On Shit

Yes yes, you read the title correctly, and it isn’t a typo either. It does, in fact, say ‘on shit’ and not ‘oh shit’, because this post is neither a result of momentary fear nor an ode. It’s more of…a pondering, you might say, on the lovely topic of shit. So for those queasy readers, I’d suggest stopping here.

How did I come about this topic? Well, it really comes down to a conversation with a cousin of mine last night, an extremely understanding one who called me to check up on his poor sister who had been having four days of constant and extreme diarrhoea. When he got time between his maniacal laughter, he asked me why I had stopped blogging, and I told him that I didn’t have anything to blog about. His response: “blog about shit”. And being the oh-so-ever obedient person that I am, I decided to follow his suggestion after he assured me that he for one would definitely want to read this post. And so we reach here.

Let’s begin with the philosophy of shit. No, I don’t mean a ponderous curiosity on “what is shit?” If you do want to begin there, Wikipedia has an extremely detailed and explicit article answering that question, along with several others. Neither do I wish to adopt a Descartes-like stance and blurt statements like “I shit, therefore I am.” Though it might actually be true, but four days of doing only that might definitely make you question the reason of your existence rather than validate it.

But really, the question I am more interested is – why does the subject of shit make us so squeamish? Dogs shit all over the place without a care for who is looking. Fine, so for humans it’s a private act, but why is it such a taboo subject? We all do it [revert to the Descartes-inspired-phrase above]. How come we can talk about bloody gory murders and whatnot but not about shit? How come every time one of my little kids would run up to me asking permission to go to the toilet for this, I would cringe thinking “too much information.” On a side note, I have often wondered what is the socially respectable way of saying shit? Take a dump? Crap? Do number 2 [I really want to know who came up with this one]? Excrete faeces?

See, the reason I find this topic quite fascinating is that for all the squeamishness surrounding it, I have bonded with a lot of friends over this subject. Whether it’s empathizing with each other over “loosies” or discussing with utmost reverence the importance of shit in our lives, and with even more reverence debating the “toilet paper versus mugga” issue – it’s all been done. And what I recall from all those conversations is not flinching and awkwardness, but rather, a sense of comfort that automatically dumps itself on you when you know you can have such conversations. It’s like crossing a barrier – a rather shitty one.

As much as I would love to go on about the subject, I am afraid diarrhoea calls, and I must go validate my existence, again.

May the force be with you [not applicable to those having loose motions].

The Green Sofa

It first caught our attention several years ago, seeming a little out of place in its environment. It sat there, royally, ignorant to all the hustle-bustle around it. The green was not bright enough to be flashy, yet its dullness was somewhat dimmed by the largely duller surroundings. Its seat looked really soft; the kind that tempted you to want to jump down heavily on it. Of course, we didn’t know at the time that the sofa was a mascot for the ‘appearances can be deceiving’ slogan. It was one of those things you had to find out for yourself, apparently, as you massaged your rather disappointed behind.

Okay, I don’t know why I’m talking like this. I mean, let me say it straight up – I hate this green sofa. It’s a sofa situated in the departure terminal of Kuwait’s airport, and is the sofa that my family tends to sit on and have a last chat before the final farewell. What started as a pleasant surprise soon turned into a tradition, and I found myself, with every departure, grudgingly making my way to this sofa. Why grudgingly? That’s a little hard to explain. I think it has something with not liking those final conversations; there’s an air of the looming departure hanging over your head, so ever little bit of talk seems really forced. It’s as though you are suddenly sitting there to have a few more minutes with each other, but the price of those few minutes is awkward conversation. I’m not a big fan of long drawn-out goodbyes, so I found myself hating that particular sofa with a vengeance.

That green sofa is long gone from the airport, and here I am, sitting by myself at my departure gate in Kuwait for the last time, writing what sounds to me almost an ode to that bloody sofa. Who would have thunk?

It’s weird. Kuwait’s not my home. It stopped being my home 9 years ago. The country is alien to me. Every time I visited, I was much happier inside the house than outside. If anything, that house where my parents live, where I used to live, is my home. And I’ve just spent the last few days packing up every little piece of that house as my parents prepared to leave. Yesterday, we were staring at a house filled with cartons packed to the brim. Today, it was nothing but empty walls (and the stuff that wouldn’t fit in the container). That’s 13 years’ worth of our lives stuffed into a container, or dispersed around. 13 years. That’s more than half my life. See, now that is what I should be writing an ode to. The house. My home. That sense of belonging.

But no. Instead, all I can write about right now is a bloody green sofa. No, I don’t miss it. I don’t even like it. But I can’t stop thinking about it. Maybe because the last 9 years, every time I have come to Kuwait, it was with a sense that I would soon be leaving it. And every time I sat on that sofa, it was with a sense that I would soon be back. But this time, there’s no going back. That’s a weird thought. It’s not happy or sad. It’s just different. Weird.

I tell you, these departure lounges have a weird effect on me. They make me introspective in a way similar to sunsets and all that. Of course, by the time I post this, I would be too far away from this gate to actually care, so I thought it would be best that I wrote this while the sofa was still hovering around my mind.

Adios Kuwait.