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