To maintain decorum of this blog, the word ‘Politicians’ will be used in place of certain unwanted solids and liquids that leave a human body at regular intervals.
I am not a cleanliness freak. It takes meticulous, vigilant planning spanning months for me to get up and wipe dust off my laptop screen which looks as if it has been hit by a desert storm and I might unearth a camel’s carcass while cleaning it. So, I am fine with a bit of inherent laziness that seeps into my countrymen which vanishes with a sudden urge to jump on an empty seat in a bus as if it is a dead deer amidst gluttonous tigers. But I do not understand men who enter a washroom and let loose politicians anywhere other than the precise location they are supposed to go. And, no, I am not talking about men using the roadside facilities which resemble a concentration camp but men using sparkling clean washrooms in swanky high-rise offices.
While I was in Manchester for two years, I had to take precautions that no one noticed me going in and coming out of the washroom. I was not scared but ashamed. As my office was filled with fellow countrymen from various companies, the washrooms were filled with embarrassing notices like this –
“Please leave the toilet in a condition suitable for use by the next person”
The darned notice appeared on every door inside the washroom and stared at me every time I visited the best invention in the history of humans – The Loo.
Being in India, I was used to the indifference with which the wall loving Indian men treat the sophisticated commode. Yes, I have flushed the poor thing before he could cry his heart out on seeing his savior in me. Yes, I have picked up tissue and cleaned its rim, relieving it of the political remains of the sinner who has made unholy this greatest creation of mankind. If it was left to me, I would have worshipped a commode, shuddering with fear thinking of a life bereft of its company. Unfortunately, my fellow countrymen do not share my sentiments and molest the commode at every possible opportunity.
What really shocked the Bejesus out of me was that my countrymen carried their passions to foreign lands. They gave the British a taste of how alarmingly misguided their aims could be and the sparkling commodes of the developed nation could not believe their bad luck. Some of them went into a deep uncontrollable coma and refused to flush the politicians out, which lead to the icy notice on the doors. If commodes had legs, we would have witness thousands of them running and jumping off the island.
Mind you, these passionate countrymen were software engineers who would have shamed Gagan Narang in hitting the targets in their own homes in the fear of Ma breaking their necks. They were not rickshaw pullers, who have never seen a commode and might take it for a mini well. Still, they could not treat the foreign commodes with respect just because they were not a part of their families. Leaving aside the abused ones in India, the men left an irreplaceable scar on the minds of the commodes at onsite. Alas! There was no hope to reverse the damage. No psychiatrist deals with depressed commodes.
Why this apathy?
Why this indifference towards picking up a tissue and cleaning the results of your own aiming misadventures?
Why this coldness towards flushing, checking and flushing again?
Why this deep-rooted mindset that someone will do it for you?
Yes, we could be filthy and education has nothing to do with it, the same way education has nothing to do with female feticide and dowry deaths, the same way education has nothing to do with spitting on roads and jumping signals.
So, while I clean another commode, wiping its tears and promising it better times, I think about the men that would use it in the future without concern and sympathy and wonder when men would begin to acknowledge its importance and marvel at our best creation. There aren’t many things in life that are so pure and selfless, who can smile all the way while taking our shit. Where would we be if all the commodes muster a revolt? Do we have the stamina to dig the soil to bury politicians like the medieval armies did during wars? And what if you work on the 10th floor?
When would we understand that there cannot be a better friend?
When would we hug a commode for being there for us when the need of relieving the politicians was colossal?
When would we truly and genuinely come to love and respect the commode?
[image from here]