisingly enough the posters did have an effect. For a while. Sigh.

I remember telling my mother that I wanted to take pictures of the bathrooms at home, just so I can remember that clean, pretty bathrooms do exist and the parryware ads aren't full of s***t. This declaration was greeted with incredulous laughter, of course. Either way, I am sure that this is a memorable experience. And I'm pretty sure it has inured me to a great deal of trauma. At some point of time when I am stranded in the slums of Sumatra, I wont be challenged by the terrifying toilets. So I guess there's no harm done. If nothing else the bad bathrooms have become an investment in mirth: so it's all worth it. :D

The Rite

Kalyani's heart cringed at the thought of what awaited her smiling daughter. The unfairness of it all galled her fine sensibilities. Her daughter was much too young, much too happy for this!. It isn't right! she thought vehemently, as she glanced at the group of adults cosseting her little girl. She is just a child, a baby! The centre of attention laughed unaware that this attention was only because they too knew what was going to happen,and knew that she needed to be lulled into safety before the inevitable needle prick that awaited her. The injustice of it all left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Saro placed a hand on Kalyani's shoulder, "It is time, mole." Kalyani shot a pained glance at her mother and stiffened her spine. She had to do this, it was tradition. Her daughter would thank her later. The cooing group parted like the Red Sea at her approach. She shared a speaking glance with Shantam who calmly held out the tiny earings as Kalyani lifted her startled daughter in her arms. The child looked up at her questioningly for a moment, but the rising question was submerged in the deluge of trust that gurgled forth from her lips, spreading into a smile of unblemished faith. And Kalyani's heart broke into a thousand pieces: She was going to shatter that unquestioning trust today. Dredging up a smile for her daughter's benefit Kalyani walked through the darkened portals.

The Nurse looked up from her tray and smiled reassuringly. "Have you marked her?" she asked.
Kalyani managed a nod. Her daughter chose that moment to release a happy giggle, making Kalyani's knotted insides shrivel. The Nurse took one look at her tortured visage and quickly held out her arms. "Come, let me take her through this , you wait outside." Kalyani looked down at her laughing daughter and knew she couldn't see what was going to happen to her. In that moment of weakness she gave up her child, her baby into alien arms. The child laughed happily at the mild change in height, her sparkling exuberance spreading itself even into the business-like nurse who unbent enough to coo soft words to her and bounce her about. Kalyani turned away unable to face the waiting pain. As the nurse walked away, she listened against her will to the fading laughter of her little girl. She heard a door close but she could still hear the laughter, light and naive. Her daughter would be in the room now-There was another burst of laughter-they would hold her firmly so she wouldn't flinch and dislodge the equipment- a little giggle and some chatter-They would lower the needle onto her tender skin and--

SCRREEEEEEEEECCCCHHHHH!!!!!

The scream rent the air like tearing silk, all the more gruesome because of the mirth that preceded it. Kalyani's fingernails dug crescents into her palms as she willed herself not to run to her daughters rescue. The screams went on an on, first plaintive, then angry, never stopping. At long painful last the nurse returned with her crying daughter who looked up at her with her large wet eyes full of reproach. Kalyani swallowed and gathered her up in her arms trying to soothe her. I'm so very sorry kanna. So so sorry.
She cleared her throat and faced the nurse, "Did she give you too much trouble?"
The nurse, who had lost a great amount of her cool matter-of-fact calm, was trying ineffectually to recapture several escaped strands of hair. She shot a mildly desperate and partly amused glance at the crying child and shook her head in disbelief.

"Trouble? Oh madam, it is only because she didn't know what we were doing that we managed to pierce the first ear properly. The second one is definitely off! She wouldn't let the needle anywhere near her! She's going to be a difficult one! So angry, my God!"

Sure enough, one ear lobe sported a piercing much lower than the marked spot. Kalyani smiled indulgently. If at 28 days her daughter was fighter, perhaps at 28 she will be even better. If she can fight this little pain with such vehemence, may be the greater pains will be kept at bay too. Kalyani looked down at her baby daughter who had cried herself to angry sleep, the tiny golden earings glowing in the dim light of the hospital corridor and prayed for happy times.

