There is no way I can pass off the above picture as some remote celestial phenomenon in the offing, or in the throes of perdition. Every Indian, even if he does not know anything about the Constitution, knows his two everlasting rights, one of them being to spit, especially where a sign says precisely not to do so. And not just spit; make an art out of it. Make it even scientific, if you will. The locale, the colour, the contents of the spittle: they are all mastered. The reason why this art form, or sport, is not included in international events like the Olympics, the Asiad, the Commonwealth Games (CWG), etc., is merely because there is no competition to what was undivided India under the British Raj. The current CWG would have had its share in full regalia, had it not been for the fact that it has all but collapsed, and there is no real pleasure in spitting only on debris and broken pieces; broken, incomplete, imperfect constructions. One suggested target can be all of the involved corrupt CWG officials.
The guy who practised his art on my car, which, in humble appreciation, I photographed, and now, through this electronic medium, would put into circulation as far as it can go, as you can see, is not championship material. The bus which overtook our car from the wrong side caused this guy to miss our windshield by miles, and most of his offering fell by the wayside, with an insubstantial portion landing on my window glass. I am not going to carry out a forensic examination of its content, but I can definitely make a guess: betel leaf, 30%; betel nut, 30%; lime, 5%; phlegm, 10%; paan paraag with gutka and other miscellaneous masalas making up the excipients.
I realise that for my contribution I should take a picture at the locations most preferred for spitting: stair landings of offices and apartment buildings; and, of course, the urinals, and what else should I describe. Suffice it to say that, not being a man of honour, I quickly had it washed and cleansed with Dettol. Just like every time that it happens, I have not recovered fully from the dreaded possibility that it might land on some part of my person. On that note, shall we all now go and spit? (I have one confession to make: I do not know how to.)
Update: Anonymous wrote:
PLEASE SIR
i beg of you to start a column in at least The Hindu about this and other fundamental entitlements of all citizens of this nation of incorrect national anthem and false national emblem which ironically claims that truth alone prevails.
your words if they do not educate will at least entertain which is no mean feat in these grievous times.
2 comments:
Rameshbhai, only you can make a mountain of a molehill, and still make it rivetting interesting. Spitsville was Splitsville, had me in splits.
Actually, making a mountain out of a molehill is rarely, if ever, an exhilarating experience, especially when it is an outcome of a deep sense of inadequacy and futility; what makes it worthwhile, sometimes, is a comment like the one you sent me. That you emoted was fulfilling. Please continue doing so.
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