In India, every place is a toilet

The story starts with a full bladder and obviously the discomforts associated with it. Though it is not a new thing to happen, and, of course, everyone has undergone this grave painful and piteous state. Ranging from a boring classroom to a bumpy ride, during a meeting or perhaps amidst a matinee show- nature's call comes anywhere, anytime, unwarned and unnoticed. 

To start with the journey of a common man, (popularly known as aam admi), he suffers a lot with this. Not because he is diabetic or a urinal psychopath but simply for the fact that there are abundance of these common men in the nation. So, with a plethora of alike broods also comes a gush of wind. That lifts us up to the second level of the conversation, the talks about discharge. Just because every inflow brings with it an outflow, every lock carries with it a key similarly a common man's intake is sure to bounce back with an outflow tract. 

The first tale is of a high stature entrepreneur who got struck in this difficulty of transaction of body fluids way back on a first date. Oops! What a calamity. Let's know the story with sympathy and tolerance. So here he was, on table number three-o-one of a Chinese restaurant, dining with a new girl all set in black Raymonds. Impressive and pounding was he and the girl pulled in on him. They dined and marched out hand- in- hand. The chauffer brought the car and he escorted the girl in, popping behind her in anticipation. Half an hour later on the highway, barely five minutes from the girl's stop, he felt an unbearable urge to loosen himself, and with no options at hand, he asked the chauffer to pull up at the side. Off he went and drained himself out till the last drop and returned back to find an empty rear seat. Hard luck, Mr. Entrepreneur! 

In another similar account of hardship, an MLA got loo-struck during his wait for the rally's speech. Finding it difficult to withstand, he took off for the arroyo behind the stage. He was in the middle of his transition when his name was called upon on stage and in discombobulation and anxiety, he wetted his white linens. Hiding the stains he went on stage, wiping his fingers on the bumps. With an unhygienic wet feel inside the pajama, he started with his first words and as he signed off a few minutes later, the committee organizers stuffed his unwashed hands with ladoos and jalebis. Oh! poor MLA ji, you couldn't refuse the wet hands. The sweets, did they taste different? 

Now, let's proceed to a real encounter that I recently faced. I was at a friend's office, discussing a new business venture and laying out strategies to make profit and bag money in the coming months, when I felt nature's secret buzz. The biological call came exactly at the verge of contributing an idea to the discussion. Unwillingly and awkwardly, I had to excuse myself from the room. I descended the staircase and reached a tea stall on the road, asked a thin, fragile man the whereabouts of a toilet. He was busy smoking and hardly gave a response. Only I knew the state of pettiness and vulnerability. Again I mocked him politely from outside, but raging in the boiling water from within. "There," he signaled with his chin, tilting his head a little, "go behind that parked bus." 

"There?" I asked in aversion. "Isn't there a toilet around?" 

And this is what he replied, "In India, every man is a counselor, every direction is right and every place is a toilet."

*Read this blog on the webpage of TOI:

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/nri/contributors/contributions/udai-narayan-singh-bisht/In-India-every-place-is-a-toilet/articleshow/25324556.cms

On the roadside they sell cucumbers, not goodwill

I was upset with the hilly route. My stomach was whirling, intestines colliding against the walls of the abdomen and my chest cavity nauseated by the absorption of the emitting diesel smoke from the silencer just below my window pane. It was a tough time subduing the upheaval within me.

On the contrary, the cold moist wind was blowing against my face carrying tufts of hair in different turns with the bends. The far stretched mountains and the deep green valleys along the banks of the Ganga was something that I had not really seen much in the past many years. Indeed I was not just seeing it, rather also enjoying it. But had I been a bit less upset with the route, I would have absorbed more tranquility and solitude of the hills.

I was on my way to take a Personality Development program (PDP) in a government engineering college set amidst the hills of Gharwal, Uttarakhand; to be more precise I was heading to Pauri. My commute started at six in the morning for which I woke up at five and boarded the bus with an empty stomach, and that added more troubles to the journey. In the course of the travel I made my blames towards various departments and MLAs of my nation for the deteriorated road conditions and non AC terminals for this route.