It isn't fair.
Really.
Everytime I look at you I am reminded of what I'm supposed to do. The World According to me must constantly be replenished. But what do I do when the world , according to me, is refusing to let me replenish it. For one thing there is work. For another, there is angst. When, beloved blog, did you transcend from distraction to duty? I do not know whether this transcendence is benevolent; for love is demanding. By it s very nature it cannot but peirce you to do right by it.

And so, I pen this seemingly pointless missive, delivered on the binary coded wings of cyberspace pigeons and sincerely apologise. Every day I look at you and wish I could. But I ask you, with humble hope of acceptance, to wait awhile.

I will return.

Hostel Humbug-II

In my long career as a hostelite, I have learned that every hopeful rookie must expect to have to go through “tests” and interviews prior to admission. Most of these tests usually involved the wardens of these esteemed sanctuaries interrogating me on the values of values, the inflexible nature of the rules of the institution (which often seemed to resemble particularly limber gymnasts) and stern threats of eviction and other dire consequences if one so much as put a sliver of the toe-nail of your littlest toe out of line (which meant displease Her Majesty, the Warden.) The rookie’s job is to look like a complying doormat – contrite and vaguely guilty for being dirty.

With experiences like these to contend with, it was not surprising that I found the University Hostels’ lack of such procedure dubious, to say the least. Un peu disconcerting. All that built up adrenalin for nothing. Or so I thought. Within a fleeting minute of stepping through the peeling portals of The Old Women’s Hostel, the deceptively docile reception morphed into monstrous hydra. Ok may be not so much. It suffices to say that our experiences in the Old Women’s Hostel aged us considerably. Four months of freedom later we, “the stragglers in the desert”, to borrow a phrase from the great Ezra Pound who consumed the greater part of our minds and our collective sanity during the past semester, straggled back to the University and its questionable charms.

The glaring construction pits and sand scabs that scarred the face of the campus faded in the glow of the million megawatt smiles adorning reunited comrades and collective happiness. Of course the lights dimmed drastically when we faced our prospective quarters. The New Women’s Hostel, magnificent in its towering facade should by all rights have been a step up from our Old days. However the step up was several storeys up in this case. Pair this with gargantuan luggage that needed to be transported up three flights, minus the benevolent charity of an elevator, and we have a winner for spontaneous hyper-tension. While all this was manageable - given the efficient training dealt out by the Old Women's Hostel - trudging three flights on a sweltering monsoon day, tugging about 5kgs worth of luggage; only to find a locked room because the squatter who was assigned to your room happily scooted off with the only key, pushed the author clean off the edge of sanity. Several minutes of screaming later the rest of the luggage was herded, by which time the author was too exhausted to commit murder (which explains the presence of aforementioned squatter in good health).

Given such an...interesting entry, it is only natural that the future would bear similar fruit. The New Women’s Hostel comes with its own background music- drills and construction work noises, accentuated by the screams of hapless inmates skidding down the permanently wet bathroom floors followed by the inevitable crash. You see, ever since the University began employing the supremely intelligent scheme of filling every square inch of destroyable land with building, sunlight and ventilation have become scarce entities. And for the same reason, any drenched surface has all possibility of remaining that way for a very, very long time. But the New L.H is technologically empowered! It has three non-functioning fridges and one sort of working washing machine! Plus, because any movement to the Outside will require a battle with the killer stairs, students naturally gravitate towards rest and never leave the room at all for fear of converting all that potential energy into something else. The New L.H is also the preferred abode of the Doggy Matriarch in training, Chaka; who is all set to take over the mantle from Sundari. We have yet again taken to locking our rooms at all times so as to avoid canine visitors.

