Safarnama : Qutub Minar #2

The final lag of the journey…

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The tall tower stands alone. The stories it has lived and the times it has seen – it won’t tell the shallow men down here. It talks to the birds, who have built their homes on its shoulders, for whom the imperativeness of it is much more than what it is to us, the humans. The tower isn’t dumb, it’s just not interested in talking…because we aren’t interested in listening…

We sat on the steps of the Sulabh Sauchalaya building, waiting for the torrent to fade out. Meanwhile, Shivam clicked us from four hundred and forty four different angles, the dedication level only matched by the Nat Geo people who go to the Congo Basin with their clunky DSLRs and die chasing primates. Mishra was getting bored, and so he decided he would rather take a leak. 

“Can’t believe peeing is a taxed activity. “I remarked. They didn’t pay attention to my intellectual observation, and kept on posing for Shivam, who had probably gone crazy from so much rain. After an unending wait, we decided to take an auto. 

I wasn’t made to sit on a lap, but the area occupied by my buttocks was smaller than what they deserved. Rohit wasn’t even visible – he was probably buried behind Amit. The auto raced down the flooded road and the cold wind hit our bodies, and it felt like this was going to be epic day. Just as I was done thinking about the epic day, Hemant’s dad called and before picking up, he asked us not to use profanity till the call was over. But midway though the conversation, a big SUV dashed by, splashing a Tsunami into the auto, wetting Mishra’s jeans and his hand and his phone and my jeans and my hands and my phone. Hemant hung up a century later, and then I broke into howls of profanity. 

Fifiteen minutes later, we reached our destination. 

the path that leads to the past…

Mishra was sent to buy tickets which costed Rs.15 each for the nationals. We pooled in and gave him the cash. He returned only a few seconds later, informing us that the price had doubled. Mishra is a jinx, I tell you. 

We bought the tickets and went in. The ruins of the Sultante, the heritage left by the invaders of the west, who had made this place their home, was standing right in front of our eyes, a bit dull and a bit old. Before we could enter the place, Shivam started clicking selfies. 

The first monument we went to was Alai Minar, which, had it been completed, would have measured double the height of Qutub Minar. It was constructed with massive stones, the edges rough and unpolished. The unfinished towers always tell a whole story. 

Alai Minar….

“I don’t think the monument is talking to me. “Mishra pointed out, trying to contradict the words of our favorite history teacher who said, “the monuments talk when you go near them.” But it wasn’t Alai Minar’s fault at all – Mishra is so jinxed that even if a tower could talk, it won’t talk to him.

The monuments don’t talk like people. They have their own whispers, which can’t be heard but only listened to. I could see elephants and carts around, and labors and people, witnessing the gradual splendid construction of a monument, which would halt just after the death of Alauddin Khilji. 

We clicked plenty of photos and then moved towards a tomb. The walls around had texts embossed in urdu. The people posed beneath an arch and clicked photos. I wondered if the monuments would ever talk to them. 

the tomb…

Then we moved to a Madarsa. It was a group of dank, charred rooms that smelled of batshit. I visualized kids taking taaleems here, which was very difficult to visualize, and then my eyes caught “Brijesh loves Rinku” engraved in the poor wall in a crabby handwriting. If you do similar things in China, they will make soup out of you the next day. They’ll hang your skeleton in the museum and place a label outside the case that’d read – Homo Habilis

each of those bricks have a story to tell…

Mishra sat on a stone outside and closed his eyes. 

“I’m feeling the past guys. “He claimed. “Somebody sat on this stone. It was a sultan. ”

I was pretty sure the stone was cursed or something. If it wasn’t, it would be now.

We then walked into a small graveyard. There were sad old tombs, and the whole place was so melancholic. If you eliminated the crowd from your minds eye, it would even appear scary. 

We went to a desolate garden after that. 

the garden…

We clicked photos and wondered which plants were replaced and which were still surviving from the era of Iltutmish. Then, we went on a sloped piece of land. 

the land where Sultans walked…

As I stood at the crest of the small plateau and looked around, the legacy of the Sultans spoke to me. The path I had travelled was travelled by a king centuries ago. In an era devoid of internet and bullet trains and hurry and pace, the Sultan would take a leisurely walk in the evening with his Begum. They’d talk about life and love and birds and trees. They’d appreciate nature. They’d kiss under that tree, they’d sit right here, and watch the birds flying back to their nests, they’d lean on each other’s shoulder and watch the dusk…..

on the top of the world….

