(Lack of) Hygiene Factors
It’s very encouraging when I see people who otherwise don’t have even basic shelter taking a bath in the morning under public pipes. After that one liner on broadly what’s hygiene for us, let me list my pet grouses and feel good.
The same set of people, whom I saw bathing (please don’t imagine me standing there and staring at those men) might have been defecating in the open if I’d decided to leave earlier or if their body clock was running slightly late. The debate on whether we have enough public loos can happen later, what matters is that shit happens, and all in the open.
If you’ve stayed in buildings which have lousy acoustics which carry sounds in all directions, then you will recall, sounds of “khhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaashhhhhhhhh” at various pitches, decibel levels, surs, taals emanating from all over in the morning. Men have the copyright on this sound, which for those who’re deaf or don’t have the IQ to understand what I’m saying’ refers to the art of expurgation that we Indians have mastered. It’s a potent force accompanied by sound that emanates from the base of the stomach and like a mini tornado seems to envelope everything from the the windpipe, the food pipe, the lungs, the five senses, the mind, the body and probably even the soul, in a cataclysmic churn. What emerges as end product may not be described here but the act is a war against the demons that might have entered or might have been generated in the system at night. There are multiple rounds of it that is exercised until the esophagus threatens to pop out. Women have their milder versions of this which instantly buries any modicum of feminine appeal that might have existed. A slightly different school of thought also believes in puking, vomiting as it’s technically called, so that bile and other contents which are too heavy to lug around are suitably donated to the sewers. This is usually done by inserting one’s own finger deep into the mouth or by listening to Himesh Reshammiya’s nasal twang (always work with me if I want to relieve the contents of my stomach). Someone from another culture who walks into any residential in the morning might think “Gosh they had one big party last night”.
While the BMC digs roads, we dig noses. The two acts never seem to stop and don’t seem to improve living conditions. They exist as acts in themselves which don’t have to be justified by reason. Both can be arbitrarily started and stopped and don’t give a damn about what others think. Nose digging is a loner’s delight and I’ve seen people sitting by the seaside just digging their nose all afternoon. These are self indulgent acts, almost like semi orgasm. There is a reverie or sorts that happens when that little finger works its way up the nasal passage and tries to retrieve that elusive piece of, for lack of a better term, gold. To make it really gross, people love to examine the spoils of their acts in detail, just in case they find divine providence in there. I’ve seen people clean up after this minute examination, if you know what I mean, on any piece of equipment that is nearby. So car bonnets, edges of seats, parapets, elevator walls anything goes. What’s worse, most believe this to be a civil act, being done in the larger interest of ones nose and humankind.
Men’s love for what’s under their underwear is legendary. It’s not surprising therefore to find guys indulge themselves in some scratch n adjustment of their prized possessions while in public. The obvious answer to why this happens is lack of hygiene, I feel there’s a different psyche to this. It comes out of sheer force of habit. Freud might argue that it also stems from a basic insecurity of whether one’s manhood is in place. Not to implicate just men, I’ve seen women do this too in public, to themselves that is. Not very frequently though (that might be limited by my powers of observation and my definition of not looking consciously to find these acts in women).
Now to the big one and I mean the mega one. This is the art of creating projectiles in the mouth and launching them in directions that one feels like. Sounds a bit like what Saddam did in 1991 but tell you what its worse. You can’t sentence people to death for this. Bus windows offer the right launching pad for most. The windows are right sized and there’s anonymity cos there are so many windows and one can get away with the act while in a moving bus, literally. It could have been anyone from the bus driver to that pretty face sitting right up front who spat on you as the bus passed you by. Trains and railway platforms in particular are another launching favorite. Even as millions wait for the Churchgate fast, they inundate the tracks with their offerings, usually with a frequency of atleast thrice a minute. The contents can be paan, gutkha or plain saliva which seems to always be in ample stock. The BMC has designated corners and nooks for spitting paan, these can be seen spit painted red and are maintained as heritage sites in honour of all those who spat hard to keep this national pastime alive.