Be that as it may, the New L.H is not a hell-hole. For one thing it offers us the unimaginable luxury of only two to a room. Similarly, it is also equipped with Godrej Cupboards, as opposed to pokey little fake-wood whatnot that used to adorn our Older abode. And all said and done it is truly palatial in comparison to the ghettos in which our male brethren reside. After all, how can one find fault with our lovely living quarters when our comrades live four to a two-seater and have liquids of dubious nature dripping into their domestic area. The University takes trouble to teach its students the value of perspective. And they are not averse to making their students susceptible to diseases with and without names in the pursuit of this greater goal. Ah what an enlightened batch we are, that we have the good fortune of living through such times where the contractor can ‘forget’ to build bathrooms in the Boy’s Hostel and the management brings out the innovative suggestion of ‘mobile toilets’ – a scenario that most sentient beings would shy away from in horror. With such training, we will forever appreciate the little things in life. Like sanitation. Or silence, for that matter. After all we are alive.

For how long and how sane, is the question.

Cynic Romantic

There is a fine line between love and hate
For love is not what they say it is.
It is a cancer in the soul of the soul
That consumes itself while multiplying

Love is no joyful glory
That beams out in happy streams
It bleeds in unloving loving
Red and gray and black and green

There is a fine line between love and hate
For what is love but the happy hate?
The same as hate but only lighter-
For it hopes to survive in goodness
While the other glories in truth.

On His Baldness. Extended Version.

This post is a reply to several queries defending my brothers hairscapades. Perhaps this will suitably illustrate the point I tried to make previously.

My brother has reached that stage in life where he is interested in his reflection. It is a highly disconcerting feeling for the rest of the family to notice the “baby” suddenly lifting weights, obsessing about oily food and haircuts, and generally being “the dude”. Most of it was alright, often good too. But it was the hair factor that killed us.
At first it was hilarious, then slightly amusing, and then completely exasperating. You see, my brother couldn’t be like other brothers and simply walk around looking like a partly denuded porcupine. Nooooo. His speciality was an obsession with his hairline. One fine afternoon, lightly dozing after lunch, the family was caught unawares when my brother announced, a la tragic hero declaring impending doom, “I’m going bald.”
We laughed and laughed. And he was very offended.
Hey, you can’t blame us! Blessed with a veritable jungle on his head, it took more than your average stretch of the imagination to notice any baldness. Everyday he’d he would point out a small indentation in his hairline and insist that recession happened (forgive the pun it was much too delicious an opportunity). It was when he began to tally hairs lost, that things began to get truly irritating. And admittedly entertaining as well. Family jokes on how he should get “Gulfgate” done, ran rampant. What was truly disturbing was that he actually took us seriously when we said this.
Several hair-brained ideas on hair loss later, we had the good fortune of going to Tirupathi. It is a known fact that one of the major prayer offerings there is one’s own hair. At the sight of all those bald heads my father had the brilliant idea of getting his son to go through with it as well (I offered, but we already know the family’s take on my hair length reduction schemes. [Humph!]). My brother had his misgivings but they were all demolished with a single sentence from the wily barber who was plying the razor. “Your hair will grow doubly thick.” He declared, pointing to his own shock of pitch black hair. Given such virulent proof, my brother bowed his head to the razor, doubts assuaged. True, the reflection in the mirror took some getting used to; but the pros outran the cons by miles. For one thing, the concept of combing was conveniently canned, as was the irritation of what another friend baldly described as “three pounds of mess” on one’s cranium. And with all due credit to the razor-man, the new hair growth did resemble a jungle (of course it always did, but in my brothers eyes there was ‘improvement’).
The gentle, logical reader may decide that this would spell a happy end to our hair-shirt days. But, as mentioned once upon a time in an earlier entry, my family –much like myself– defies all logic. My brother now spends half the year railing against his baldness and the other half requesting to go bald. And the sound you hear in the background is the hapless sister banging her head against the nearest hard surface.
You try figuring him out!

Ice-quake

Sue looked up from her scrabble board.

“I finished one all by myself” said Raju
“Hmm... then it shouldn’t be too large.” Mused Sue, ignoring her nephews indignant sputters at the slight against his appetite. She raised her white head to the challenge. It was called Earthquake.