I started feeling nostalgic for some weird reason. 

We raced down and clicked a flurry of photos. Then we went towards the sundial. On the way, we saw a Chinese family of 5. Each of them wore a hat. There were two white girls, wearing skirts that were shorter than my underwear. They owned the most distracting pair of butts in the entire universe.

We then went to another tomb, before we got to the sundial. A white lady was looking for it, asking people about it. She seemed confused. I showed her the sundial. She thanked me. 

At last, we reached the Qutub Minar.

the tower of Qutb..

 

A 73 meter high tower, built by two Sultans, was now a home to pigeons, but inaccessible to humans. There was some comfort in that realisation. 

People looked so stupid. All they did was clicking photos. I was no different, I had to get a new DP. 
It was over soon, the epic day. We jumped into the train and sat on the gangway floor and shared the pictures. Amit opened his lunchbox and most of them refused to eat because it was Sawan and the lunchbox was filled with scrambled eggs. So I ate full. 

On the train, I could see myself, or a part of me that I’d left, in those gardens, walking down the paths with slow calm steps, free from the rush and the worries of the 21st century. 

That’s all. 

Safarnama : Qutub Minar #1

The prologue to the Qutub Minar visit.

It had been pouring all morning. The rain pelted down like Spartan arrows, and as whatsapp texts swore, the lower half of Shyam Lal College was already drowned. Some of my friends though, despite the torrent, had travelled all the way from Rohini and Nangloi to Shahdra to attend college, but now they sat with sullen faces, playing Balloon Pop in their generous smartphones, waiting for the rain to go ebb away.

the rain…

Rohit dropped in at around 10 am, followed by two more people. We set up the chessboard and played a few boring games. It was decided that we would take a day off, but sitting idle only wakes up the wanderlust inside Rohit, and so, he came up with this great idea,

“Let’s go somewhere. Qutub Minar? ”

It took me some time to make up my mind. Lazybones! After I prepared myself for a long drenched day, I started calling everyone. A few of them said it was pouring in buckets and they hated rain and everybody should hate rain because rain brings flood and that we should drop our plans. As you know, every adventure comes with a bout of hitches. There were plenty in this one too.

Two of them didn’t have a metro card, so, as we reached Welcome Metro station, we went upto this vending machine to get the tokens. They put the money in and waited for the tokens to drop.  But the machine was a bit of a runt – it won’t take anything but fresh crisp notes. Some billion light years later, it took pity on us and accepted the note. But didn’t release the tokens. 

“What the fuck! “They shouted together. The screen promised that it was processing the transaction, so we stood by, waiting patiently, wondering if it was Mishra that should be blamed for the ordeal. Mishra is a jinx – once he had accompanied us to the zoo and it turned out that they kept it closed on Fridays. 

“That’s not fair. “Mishra protested. “You should have known zoos are closed on Friday. ”

Nobody believed him. 

The crowd behind us was growing fretful with time. 

We called the staff and he pretended to study the screen carefully. 

“There’s a countdown. “He pointed at the upper right corner of the screen where infinitesimal numbers were decreasing every second. “Wait for it to finish. ”

And so, we waited. It was just a 90 second wait, but when you have a digital clock making you aware of the existence of every single second, the wait becomes a billion years long. The tokens dropped back, eventually. And we took the train and reached Kashmiri Gate at around 12:00pm. 

There, we met Shivam, and as the train arrived, we jostled through the crowed to bag a seat. Three of us got the seats, one being Mishra. It was a long journey, so we spent it playing the game How-Jinxed-Mishra-Is? Everybody started throwing their ideas, and somebody said Mishra is such a jinx that when he visits a haunted house, the ghosts rush to the priests to get themselves cleansed with Holy Water.

On the way, it started raining again. The train stopped at a bridge, from where all we could see were wet lush green trees and a dense valley, and it seemed we had been teleported to a hillstation.

the panoramic view from the train…

 

It was a beautiful stillness, and the only thing that budged was raindrops on the window pane.

all we could see was green…

 The train started again, and the rain grew stronger by the time we stepped onto the platform. We clicked a few selfies on the metro, and then exited the station. We waited outside for some time,waiting for it to go slow, but it never did. 

