True story. JWT in the 1960s.
He (I won't disclose his name) was always well turned out; freshly laundered shirts
every day, red necktie (striped or checked but always red) and pin-striped
trousers. He said he would have liked to wear a pin-striped suit to work every
day, but that would be overdoing it, he thought.
Being well-dressed was not a vanity, he said; it was
necessitated by his particular health condition. Flatulence. Vayu, he called it; of the most stubborn
and aggressive kind. It was as if he was given bellows for bowels, he told us
with head lowered as if to be modest about a rare personal gift. His ‘bellows’
worked continuously, at all times; something he could not control. Fortunately,
he was blessed with a robust sphincter as well, which was able to regulate the
velocity and decibel level of the ejected vayu.
At home, when showing off to his wife or entertaining his two little ones, he
could play it like a slide trombone, producing an impressive glissando from a resonant G on the bass
clef to a nice thin C# two octaves higher. This was as told him by his musician
neighbour.
He was most proud, however, of his ability to apply the
sphincteral mute, if we can call it that, whenever he needed to, particularly in company. It was this
talent he found useful every day in the first class compartment of the local
train that took him to his office. From Vile Parle, where he had his
one-bedroom apartment, he would take the Andheri Local, which would then return
to Churchgate station. He needed to do this, because it guaranteed him a seat
on an otherwise crowded train. He had to make sure that his carefully ironed
shirt retained its creases the whole day.
The well-groomed look was important, because of his rare
condition. He had to look like a sahib
to handle his gift with respectability. At home, he read a Gujerati newspaper,
but in the train, he would hold an English Times of India in front of him,
generally looking at the classified columns and the art work of the local
advertisements. The Times, he figured, lent him more respectability than his
Gujerati newspaper.
The vayu would come unbidden, unstoppable, but our man with
his sphincteral expertise, would mute it to silence. The problem, however was
that while the vayu did not disturb the ear, it certainly did offend the
nostrils. In fact, according to our gentleman sahib, the reduction of the
vayu’s decibel level was in inverse proportion to its mischievous olfactory
effects. But our man had learned how to handle the situation with aplomb.
Every time he ‘let go’, silently of course, he would lower
his Times of India, turn his head towards the person sitting next to him and
curl up an accusatory nose at him in disgust. Then he would go back to his
newspaper. The rest of the compartment would quite naturally direct their
glares towards the accused, who try as he may, with all his expressions of “I
didn’t do it” would never be able to plead innocence. Nobody would pin something
so vulgar on to a respectable looking gentleman as our man.
Brilliant. It worked always.
…..
This scatological
reminiscence was triggered by a Times of India headline two days ago, which
said that our man in Delhi was going on a fast with his party to atone for the ‘divisive
politics’ of the Congress party!