The siege was planned. And the Earthquake shivered silently within the frozen reaches of Dasa’s Ice cream Parlour– A site of several previous battles. One fateful afternoon, bringing along her vaguely disinclined comrade in arms Kochu and their ever willing ice cream hunting squire the young Kalyani, Sue set off to vanquish the Earthquake. Unfortunately, the price list dealt a huge blow to their morale. The Earthquake was an expensive affair and the funds were stretched. But Kalyani, ever smiling, martyred her taste bud nirvana in favour of a commonplace sundae. That matter settled, they turned to the expressionless waiter at their side.

“Two Earthquakes.” Sue declared.
A frisson of incredulousness passed over the waiter’s face.
“Two, ma’am?”
‘Yes, two.”
The waiter seemed inclined to clean his ears vigorously “Two ma’am? Are you sure? Two?”
The show of disbelief shook the steady confidence of the duo. May be this wasn’t such a good idea...
But Sue scoffed at those fears. No ice cream was beyond them. “Two it is!” she said decisively.
“Two it is.” The waiter agreed shaking his head in disbelief.

“Er.. Sue, I’m having a few doubts here...”faltered Kochu looking at the departing waiter
“Oh come Kochu, where is your spirit! How can you say no to ice cream?!”
Which is when their order arrived, and promptly gave Kochu a few more gray hairs.

The Earthquake should have been called the Avalanche. One Earthquake consisted of twelve scoops of ice cream in various flavours, topped with barrels of nuts, buried under oodles of caramel, augmented by a blanket of tutti-frooti and surrounded by a moat of chocolate sauce.

And they had ordered two.

As the waiter tottered under the weight of the two mountains he carried and attempted to heft them on to the poor table, Kochu shot accusing glances at Sue who tried to look like she was totally in control of the situation. The waiter, task accomplished, mopped his brow and smiled. “The shop is open all night. Take your time.”
The minute the waiter retreated to nurse his aching biceps the duo put their heads together.

“Sue I told you this wasn’t a good idea!”
“Hey I didn’t know that this was going to be such a giant!”
“Didn’t the name give you a hint?”
“What’s wrong?” interrupted Kalyani, innocently nyumming her sundae. “I’m sure you can finish it.”

Such faith revived their flagging spirits. They had to live up to their squire’s expectations. And thus the battle began. All the waiters had gathered to witness the great battle. While Sue systematically demolished scoop after scoop, Kochu decided to massacre the lot in one go. However, neither method nor madness spelt victory. The end of half an hour saw Sue with a frozen tongue and Kochu with a plate which looked like she had butchered a madly struggling ice cream cow on it. But Kalyani continued to watch, smiling encouragingly. When Sue’s tongue refused to feel a fork being thrust into its frosted skin, they had to admit defeat.

“Thalyani I’m tho thorry ...” Sue lisped listlessly, her voice whispering from in between the icicles that hung from her teeth.
“We can’t do this!” groaned Kochu throwing down her spoon with a splatter.

Gasp! The waiters put their hands to the mouths, shook their heads in mute sorrow and disbanded. While Kalyani tried to swallow this impossible piece of information, Sue tried valiantly to swallow one more mouthful of ice cream before her mouth froze shut and Kochu made more of a mess on her plate.

“Tho thad... all thith ithe cream ith wathted...” thighed..er.. sighed Sue.

Which is when their squire’s brilliance illuminated the hall. “I’ll run across to the store and get some lunch boxes!”

Sue and Kochu’s clammy visages thawed at this ray of hope. Kalyani was quickly dispatched to the nearest plastic dabba shop. While the duo waited with desperate hope, a waiting waiter spoke up. “Your valour is great and your daring greater still. But how could you presume to defeat two Earthquakes! A single earthquake itself is meant for twelve people!”

Sue and Kochu exchanged embarrassed glances. They could not admit that their recon work had been so faulty. Then Sue’s brilliant creativity kicked in. “It wath a bet!” she declared, nudging Kochu vigorously to jog her cranium.
“Wha – er... ah... yes. A bet. Our nephew...er... niece... um...uncle...I mean...”

Meanwhile Kalyani had returned to save the day. The remaining mountain of ice cream was shovelled into the boxes and the trio beat a hasty retreat to defrost their faces and assuage their bruised egos from the onslaught of the Earthquakes. To this day Sue and Kochu shiver at the memory of the ice cream King.