I got sick.
That is a mild way to put it.
Sometimes, when you fart and it is loud and it stinks and you know you got to poop. That is my fondest memory of sitting in the German airport, doing just that. It was a hellish day. I was so sick.
Again I am being very nice about a pot full of dark, slippery poop in a foreign land where browns are hated anyways.
I had been trying all day long. It just didn’t come. We had an eight hour layover and I extended my legs on the airport chair, pretending to waive off the sickness that had circumambulated my rotting body. I thought that was the end. I was afraid to even stand. So afraid that one tiny fart would expose it all; the grime stuck to my body like a leech.
No wonder I have been so afraid of this story.
Back to the fart, I was farting and let out a long one. My parents smelled it and I waived it off. They demanded I go to the washroom. It was thirty minutes to getting on the plane. There was no way I could make it. So I flew to the bathroom, with my mother tagging behind. And it was in the truest essence like a Bollywood movie; there was an airport, running, chasing the authority (which in this case was my ass) a needed love (in this case, the toilet) and of course, the missing airplane.
I was afraid to go the bathroom because I was afraid of the long stalking eyes of the janitor, those stalls where I had been unable to lock myself inside. I had gone to the washroom two hours back; attempting to poop it off. But it did not happen, instead I faced a sort of humiliation no ninth grader would want to experience in their lives. I ambulated across the bathroom floor; the entire acre (as it seemed) was deserted. I chose the quietest of the bathroom, in the corner. I pulled down my pants, rested my arse and waited for it to come. I had expected it to be quite ordinary, I was thinking about everything that made me want to poop; more food, papa’s anger, humiliation, etc. It was then that the door sprang open and there stood the lady janitor with the block like face and ‘I must kill you with this broom’ expression. I shuffled and let out a tiny scream; this was not how I had imagined for someone to see my lady parts. I scrambled and nervously pulled up my pants. I unlocked the door and ran as she was waiting outside; to clean the washroom. I cursed her under my breath, feeling the tears well up in my eyes but I had to pretend I was okay in front of my family. And then it occurred to me, I hadn’t even washed my hands. So i squirted some sanitizer rubbed it across my palms and pretended that I had washed away the humiliation. I have still not recovered from this incident and I have what they call: pauresis or the fear of public washrooms.
Back to the final pooping; the last rites. It came out like lava. I seriously sprayed my jet all around because I was just so fucking nervous. And I also might have left that washroom with an awful ‘potty inside for too long’ smell. I might have ruined my reputation also, and the janitor lady might have told my story a hundred times and called me the ‘Indian who did not know how to lock the door’. Maybe, this is why I have strong dislike for traveling. Foreign lands scare the living shit out of me, so much so, that my shit refuses to come out of me.
At least, I was satisfied *head bobble*.
Fortunately, I reached the boarding in time. Actually, there were only two minutes left to the closing of the boarding and my father was shouting at me for taking too long. I am pretty sure onlookers thought us to be imbeciles. It was that day that I felt so much like a lost kid, not 14. It was so scary to be alone in that vaulted restroom and in that stall where I was afraid I would spread my ‘disease’ to the entire German world.
Seriously, thank god for my acting skills.