“Maybe we should take an auto. “Hemant suggested. I didn’t know of a way to fit 7 people in an auto, so I wondered if one of us will have to sit on the lap of one of us. When I was a kid, I sat in a jeep on the lap of this uncle of mine. A few seconds later, I felt something hard beneath my butts. (No I wasn’t raped). I hate to sit on men’s lap since that day, though. 

outside the metro….

We waited for some time, and when the rain slowed down, Mishra walked out and we followed him. It was a mistake, because seventeen steps later, it started sheeting down. We ran, completely deficient of a strategy. I was sure we were running for an auto, or some cover, but a minute later, I realised we had left behind all the autos and were still galloping aimlessly down the road for some heavenly reason. 

“What are we doing? “I screamed.

“Following Mishra. “Shivam shrugged his shoulders. 

A minute later, Mishra stopped beneath a small tree. Everybody else stopped as well. I peered out into the distance, wondering if we had reached the Qutub Minar. Was Mishra jinxed enough to displace Qutub Minar from its place?  Mishra looked at us in utter confusion, we looked at each other in utter confusion. 

“What the hell just happened? “I asked. 

“Were you guys following me? “Mishra asked, baffled. “I was just looking for a shelter. “He explained. I was so apoplectic I felt like punching Mishra. I ran for cover, and everybody followed me this time. People are fool, they will follow you for anything. 

We found a shelter, a roof above a flight of steps, and sat there, watching the rain come down like magic, dipping the world in lush green. 

The board above us read – Sulabh Shauchalaya

To be continued

The Summer Odyssey #2

With few minutes left to board the train for a 30 hour long journey, would you take the risk to find the rare toilet of Anand Vihar Railway Station?

I have a problem. A disease maybe. Whenever I achieve something difficult or am almost asleep, I get this insuppressible urge to pee. I might be a monk and balance myself on a sword with my little finger, or pull heavy duty trucks with my eyelids, but I can never manage the pressure of my stupid bladder. So when my bladder started ballooning at platform number 3, I nearly went mad. 

Here were people, all happy and excited and fulfilled, waiting for their trains, passing time by munching on nuts, reading newspapers, or talking among themselves, and here I was, carrying a squirmed face, waddling to and fro along the whole length of the platform, looking for the FUCKING chamber they call a toilet. Twice I stopped at the lift, and half a dozen times I almost peed in my pants. I could go take a leak in one of the train toilets, but I didn’t want to end up being exported to Bhuvaneshwar in the process. After what seemed like a millennia, I was sure they don’t build toilets on platforms in Delhi. And whoever rated Anand Vihar station so high  probably peed through transpiration. 

I ran away, not caring about the time or the train lodged at platform number 3 and never stopped till I found a toilet at a desolate corner of the station. There were three rooms one each for Women, Men and Handicapped. For a second, I wondered if that meant handicapped men and handicapped women were allowed to pee together (sexy) and then I moved to men’s chamber. 

Now, men’s toilet have two different  arrangements. They have doored commodes and they have open thigh length basins. You pee in basins and you shit in commodes. So when you are peeing others can watch you without any obstruction. What’s odd is that almost all men are quite okay with it. They really don’t care about the audience. But my little Godzilla is a shy animal. I can’t pee unless I’m locked within six walls. Even on long bus rides, when the conducter announces a pee break, and all men just get out and pee around the bus, I find the most isolated, haunted place and shhhhshhhh myself to pee. Twice I’ve nearly missed the bus in such situations. 

Anyway. In public toilets I use the commodes. This one had five toilets three of which were already occupied. There was a man waiting outside the third and another outside the last. I wondered why they weren’t going into the two vacant chambers. I moved towards one. It was choked with turd. I almost vomited at the sight. 

