A Toilet Tale

 I was born and bred in Champapur. It’s a small village in western Odisha, but it was a shiftless old village when I grew up. In rainy days when Transformers would fail and electricity cut off, darkness would seize on the entire village as if it just had a brainfreeze. It would go on for months and nobody would give a fuck about it. Maybe they were the coolest people on earth. “Why me? Why not him? Why not them?”- That was the attitude. We were the ones to live under the rocks. And when sun hides behind the clouds, men and women would ingeminate their evening tradition of defecating in farmyards. Yes! We hated the toilets because the holes loved the fresh air. Women would wear red saree like it was a potty uniform. Men, well, a lungi and a towel would be overdressed. The children had the liberty to poop anywhere they like, but a well-mannered child would defecate in farmyards only. It was a unique feeling to relinquish the inner waste on the green grass. Sitting under the sky, unashamed, we even sat next to each other; it was our Café Coffee Day; we would gossip about the happenings of the day; we would go on bitching about him and them. Women would line up at the roadsides in the evening with a tiny water pot by their side. Men preferred pooping near ponds because they wouldn’t have to carry a pot to the site.

Although my house had a toilet, it was irresistible not pooping in public. It was like the best hangout place we got. Bulu was my best friend. He was a cunning little jackass whose primary interests lied in befooling gullible kids like me. He hated going schools. He would rather bunk it for playing cards with the high school guys. He never stopped encouraging me to go with him to their ‘addas’ but I would always refuse it because I feared my mother.

It was a late evening, cloudy sky already hinted that it was going to rain; Bulu showed up on our doorstep and signalled me to accompany him to the pond. Although I go to the farmyards very often, pond was a seldom event for me. But out of helplessness over his adamance, I had to escape from my home without telling my mother. We ran fast through the streets which had turned into red slop due to endless rain; we walked on the grass that has grown two feet high on the sidewalks. There was a freedom that I don’t get in today’s toilets. We could choose any place we liked to poop. We would have a Gallon of water in the pond to wash our ass. So we took a place and sat next to each other with our pants down to defecate. Bulu was an expert storyteller, a foxy prankster, who used to sing us made-up stories all the time. We were too naïve to detect his fake stories. That little bastard’s imagination could give Sir RR Martin a run for his money for his outstanding skill of storytelling. We would listen to him with utmost attention and get bewildered with their climaxes. It was almost dark and we were on the verge of finishing our defecational purpose; he tattled another of his fake legends.

I was about to wash my ass with the water from the pond, and he alarmed me with an old legend of the pond.

‘You can’t just go and wash your ass in there,’ he said in rather a cautionary tone. ‘What the fuck are you talking about,’ I replied, amused by his unexpected warning.

‘Haven’t you heard the old legend of this pond,’ he asked. ‘My ass doesn’t have time to hear about your stupid tale, you fathead!’ I replied out of irritation as it was drying up.

‘Okay, Don’t Blame me when your hands are paralysed after washing,’ he warned me.

I couldn’t resist but asked him about the fuss that he was making.

‘Kanhu’s mother committed suicide here. She was tortured by her husband because her family didn’t gift them a Luna as per their demand. She even caught him with Kalyan’s mother once. He would come home drunk every night and beat him with belt. She couldn’t bear it anymore and gave up her life here. Right there! Right where you are standing right now.’

I was standing stunned there, listening to another fake story. My dewy-eyed innocence had no other option but to believe him. With no idea what to say, I drank my own spit.

‘So what should I do then,’ I asked in a curious tone, eager to unlock the next part of the story.

‘Do you know why Hursi’s left arm is badly broken at the elbow? Did you ever notice his left arm was somewhat shorter than his right; it’s clearly visible when he stood or walked, he hid it from everyone?’ Bulu said.

Why? ‘Because Kanhu’s mother’s spirit still lives here. She was not satisfied when she died. So she attacks anyone who doesn’t obey her rules.’

‘What rules? What the fuck are you bulshitting me?’ I was panick-struck and irritated.

‘She was a left-hander. So she washed her butt with right hand. So, she wants you to do the same, disobeying which may get your left hand paralysed or even worse.’ Bulu warned me.

I grew up listening to ghost stories and I believed in them too much. Maybe I enjoyed it too much. The evening was getting darker by the second. Bulu’s tale has made the evening even more dark and scary. I had no choice but to listen to his fucking old legend. I gave him a constipated look, confused whether or not obeying Kanhu’s mother’s rule. I finally slipped in my foot in the water and washed my butt with my right hand.

Amidst the spine-chilling scene, I felt a sigh of relief.

As I was returning back to the bank of the pond, I noticed Bulu washing his butt in left hand. I was surprised and confused.

I ran to him and inquired him about it, ‘Hey…But you just used your left hand!’

‘Haha! You fool! I had never imagined you would buy my story’, he laughed so hard.

I was dumbfounded yet again by that little bastard.

Embarrassed by my stupidity, I stayed quiet while he went on laughing at me endlessly. I begged him not to tell my embarrassing incident to anyone. He agreed and asked me to stay chilled.

The next morning I went to school and got famous for being the fuckhead who washes his butt with the same hand he eats.

Ah! My unforgettable Childhood Memories!

Source of Inspiration Behind Reviving This Childhood Memory: My Loose Motion