Manjula and I were just about starting our drive from Bangalore to Mysore when we had the obvious but excellent idea to stop for breakfast. Everyone has their favourite darshini in the city, and their favourite dish at said darshini. I was a resident of Bangalore in what feels like another life, but much as I may daydream about being from there, I am now only a visitor. So, I make sure to stock up on the good stuff whenever I get a chance.
One khara bath, two vadas, one masala dosa and two filter coffees - plus an idli for Manjula. It is rare for me to achieve such feelings of transcendence with breakfast. An auspicious start to the day. As we got back in the car, I said to her, “When we reach Mysore should we do dosa again for lunch? That red rice dosa is even better, right?” - “You’re obsessed.”
We made one last stop for petrol somewhere on Kanakpura Road before we would get onto the highway.
It is simply good practice to use the loo before you leave for a road trip, no matter how short. Plus, my stomach is fundamentally unreliable. And I hadn’t exactly taken it easy. I parked at one edge of the petrol pump and went off while Manjula sat in the passenger seat watching reels. “I’ll just be back in 5.”
I have mixed feelings when I find an Indian-style toilet on the other side of the door in these situations. I am grateful for the lower risk of infection as compared to an English seat, but not too happy about the impromptu squat-based workout I am forced to do. I break this up into 20-30 second intervals at a time to conserve my energy, hovering as much as I can.
Also, from the many phones and wallets I have lost over the years, I know that my pockets are generally loose and overflowing. It was, therefore, a sensible precaution on my part to empty them before assuming the position. I figured I’d rather let my phone, wallet, cigarettes, lighter and three ball-point pens get a little dirty on the floor than have to fish them out of that pit in the ground.
After three or four intervals the strength of my lower body was being tested. Each time I wanted to rise and take a break, I had to use the only thing available for support, the sole wall fixture in that dark cubicle - a plastic tap on my right.
In one of my early attempts to half-stand, I put all of my 86 kilograms on that little plastic knob to help myself up while it was filling the large canister. And just like my legs, that fucker, too, gave up on me midway. The tap - now several small broken parts that once formed a tap - had come off the wall and into my hand.
When the water started gushing from the wall, I was mid-hover - not fully bent, not quite straight. Before I realized that the water had soaked my clothes, I saw it wash away the pens and lighter. My phone and wallet and cigarettes thankfully got soggier and sunk into the ground.
You may have questions. Let me try to answer them.
Is the entire essay about this? Yes. Sorry.
What stage of the process was I at when the flood began? Just short of halfway.
What is halfway? Well, I like to think of the process as consisting of two distinct stages: evacuation and clean-up. Evacuation was almost complete. Clean-up was yet to start.
Was I worried about the water ruining my things and my clothes and my day? Not really.
Was I worried about being (and being seen as) the person responsible for emptying the water tanks at a petrol pump in a city now known for its water crisis? It was the only thing on my mind.
As a North Indian who spent five years living in Bangalore, never learned Kannada, and looks naturally unrepentant, I am constantly afraid of ending up on the wrong side of things. So, my main concern was - will I seem like yet another Delhi boy who has come here to make things worse?
My first instinct was to reattach the tap back into the wall with brute force. So confident was I in my ability to shove it back into place that the fact of it being broken into three or four parts seemed a trivial detail, one I could fix with will-power and some luck. It took me a moment to remember that covering an outlet of gushing water – even with the sincere aim of saving it - would cause it to fly unpredictably in every direction like flashing laser lights at a concert. Through drenched glasses, I persisted, bending the stream over and over again, as it hit my ears and went up my nose.
A break for even a few seconds meant a steady gush of water back onto my legs. As a pool formed around my feet, my phone and wallet finally started to swim away and I caught them just in time. The thought of rescuing the cigarettes did cross my mind but to take any step towards their eventual consumption would cause too much self-loathing later on so I let them go.
Brute force was clearly the wrong approach. No. Slow, careful repair. Do this with a calm head, I told myself. Even though it’s hard to focus when you’re being bathed against your will.
I thought I would first attend to the pending business of evacuation, but my stomach cooperated, perhaps sensing that this was no time to make demands. On to clean up, then.
But first, a quick word on water. Isn’t it funny that water - an essential ingredient in making one feel clean - can also make one feel gross when there’s too much of it, especially in the wrong place. The water had soaked my leather sandals and brought back to life layers of sweat and grime that had settled into the soles. The pit was clogged, and now arose from it a muddy broth of pens, unravelling cigarettes, a lighter and…never mind.
With the valuables in my pocket and the pants back up at my waist, I would now fix the tap and forget about this episode forever. I picked up all the broken parts of the plastic tap once more. It never struck me this may require training, or new parts. It took an embarrassingly long time and a close examination of the remnants of the tap from every angle, all while the water continued to flow, for me to finally give up.
I know nothing about ‘radical acceptance’, but I will say there’s nothing quite like being stuck in a public bathroom in a compromising position to teach you the value of surrender. By the time I was done, I had no complaints with being drenched or filthy or having a phone that was soaked. I just wanted to get out. But I had been in there forever. A customer or employee must have been waiting to use the bathroom. Someone would knock. It was only a matter of time. I imagined an angry employee waiting outside the door for me to come out. A muscular, irritable man who hated water wastage, especially by Delhi-ites.
Given this paranoia about being an alien in Bangalore, my preferred way to navigate the city is with a friend - a local friend - by my side. It would be best if the local friend kept to themselves and spoke only when spoken to but I’ll take what I can get. You see, it’s not that I want company, I just want some assistance from time to time, somebody to translate, and a little street-cred by association. A human version of Alexa, but Kannadiga.
I opened the door tentatively and peeked outside. The noise of car horns and yelling shopkeepers was calming in comparison to the unrelenting waterworks inside. And sunlight - all the wonderful things sunlight can do for wet clothes. I saw many employees, but none waiting to use the bathroom. They were all just going about their workday. I stood there for a minute, waiting to be scolded and questioned. Nobody was interested. Nobody had noticed that the bathroom had been locked for nearly half an hour, that the water was still overflowing, that I was dripping wet.
The thing I should have done next - the right thing - was to report the leak to someone who would turn some valve and shut the water supply off from the source. Instead, I found myself walking straight to the car, trying as hard as possible to look relaxed while I did so. Like a person with no secrets.
I sat in the car and looked over at Manjula, who was still watching reels and had barely noticed my absence.
“Man. That was really stressful.”
“What?” she asked, without looking up from her phone.
“I was taking a dump and I broke the tap. I’ve just been badly sprayed for like, 20 minutes.”
“Shut up. You’d be soaked if that had happened,” she said, and looked up. “Ohhhhh god.”
“Ya. It’s a huge mess. But this kind of thing happens to everyone, no?”
No?
Just then, in the side-view mirror, I noticed a man in petrol pump uniform walking towards the car. He was more scrawny than muscular, but no less irritated than I had imagined. He walked faster and faster, walk turning into jog.
Clutch. First gear. Gas.
He yelled as we sped away just in time, finally on our way to Mysore.
Not so long before that red rice dosa now.
Sincere apologies to anyone who reads this piece haha.
Oh god. Its really very strange to be delighted and disgusted at the same time. I think I like it.
And, well, think most of us can have empathy for this sort of situation 😂