I had two bags and no friends. And I HAD to pee. Inside a locked door. I couldn’t take the bags with me. It seemed like the prelude of a tragedy. I was either going to lose my bag or wet myself. A sadist would love this as Omorashi porn. When the third toilet was finally vacant ( 2 dumps later ) I went there and tried setting my bag against the most hygienic side. As it had wheels, it wouldn’t stand properly. Everytime I tried propping it against the wall, that stubborn bag would start rolling like an ice skater. Setting it up took a bit longer and a constipated man sneaked into the toilet amid that. I was so apoplectic and destroyed, I wanted to cry. I wondered if I should just jump into the ladies room without caring about the consequences. I mean it’s not as if they cut your little Vince McMahon for entering a ladies toilet, do they? I also wondered if I should just play a handicapped. Who knows I might have even met my soul mate in the handicapped room. Fancy the first encounter! It could be the superhit sequel of How I Met Your Mother. I had TRPs floating in front of my eyes when I recalled I had to pee. That’s the thing, when you start thinking about it, it only gets worse. By the time that asshole came out, my intestines were submerged in pee. My whole body was shaking and I could piss through my earholes. 

I shot in, shut the door properly, but leaving a chink, and found myself enveloped in the post-potty scent of a toilet. I was sure Nazi concentration camps used the same gas to kill people. I pulled down my zipper and told myself to feel good about this. I was finally ejecting the heaviest liability in a human’s life. I peed for a while and then turned my head to look for the bag. It was there, safe and still. So I continued to pee. Also I considered variables like the speed of my stream and worked out on a theory that If I looked for the bag every 8 seconds, I would have a fair chance at catching the culprit, in case I get screwed. So I peed and looked and peed and looked and kept on doing this till my neck went stiff. But let me tell you this, ladies and gentlemen, there’s no such thing as peeing. It’s the most comforting orgasm one can ever have. I walked out with a triumphant smile on my face. The bags were still there. I washed my hands and ran for the train. 

It was 6:30 am.

To be continued…

What a mess! 😡

Here’s why you should never seek a mess in Delhi.

My mess owners are descendants of Satan. They are pure, unadulterated anthropomorphic incarnations of evil. If Magic Mirror existed in real world, it would show them as red, horned, sharp-toothed, fork-tongued, tail-bearing, trident carrying dwarf creatures. When my mess owners die, wars shall stop and epidemics would dissapear and everybody would be happy and Gods would descend down to take free, relaxed morning walks in the pure rejuvenated air of earth. 

“Ah! The world is so less polluted now. “They would say, and casually look around for some tight assed girls.

I had read about pathetic mess facilities in books, especially in Chetan Bhagat novels, and I had witnessed the appalling condition of mess on news channels. There were runny sambhar, bug infested rice, charred rotis. Not to say they all tasted the same. My mother used to warn me when I criticised her cooking talents. 

“Once you start living away from home and join a mess, you’ll know what a magician your mother is. “She would say as I made fifty different expressions of disgust at the dinner table. 

Now that I think of it, Ranchi was still bearable. I mean they did provide Paneer twice a week and Friday nights were Fast Food Specials. That apart, salads were fresh and free. The cost was minimal, too. And the mess owner was hot. Okay not so hot maybe. But at least she was not 80. The delicacy and comfort of home-cooked food was absent, but I coped. I mean what could have been worse!?

My definition of worse changed after I started living in Delhi. Here, you can’t define worst. You think this is the limit to which evil could be thrusted upon you, but yayyy, surprise! that was just the starting line. Get fucked more. 

switched to my current mess after I was fed up with the former one, who charged thousands for shit. I mean how long can you survive on type 7 human stool they call Dal, manufactured and salted citrus droppings they call Pickles, and half-baked circular pieces of dung they call Roti!?

Once, they cooked Paneer. The excitement and joy that flooded the PG at once could never be equalled, not even if there was a bukake festival in town with a free entry. I had suddenly started feeling grateful for my mess owners. Then came show time. 

It looked like paneer. I mean only paler and less attractive, as if it had been boiled and peeled, and poisoned, but it did look like paneer. I stared at my ex-neighbours’ faces, and they stared at mine. I took a lump. And how unlike paneer the paneer in my plate was! It didn’t taste like anything. If I were blind I would have sworn on my mother it was potato, or lady finger, or whatever the hell they cooked because everything tasted the same. I was sure that the cook believed all of us either were diabetic or had damaged tastebuds. 

“How’s the Paneer? “The cook asked. 

I wondered if I should suggest him to quit cooking and look for some other career options, maybe even make his profile on jobs.com, but I just smiled in fake appreciation. Ah! How bad it was! If that guy went on Masterchef Sanjeev Kapoor would have him executed. 

“It’s awesome. “My ex-neighbours said. And so did everybody else. I came home wondering if my ex-neighbours and the cook and everyone else were plotting against me. 

