Scrub. Flush. Repeat.

Poop stains. So many of them that the toilet bowl looks a dirty yellow. I stare at it for a minute and feel vomit rising from my stomach, through my throat. This is no place to live in. I dart out and lean on the window sill. The towel-clad obese dude from the bext room nonchalantly walks past me and pats my shoulder with a smile. The bathroom door clicks shut. I stand still, wiping the sweat off my forehead. I feel dirty, I need a shower. It would help if I could get inside that bathroom without fainting. Actually, scratch that. I'll get myself a chai. I walk to the kitchen with my mug, my mind in a state of precarious caution. I count my steps, read what’s written on the mug, file away the to-dos in my head. I do whatever it takes to not think of what I saw earlier.

It’s an apology of a chai. Milky, syrupy, benign as baby-feed. My mind promptly holds on to the visual cue of baby-feed. Thick, viscous, off-white. I look at the film of cream that’s forming on the insipid chai. I imagine a film of cream on my tongue, I imagine gooey baby-feed in my mouth. Before I know I’m imagining the poop stains on my tongue. I run to the sink and I puke with a force that causes my lower back to momentarily snap.

‘Are you okay, bro? Can I get you something?’

‘I’m good. Just something I ate.’

‘Watch what you eat, bro. This isn’t the season for it.’

‘I’m good. I’ll go lie down.’

I walk back to the room, turn the air-conditioning on and take my t-shirt off. I want to take a shower. I need to be cleansed. But falling prostate on the bed is what I do. The room gradually cools down. The smell of the mosquito repellent wafts around.  I light up agarbattis and close my eyes. I’m not really here. No, I’m not really here, I’m somewhere else. On the hills, looking at the Nilgiris. A vast formidable expanse of blue hills. There is dew on the leaves. It’s so cold that a loveless couple seated nearby is beginning to rediscover the warmth of intimacy. I could stay here forever, but for a raucous interruption. It’s someone talking on the phone.

He wants a cheaper deal for his holiday. His discomfort is apparent. I can’t tell if it’s from the contents of his conversation or the itch from his balls that he is tirelessly scratching. He takes a break to examine his nails and goes back to scratching. Meanwhile, the Nilgiris melt from a verdant blue into stale green sewage in my head. Let me get out of here.

I walk into a supermarket that looks rather welcoming. I spend more time looking at the perfumes and soaps than I need to. I move from aisle to aisle, picking up nothing. There is a vortex in my head. The lady attendant stares at me rather sternly. I wonder why and then I realize I’ve been staring at a shelf full of sanitary pads for a while. I find it amusing and catch myself smiling in a mirror.

What would she have said about this? She always gushed over my absent-minded smiles.

‘There you go again, what are you thinking about?’

‘Huh? Nothing, why?’

‘You were smiling. What is it?’

‘Was I? I don’t know, I wasn’t really thinking.’

‘But you look so cute. Why don’t you smile like that always?’

And now, in that supermarket aisle, I realize what that smile looks like. Not bad, she has a point. Finally, I settle on what I walked in to buy, the toilet cleaner. Yes, if it’s to be, it’s up to me and all that. I pay the cashier and walk out with purpose.

I am bare-feet in the bathroom. I’m staring the toilet bowl down like a gladiator who is face to face with a predator. There is gunk under my feet. I can feel it eat into my soles. I try not to think. Dew drops. Nilgiris. Eucalyptus. Dew drops. Dew drops. Leaky flush. Eucalyptus. Slime. Nilgiris. Open sewer. It’s not working. Her smile. Yes, I settle on that. Her smile. The way she pronounces the word ‘delicious’ with her teasing lips. The drop of her shoulders when she laughs. I plod on. I keep scrubbing. The drop of her shoulders. The three-coloured hair band. Scrub. The nose pin. The loose curls. Flush. The pink shade on her lips. The wine that washes it away. Scrub. Her walking around the house in my boxers. The tautness of speech when she is sad. Flush.

I’m done. I fall back on to the slimy wet floor with the dripping toilet brush in my hand. Her defiant refusal to meet my eye that night. I’m tired. I sweat. I cry. I ball up my fist. I hold back a wail. Then I let go. I make a start.