It was at the exact verge of tolerance and discomfort that the bus halted for refreshment at the roadside dhabas. I felt relieved and the cyclone within me started settling. I lay semi-unconscious with my head back on the chair for a few minutes coping with the disorders coming to a halt. With the situation under control, I stepped down and looked sideways to fix my gaze back to normal. The streets were silent and the only possible heard noises were of the draining water streams from the rocks and the chattering crickets.

Along the roadside were small shops made in the cavity of the hills, sheltered under tarpaulins and old discarded advertisement hoardings. Old, feeble men and undernourished teens mounted there uncomfortably on their calves behind piles of cucumbers and lemonade glasses. Their anticipated gazes looked down at me and an old man understanding my piteous state offered me a cucumber. I went to his shop, splashed some fresh cold water of the rocks on my face and rinsed my mouth with the same. Thereafter, I accepted the fruit and with the first bite into the soft mush flavored with the salt of grinded spice and coriander leaves my anxiety of the route disappeared. Finishing it I asked for more, there was certainly immense improvement with it.

As I gathered myself back to normal, a group of bikers, foreigners, halted together near the vendors. Then in English mixed with heavy gestures and the local dialect they tried talking to them. From the best of my observance all I made out was an interrogation about a left back cell-phone and a camera. They moved from one counter to another speaking only words ‘WHITE’, ‘CAMERA’, ‘PHONE’ and other similar synonyms. Then in a matter of minutes an old shopkeeper, probably in his late sixties came running from the farther end of the street. In his hands with immense safety was a handbag clutched tightly, that read in bold ‘Adidas’. He halted before the tall white skinned man and with a sheer smile extended the bag to him. He told them that it was him who had just responded back to their phone call. They accepted the bag and without checking its contents hung it over their shoulder. Then they joined their hands in the Indian tradition and paid their tribute to the old man’s generosity. Their faces were happily lit. One of them extended a five hundred rupee note to the old man who refused to accept it saying in his mother tongue, “Hum sirf kakdi bechte hain sahib, emaan nahi. Yeh paise aap rakhiye maine inke liye mehnat kari hi nai.” (We just sell cucumbers sir, not our goodwill. You keep this money, I have not worked for it.)

Then as they sat back on their bike, kicked start and throttled past us, they kept their hands joined in respect to the old man’s honesty and kindness. The man also waved them off, his face lit with pride. In no less time the story of his benevolent deed exchanged lips and ears and he had already made himself an exemplary figure of the day. But, nothing else matched the satisfaction that he carried on his face back to his stall. Surely for him it had become a moment worth remembering for an entire lifespan, and passing on to his grandchildren as a story with a good moral of honesty.

My bus honked, and I climbed back to my seat. Though it was the same hilly route that had severely troubled me for the past few hours, but for now I carried with me immense strength from the old man’s deeds. I had started loving the place, and of course the route was an integral part of it. We passed the small cucumber and lemonade shops, and in my last gaze I carried with me their shabby clothes, wrinkled faces and pure hearts.

The way she looked back…

How can I ever forget?

The simmering dress, within which she was all wet

Like an angel descended from heaven,

Or perhaps Snow White accompanied with dwarfs seven.

The light rain and the road filled with golden maple leaves,

We trotted beneath the trees in the pre-monsoon eve.

How gracefully the rain hit her on the face,

And she wiped it so gently with grace.

Like a dove wiping her beak on its back,

She too splendidly did without a slightest lack.

Taking her hand over her head she motioned it clean,

And then set her hair behind the ear, like a queen.

We crossed each other face to face,

Like galaxies moving in space.

So fascinated I was with her simplicity,

And so was she equally pulled towards me like elasticity

Both looked deep in the eyes,

Those resembled the deep oceans and the infinite skies

Like the fixed pupils of a tigress,

Looking deep at the deer with hope, joy and calmness

It spiked our hearts as we passed by,

 Like a person with a dagger pierced, left to die.

The hearts skipped a beat, and the blood rushed

Surely both to themselves blushed.

I closed my fist in a punch,

And my senses alarmed for a response in a clench.

For me it definitely was a moment of joy,

One in all those days worth lived, and the hopes stood high!

