Travelogues
Photo Gallery
Upcoming Destinations
- Har Ki Dun
- Ladakh
Ask Me
About Me
A Mukherjee World View | ||
|
|
||
|
Toilet Travails
At Lingshet, we were witness to an interesting toilet incident. Before the tale proceeds, it is essential to understand how toilets in Ladakh function. Typically, there’s a toilet cubicle built into the hill, such that the doorway is at a higher point on the hill than the lowest level of the building. Inside, there’s a hole in the floor, and if you’re lucky (and you’re not, always) there’s a door or at least a curtain across the doorway. And that’s it: no soap, no water, no electricity, no toilet paper, nothing except a smell.
Then things got curiouser and curiouser. In front of us was a barbed-wire fence, and one of our neighbors came over and began to attack it with his bare hands, trying to twist and break one strand! This was completely inexplicable and we all exchanged baffled glances but didn’t have the nerve to ask what on earth he was trying to do. Suddenly one strand of barbed wire came away in his hand, and before we could say anything he marched off with this in the direction of the toilet, still wearing the torch on his forehead. A while later, his wife emerged from the toilet, wearing a disgusted look and shaking her head. From her, we extracted a brief explanation: her husband, earlier that morning, had gone into the toilet with his watch attached to his belt (don’t ask me why) and had emerged without it, leading to the conclusion that the watch had found its way to a place it really shouldn’t have. Hence the barbed-wire-and-torch approach. A few minutes later, the man emerged with a satisfied air, minus the barbed wire, and we all at once noticed the watch dangling from his belt. Ugh! Superflous Saviours
Having returned from this onerous task, we devoured samosas and hot tea that our landlady/hotelier had thoughtfully provided - gratis (bless her!) - and resumed our earlier intentions. I had progressed as far as unearthing all the appurtenances required for bathing, and had bundled fresh clothes, bath towel, soap and shampoo into my arms and was heading purposefully towards the common bathroom, when my progress was arrested by an unfamiliar voice speaking my name. This time it was a couple of gents from the Intelligence Bureau, seeking intelligence about a certain Amit and Anamika Mukherjee. This really was getting a bit much. Was the entire countryside crawling with government personnel searching for Amit and Anamika Mukherjee? And were they all going to track us down before either one of us had managed to so much as step into the bathroom? |
|
|
|
Comments and information welcome. Write to
anamika dot mukherjee at amukherjeeworld dot net |
So, back to Lingshet. We were sitting outdoors sunning ourselves (it was one of the two days when the sun actually won the battle against the clouds) when we noticed our neighbors making repeated forays into the toilet, with a torch on their foreheads. This was curious, because normally the last thing one would want to add to the delights of the Ladakhi toilet is unnecessary illumination. 
Two weeks from the day we set out, we were back in Leh. After two weeks of trekking, all we could think about was a hot bath, and a hot meal – in that order. But almost before we had set our backpacks down, in marched Colonel Lakshminarayan. “I’ve been instructed by Military Headquarters to locate Amit and Anamika Mukherjee,” he announced portentously. My heart plummeted: what bad news had merited this visitation? Apparently, nothing more than a few scattered news reports of floods and rescue operations in Ladakh, which had set off a panic attack among the family echelons. After assuring Colonel Lakshminarayan that the said Amit and Anamika Mukherjee had indeed been located and found fit and fine (if rather smelly and noxious-looking), we put the baths on hold and headed out to phone family and assure them that we were alive and well.