A Smelly Affair
Dttrrrrrttrrrccrkkkkcrrrkkkktttttt…..gradual, timed, precise release is the key to executing an officious fart. “I wonder why a fart is called a fart, when the actual smelly rendering is anything but that,” thought Mrs. Prim to herself, gently swaying her bum to ward off any undue suspicion. Farting was an art in itself, especially in the public domain.
Though she did get a kick out of that Facebook video that had the girl air her farting prowess to her alarmed prospective misogynist of a suitor, conventions nudged her to sport a disapproving look on the lack of decorum among the girls of today…ewwwww…her expression growled, trying to mask the mental giggle at the look of sheer disgust that glazed the macho gaze in the video.
Not even her closest friend knew about her fascination for searching online for Youtube videos that captured farts through infra-red rays at airports or places under camera surveillance. That was her own guilty secret…to be shared with none.
The ‘Prim’ tag lay heavily across her shoulders while she tried to hold a staid conversation with Mrs. Proper from across the street, while silently launching into yet another smelly puff into an unsuspecting set of colony-kids. With lightning reflex, Mrs. Prim heard herself holler: “Eeeeeksss, why don’t you children unload yourself somewhere else?” leaving the young ones with stuttering glances at each other.
With her social dignity left unscathed, Mrs. Prim could not be blamed for regarding herself as the keeper of all that was hallowed in the Book of Traditions that was handed down to her by the Guardians. To cite an example, she was downright vigorous in declaring the sari as the National Dress for the Indian Woman. That it did lend a buffered effect to her farting ways could have had a say in the matter, was an idea she would deign to scoff at.
Her obsession with the obnoxious habit had begun very early in life, right from the time she could identify herself as one who belonged to the fairer sex. Constant interjections of ‘Farting is not for girls” only served to consciously cement her focus on the sneaky pastime…though of course not with her social consent.
If only they had not tried to force the ‘no loud farting policy’ down her throat. Maybe today, she would not have been so hinged on to the varied onomatopoeia that came attached. And with a surname like ‘Prim’, the added burden of having to be the epitome of all the accepted feminine graces definitely did not help.
“I don’t know what to think of the latest Hindi-Hindu-Hindustan slogan,” squeaked Mrs. Uptight in clipped accents. “The Hindu part I get, but Hindi is a definite No.” She who even thought in idly-sambaaresque terms was a proud bearer of her Madrasi lineage this side of the Vindhyas. Something that was not to be doubted even for a moment.
“Hmmm…I understand,” drawled Mrs. Sympathy, while sniggering in her head over the countless times she had laughed at Mrs. Uptight over her smattering Hindi skills. “It really did not matter where they came from….Kerala, Madras….nah nah Chennai…is that even a name….Karnataka….all were the same…lungi-clad idiots with their slurping ways at the table…ughhhh!” her North Indian self scorned, while sporting yet another understanding glance dripping in sympathy, of course. One has to live up to one’s name, always.
The lapse in conversation had seven farts fired in quick succession by all four, though not in equal measure. Status quo bobbed on the surface, while gagging fumes poisoned the air. None however acknowledged what was left unsaid, reinforcing yet another sacred tenet handed down over the generations.
Mrs. Proper was the only one who could have been accused of a faint blush, but then, she was always the weak one….torn between the rights and wrongs as defined by the Guardians. That her conscience did have mighty misgivings in the matter did not help either.
While the gossipy air fluttered in airy nothings, Mrs. Prim was suddenly consumed by an overwhelming urge to let go of a large one….one, -if ever released- that could be heard to the ends of the ‘Decent’ Colony they lived in. As if sensing the nefarious design working its way down her digestive tract, she looked in utter confusion at Mrs. Uptight for help.
But to her dismay, Mrs. Uptight had an even more constipated look that bespoke of even worse farting urges than her own. Mrs. Proper, on the other hand, was bent double, her arse slightly lifted to one side, as if to allow an unhindered, mellifluous flow of gas, no doubt. All in the most proper manner, as prescribed in the Book.
Mrs. Sympathy however seemed caught between empathy and rage, as an unsympathetic fart kept butting at her fat buttocks, albeit, she consoled herself, one that was surely not of her own making. It was the damn Southern sambaar, after all, conveniently tucking the equally culpable Northie dal into a safe corner, just behind her gall bladder.
As imminent disaster hovered over the group of The Polite Four, each seeking in vain a silent outlet for their inner gaseous turmoil, an explosive cloud gathered on the horizon. Flitting across the sky in fits and starts, darkness crowded in, leading the four to huddle under the cover of their beefy selves, fattened on the socio-political carcasses of many an unconventional martyr.
A lull set in…with each expecting the other to be labelled the one who started it all…moments ticked by, an ominous silence engulfed the usual buzz of social niceties…and that is when it happened.
Ppppprrrrraaaaattttchhhhhhh…..ttttrrrrrchhhhhhh…durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…..puzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzwuzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…kkkkkrrrrrdddddrrrrrdddddd…whizzed past petrified faces….loud and clear.
Unmistakable farts. Rotten, smelly, undisguised royal farts…..Farts that were a long way on the boil, just biding their time for a mutinous escape from stinky bowels that lay hidden under the veneer of genteel societal codes.
The Wall stood breached….Beyond Repair.
Kids gurgled past, skipping ‘n jumping. A toddler was heard innocently mouthing “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall/ Humty Dumpty had a great fall.” Not that she was aware of the momentous calamity that had just befallen The Polite Four.
Last heard, the Rakshaks were in the process of calling for an urgent gathering of the Khaap Panchayat. Someone was sure to be stripped, burnt and mauled alive. Hah! Here was Showtime again.