“It was shit. We were just being polite. “They later clarified. 

The new mess is owned by a pair of ancient people, who are old enough to enter Guinness World Records. I’m convinced they practice black magic. 

The old lady is sweet but shrewed. And her man is a talking machine. First, I’ll describe the old lady. So good natured she is, you’d wonder if she lives a secret life chopping kids and storing their pieces in the refrigerator. A wrinkled face that evokes sympathy, a speech full of honeytalking and oversentimental stuffs, and a brain full of evil and selfishness. She’s such a drama queen. One day she was looking at her grandson’s photo, her eyes wobbly and quivering. My neighbours spent a good deal convincing themselves that the young guy sitting like a crab in the sofa in the next room is actually her alive grandson and not his ghost. 

“I mean her grandson was like four steps away. And not even dead. And she’s was like this is my grandson, you see? “My neighbours later told me.

The old lady once offered me some almonds. I was so thankful I wanted to hike her pay at once. Then I came to my room and chewed those almonds. I had to take three Listerine gurgles to erase the horrid taste. 

Her husband is pretty delusional. Maybe it has to do with old age, or maybe he is a genuine asshole. Once I was standing right in front of him when he asked,

“Has Ravish gone yet? “I was so speechless. 

Once I showed up without a lunch box. When I asked if he had spare lunch boxes, he said of course, and pulled out a Shenaz Husain Gold tub and started pouring Dal. 

“Uncle, “I said, “I guess I’ll run back to fetch my lunch box. ”
My neighbours were sick of their parasitic nature. So once they went to seriously warn him to improve the quality of food or be prepared to lose customers. 

“Uncle! “They satarted.

“Oh! Kids. Blah Blah Blah…..Blah Blah…BLAH….I HAD A HEART ATTACK ONCE….Blah Blah Blah Blah. ”

3 hours later.

“You were saying something, kids? ”

“No. Uncle. Nothing. Nothing at all. “My neighbours said. 

Trump and Modi

24 hours ago, things were pretty normal. Then, things changed.

Two incidents that bent the course of history. And also, fucked my Facebook wall.

Read on.

The world has witnessed unexpected turns in the past 24 hours. Till yesterday, you could stick a 500 bill at a shopkeeper’s face and he’d have rummaged his arse to provide you a change. Till yesterday, girls announced their contemporary states of emotions every two hours along with pout-selfies, and boys spent their time proposing them in comments-section. Or everybody shared Rajnikant vs. CID Jokes. 

But these 24 hours changed everything. Sensex figures. Purpose of social media existence. And even humanity. 
I had to buy winter clothes, and since I’m exceptionally good at procrastinating I’d stalled it for the day I catch my first cold. I had to get a huge recharge (because Airtel). And I had a few big notes.

 So I’m having a nice time skimming through Sanjeeda Sekh’s hot photos and all at once, the big currency is demonetised. Or whatever. People are silent as furniture, earphones plugged in, listening to radio, their expressions grave and contemplative. In a minute whatsapp inbox floods with messages. People who never cared my whereabouts before are forwarding this ‘urgent’ message and the theme of group chats has suddenly shifted from SEX to corruption and economics. I must be a hollow man, for despite studying economics for 16 hours with Lord Evans in the past 2 years, I don’t have any idea. I feel like the Tribbianis. 

Modi suddenly attained Rajnikant’s status. Jokes and memes and tweets crashed the internet. Stock market went through a rampage. The night promised sleepless hours to many. 

Then came Trumps unexpected victory. The final nail in the coffin. 

thehansindia.com

I woke up at 11 am, and checked my wall. 

“Holy Fuck. “Escaped my throat. People giving shitloads to Americans for letting Trump get a lead in the race. Clinton was behind and Trump was surely grabbing the throne. People were busy comparing this American election with that Bihar election. Every post had something to do with Trump or Modi. It seemed like the only ignorant bastard in the universe was me. I quickly checked Trump and Clinton on Wikipedia. I even brushed up some basic economics. GDP – depr. = NDP stuffs. In a short span, I came to know that currency demonetization is an instrument to curb curruption and counterfeit, and that Abraham Lincoln wasn’t actually the first president of the United States. It was George Washington. 188 cm
I was really surprised to see that people aren’t that stupid or unemployed as I thought they were. They research about presidential elections of United States in their free time. They also know that Donald Trump is Kalki, and he would wipe out humanity. And they are quite aware of Macroeconomics. 
I was full prepared to come up with my status. A super-verbose two liner summing up the two historical incidents. Like something Sehwag would tweet if he had Sidhdhu’s vocab. I couldn’t. And to be honest, it was humiliating to see an endless stream of posts expressing wisdom and superiority and opinion, while not being a participant in the process. 