The same set of people, whom I saw bathing (please don’t imagine me standing there and staring at those men) might have been defecating in the open if I’d decided to leave earlier or if their body clock was running slightly late. The debate on whether we have enough public loos can happen later, what matters is that shit happens, and all in the open.
If you’ve stayed in buildings which have lousy acoustics which carry sounds in all directions, then you will recall, sounds of “khhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaashhhhhhhhh” at various pitches, decibel levels, surs, taals emanating from all over in the morning. Men have the copyright on this sound, which for those who’re deaf or don’t have the IQ to understand what I’m saying’ refers to the art of expurgation that we Indians have mastered. It’s a potent force accompanied by sound that emanates from the base of the stomach and like a mini tornado seems to envelope everything from the the windpipe, the food pipe, the lungs, the five senses, the mind, the body and probably even the soul, in a cataclysmic churn. What emerges as end product may not be described here but the act is a war against the demons that might have entered or might have been generated in the system at night. There are multiple rounds of it that is exercised until the esophagus threatens to pop out. Women have their milder versions of this which instantly buries any modicum of feminine appeal that might have existed. A slightly different school of thought also believes in puking, vomiting as it’s technically called, so that bile and other contents which are too heavy to lug around are suitably donated to the sewers. This is usually done by inserting one’s own finger deep into the mouth or by listening to Himesh Reshammiya’s nasal twang (always work with me if I want to relieve the contents of my stomach). Someone from another culture who walks into any residential in the morning might think “Gosh they had one big party last night”.
While the BMC digs roads, we dig noses. The two acts never seem to stop and don’t seem to improve living conditions. They exist as acts in themselves which don’t have to be justified by reason. Both can be arbitrarily started and stopped and don’t give a damn about what others think. Nose digging is a loner’s delight and I’ve seen people sitting by the seaside just digging their nose all afternoon. These are self indulgent acts, almost like semi orgasm. There is a reverie or sorts that happens when that little finger works its way up the nasal passage and tries to retrieve that elusive piece of, for lack of a better term, gold. To make it really gross, people love to examine the spoils of their acts in detail, just in case they find divine providence in there. I’ve seen people clean up after this minute examination, if you know what I mean, on any piece of equipment that is nearby. So car bonnets, edges of seats, parapets, elevator walls anything goes. What’s worse, most believe this to be a civil act, being done in the larger interest of ones nose and humankind.
Men’s love for what’s under their underwear is legendary. It’s not surprising therefore to find guys indulge themselves in some scratch n adjustment of their prized possessions while in public. The obvious answer to why this happens is lack of hygiene, I feel there’s a different psyche to this. It comes out of sheer force of habit. Freud might argue that it also stems from a basic insecurity of whether one’s manhood is in place. Not to implicate just men, I’ve seen women do this too in public, to themselves that is. Not very frequently though (that might be limited by my powers of observation and my definition of not looking consciously to find these acts in women).
Now to the big one and I mean the mega one. This is the art of creating projectiles in the mouth and launching them in directions that one feels like. Sounds a bit like what Saddam did in 1991 but tell you what its worse. You can’t sentence people to death for this. Bus windows offer the right launching pad for most. The windows are right sized and there’s anonymity cos there are so many windows and one can get away with the act while in a moving bus, literally. It could have been anyone from the bus driver to that pretty face sitting right up front who spat on you as the bus passed you by. Trains and railway platforms in particular are another launching favorite. Even as millions wait for the Churchgate fast, they inundate the tracks with their offerings, usually with a frequency of atleast thrice a minute. The contents can be paan, gutkha or plain saliva which seems to always be in ample stock. The BMC has designated corners and nooks for spitting paan, these can be seen spit painted red and are maintained as heritage sites in honour of all those who spat hard to keep this national pastime alive.
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