Something within me said, “Hey, it worked!”

And again a heartbeat I ducked.

As if gravity stopped acting on me,

Some butterflies emerged and I felt so light and free.

Gathering all hopes I turned back on the golden street,

She kept going far with continuous steps in a fleet.

For a moment I doubted if she would turn back,

Perhaps this will all go in vain, and the good fortunes (as always) I’ll lack

But somewhere along the line those few seconds had cast a spell so deep and vast,

She was magnetized, and I was pulled back by a hook just-as-fast;

Oh! Then it all happened so clear and out,

She turned back, her lips arched with the same charm throughout

Curling a tuft she graciously tilted her head,

And lowered her eyes as she looked ahead

With narrowed eyes and endearing pink cheeks,

So smashing she looked in the contrast beneath the maple and the teaks.

She smiled and laughed, then blushed and ran,

And turned back again and again…

From the end of the road she gestured a bye,

Like a peacock fluttering on a rainy day under a rainbow so high..!

Listen, the hills are talking!

I fill my lungs completely with the cold oxygen that soothes the wind pipe and the entire tract as it paces downwards. Then I hold on and breathe again. This time I am able to inhale only quarter of the first breath. The lungs are about to burst.

Then with immense pressure I release it in a Whoooooooo! It brings out all my worries, illness and the inhaled impurities, making me feel fresh and lively. It is a sudden transformation, like an adrenalin rush through the entire body. I look around and see a plethora of pine and deciduous trees, spreading their spiking charms around the entire place. On the farther side in the North is the chain of the sky-touching Himalayas; their peaks mesmerizing the entire attention with the first rays of the morning sun. It is so different than the usual view of never ending line of houses- separated by pitch black streams with swines rolling in them- that can be seen from the top of clock tower, in Dehradun. I fell like never leaving this place of limitless green around me.

If you’re wondering where am I, I must tell you it’s Ghurdauri, Pauri, Gharwal, Uttarakhand. In case you still haven’t caught up then I suggest you to refer Google maps. What I am here for is another key issue. It is my passion for this particular task that brings me here, to render my services to the emerging technocrats of this nation. I am scheduled in the lap of Mother Nature for a two days personality development session in a government engineering college.

Connecting back to the dots of immense tranquility and solitude that I experience here, it urges me to appreciate the scenic beauty of the place. Though this place has lesser facilities than the high end cities of our nation but, the charm it carries in itself is far beyond comparison to any luxuries that you intent to possess by virtue of money.

5 Unparallel aspects of being here

1.     Foremost and undoubtedly ranking above all is the calmness of the place and the swift breeze that swipes your face with an august touch. The better experience comes over a moist face.

2.    If you’re a lazy person like me who doesn’t find time for yoga and other Baba Ramdev patents, then over your panting alone (in this non pollutant place) you can equalize a month’s anulom-vilom potential (carried in the polluted city air). In case you’re a voracious smoker, then there’s nothing better to service your lungs and quit the poison stick.

3.     If you’ve lived in hills during your childhood days then you know that there’s nothing more adventurous then bike-riding on the curves peeping down in the immense deep valley.

4.      Unlike the city, out of the many aspects another is the surplus drainage of water from the hills, filtered and added with the minerals of the Mother earth. It’s cold, sweet and undoubtedly pure than pure-it!

5.     And finally, as the day sets with the dusk you hear the crickets squeaking and hopping all around. The kit-kit-kit-kit; kit-kit-kit-KIT-KIT-KIT-kit-kit-kit it does was least heard in the past two decades.

The green pines and the crickets,

The pasture so relishing and the local midgets

It’s an accomplishment to be among them,

And to receive the cold wind wham

This beautiful valley, so vast and shallow,

With trees, herbs and countless mallow

It reminded me of as being child,

Memories now those are faded and mild

The morning winds and the heart robbing nature looks,

About which I had read a lot in books,

The swishing winds and the banshee hallucination,

In the pitch dark nights the fears of imaginary creation

Good to be here with people so loving,

Only the clock seems running

Something’s pulling me back for a stay,

Saying repeatedly, “Dare you think of going away.”