I mean even Hobo had written that Trump was an arsehole, and that humanity was massacred, and it was 9/11 part 2. And he doesn’t know a fuck about politics. I mean the only thing he likes about America is its pornstars. 
I was about to write one, but then, to be honest again, I seriously don’t have an idea why Americans chose Trump or whether it was good or bad. I mean the biggest intellectual concern in my life right now is chapter 11 of Wuthering Heights, and why Catherine is such a bitch.

 

I don’t know if discounting 1000 bills and issuing 2000 bills will really heal corrupt souls. I don’t know whether Trump would nuke the earth. And I don’t really care. And I won’t pretend either. 

Yeah, so I am the unaware, un-informed, ignorant, selfish citizen who should be exiled. Whatever. 

Could I have stunning selfies on my timeline again, please?

Bathing : nostalgia #5

The perception and process of bathing changes with time.
How?
Read on.

My first memories of bathing consist of a naked four year old with a really tiny penis, punching water in the blue bucket that stood as high as his chest. Of course, that four year old was me. I remember my mother laughing brightly with a Kodak camera in her hand, egging me to splash the water harder. As I’d giggle and slap the water, she’d shout ‘cheese’ and a flash would temporarily blind my eyes. Nine years later, when my friends pointed at the penis and howled with laughter, I realized naked baby albums are kind of humiliating. And to add salt to my misery, my mother keeps displaying those proudly to the relatives, neighbors, and probably even the newspaper guy and the milkman. It’s like a custom. Enter the house, have water, and watch naked photos of my kid. 

Anyway, when I grew up, I got a bathroom. I had to fight with my brother for winning the place, as he wanted to get in first. And being the elder one, I believed it was my privilege to bathe first. Another surprising fact here is that my brother doesn’t have a naked baby album. My mother makes a poker face at this question and says he always used to be dressed up. I don’t believe her. 
Time flew, and soon, the reason for fights changed. Now we fought for the last entry, basically because we had been bathing everyday for more than 10 years now and it was kind of getting boring and tough. 
I remember we didn’t have immersion rods or geysers, but a couple of LPG cylinders, so we heated water on the stove. Then, my mother got an immersion rod, and winter baths became bearable. We still loathed bathing, though. 

“If you want the food, you have to clean yourself. “My mother would say, and I had to drag myself to that dreary place, sprinkle some water all over me and wipe myself with a drenched towel and come out shivering. 

“Get back in and take a real bath like a real man! “She’d yell and my brother would already start making escape plans. 
Once I showed her on Google that daily bath wasn’t recommended. She stopped paying for my data packs after that. I had to take two baths a day as an apology. 
As my penis grew, bathroom became an important place in my life. It wasn’t the gloomy cave anymore. I’d often go in with a magazine or a photograph or with the vivid memories of my superhot biology teacher. 

“Are you sleeping or what? “My brother would yell and knock at the door furiously. “It has been thirty minutes! ” 

“Five minutes more! “I’d yell back, and accelerate. 
Recently, we got a geyser and an elegant bathroom, and now bathing at home feels like an experience. There’s this pale yellow bulb glowing over, and steam pouring out the faucet, the whole room foggy and warm. And now even my brother has started taking longer in the bathroom.
But I rarely live at home  these days. So bathing is optional. If you’ve lived in a lodge, you’d understand. In Ranchi, the geyser hung in the balcony, in front of my room. Even then, nobody bathed daily. Some blokes did it twice a month. Even a pure priest guy on the first floor broke his streak of 17 years of bathing everyday. Girls too didn’t do it daily. We could make that out from their colorful underwears with polka dots and floral designs draped over the clothesline for days.  
In Delhi, nature fucks you like a Satan. There’s unbearable heat in summer, smog after Diwali, and Siberian cold in winter. And there’s no geyser. The bathroom isn’t attractive either. So, I guess I’ll have to manage with dettol drenched towels.