Sunday Bath

It is difficult to imagine a person actually enjoying a bath if the place in that imagination happens to be either of the bathrooms of our hostel. Elsewhere in this blog, I have already dwelt in leisure on the peaceful co-existence that we share with our Arthropod pals in our toilet/bathroom block. Water availability is no less an issue to consider before you even contemplate taking a bath in Rajkot. It is not uncommon to find yourself stuck water-less amidst your bath with soap all over your face and everywhere underneath. The circumvention of such a comical situation, should it arise, is solely dependent on your innovation. With such conditions hanging over our heads, it is quite natural that we usually dread the time of the day when we are forced to pay a visit to either the bathroom or even worse, the toilets.

The best way to save some part of yourself from certain misery is to protect and shield that part so fiercely and heavily that trouble itself would find it tiresome to topple that part of you. To save myself from the ignominy of losing face against such appalling circumstances, what I have done is reserve Sunday as a day when bath is given the top priority and everything else, no matter however urgent and relevant it may be, takes a secondary standing. The Sunday Bath, for me, thus has come to be a sort of ritual – an exquisitely planned and executed 50-minute procedure, by the end of which I can lay claims to be amongst the cleanest people in the world at that point in time. Nothing – absolutely nothing – can provoke me into hurrying through this procedure and nobody can convince me into believing that it is no more than a purposeless indulgence. I am immune to all frivolities and fatalities of the world when I am shut up in that small cubicle lined by while tiles. Its not about the bath in itself – its about having a certain amount of time and space reserved for myself in which I am free to lay all thoughts aside without straining my conscience. Perhaps it draws from the idea of meditation except for the fact that its not as passive and is combined with an apparently trivial routine like bathing. But, I don’t leave at just breaking way from the outer world – I try to get the most of it. In the few weeks since I have started practicing this particular routine, I have made several improvisations and experiments to make it more relaxing and enjoyable. A few of these include singing without paying slightest regard to rhythm and melody, dancing some extravagant steps not meant for public view, exercising my way to the Mr.Universe title, mimicking anyone and everyone around me, fantasizing an encounter with a beautiful female masseur, delivering random speeches that always seem to begin with Mark Antony’s famous ‘Lend me your ears…’ – it is indeed a happy hour, see?

I don’t know how long I will be able to carry out this routine with as much sincerity and dexterity as I am giving it now – and quite frankly, I don’t care. Though for now it is all about the Sunday Bath, in truth this obviously means a lot more than that. It means that I have found a great way to survive amidst odds. Just revel in the little bit of freedom you are getting – let it be a world full of possibilities – make your survival a sensation in itself and not just a dogged resistance of an unrelenting character. Turn your limitations into your launch pads - mock your misfortune by enjoying it – and most importantly, learn to live a life where you may need to smell a rose out of a thorn…