Politics and an old fart

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!