Chapter 5

The rocking motion of the compartment felt more pronounced within the confines of the bathroom. With a sigh borne of some relief and much trepidation, I held my backpack away from my body as if it were a pair of stinking socks and examined the damage on my trousers.

The stain was not immediately noticeable and that was one of the few consolations of the night. On closer inspection, I could see the contour of the spilled liquid, a tint of subdued blackness against the dark blue of the jeans, spread over my groin and the top of my thighs. It was wet to the touch, but not soaked or squishy. I ran my free hand over the soiled spot in the manner of swatting away an invisible speck of dirt.

My backpack’s, however, was a different story altogether. I was holding it out  from my body from the tips of my fingers, as if it were an archaeological specimen.  As I turned it around to take a better look at the damage, I saw a fat drop of shimmering liquid clinging to a crimp on the underside, and as I watched, it dripped and another quickly swelled in its place. I cursed aloud in the privacy of the cramped space, bawling out myself for being so unbelievably forgetful. I slowly unzipped the tiny compartment at the front of the pack and peered inside.

No sooner had I opened the zipper than a musty, obnoxious stink hit my nostrils. I was more than familiar with the reek of alcohol from my own breath, but this one was unbearable. It was more of a combined assault of the metallic smell of whiskey mixed with a wet, cloying smell of drenched fabric, which reminded me of the times my t-shirt stank when an excess of perfume met with an outpouring of sweat to give out a stench even more gruesome than a sweaty armpit. Shards of glass peered out from inside, clinking and shuffling with movement, cradling a faithfully lidded, decapitated neck at the center. I knew I had hurled the bag without ceremony, but I had not expected the tiny bottle to shatter to a million pieces like this. The light from the fluorescent lamp overhead twinkled off a thousand infinitesimal specks from inside the bag.

I was looking around the bathroom, spitting out curses, clueless about what to do next. The toilet was Indian fashion, but when I stepped on one of the leg rests to peer down the flush, it was not the sight of rushing ground I saw deep down the hole but a puddle of rocking water. The Railways have improved, I thought without a modicum of approval for the fact. The s**t does not hit the tracks anymore. No question of dumping the broken glass there.

The disturbing whiff of alcohol laced with the perpetual mouldy smell of the bathroom now, and it made me nauseous. Apart from my laboured breathing, the only other sound in the closed space was the rhythmic tinkle of the tenuous chain link that attached a metal cleaning mug to the low side wall by the toilet. And it did nothing to lift my spirits.

It took me a few seconds more to appreciate the fact that my usual plan of action - doing nothing - would not be of much help in the current situation. I sighed audibly, then cast a forlorn glance at the dirty, large dustbin at the corner. I looked around for a spot to place the backpack, found none, then settled to retrieving the treacherous shards of glass with one hand as the other kept the bag aloft. 

For the next ten minutes, I picked out the glass pieces with as intent a care as I could marshal, regressing intermittently to cursing and swearing.

The smell of soaked whiskey had stayed long enough to take on a familiar quality for me now; I did not find it odd or interrupting. The dry patches on the dirty blue floor had been littered with droplets, some of which percolated down from the backpack and some perspired from my face. The urge to get on with it came close to overpowering me more than once, but I dragged on with excessive patience, convinced I had shed enough blood already for one day. The bunched kerchief insulating my toe wound had been soaked through, and a surprisingly large patch of crimson blotched the top of it now. More reason to lapse into profanity.

I surveyed the inside of the bag after clearing away the visible fragments of glass. There were still residual glitters twinkling farther in, which, I knew, I could do nothing about. You could clean up the mess of a glass break with utmost care and follow it up with a thorough inspection, but you are apt to plant your feet on an elusive sliver sooner or later. Very much aware of the absurd extent my memory was prone to betray me, I mentally instructed myself to keep an eye out for danger on the front side of the backpack. 

Drops of the spilt whiskey were still trickling down albeit in longer intervals now. I suspected it had accumulated into a tiny puddle in a corner inside. The whole thing needed some scrubbing and touch of water to somehow mask that smell which seemed to grow more repulsive with time. Thanks to my well-tended lifestyle, I did not have any spare cloth or cleaning towels to put to use at the moment. The only excuse my mother had seen fit to load me with at the very moment of my departure, my handkerchief, was already occupied, blotting up my blood and turning black.

I opened the other compartment of my backpack, a layered section not affected by the booze spill - thanks to my employers and their obsession for quality- and surveyed the assortment of clothes. After some rummage I retrieved an antique, yellowed undershirt riddled with holes of various sizes. It was a garment I had been too lazy to consider throwing out. I peered once into the wet section of the bag, bunched the undershirt into a ball and eased it in.

I ran the cloth around the inside of the bag as forcefully as I could, letting it sink into every possible crevice. Someone banged on the door hard enough to make it shake against the latch. I started, paused, and looked at the plaque on the door pleading the users of the bathroom to maintain cleanliness. I heard snippets of voices complaining about the length of time people took inside public toilets as if they owned the place. No more knocks came, though.

I resumed cleaning. When I took the cloth out, it was blackened by the age-long dirt inside, stank of alcohol and dampness, and spotted with speckles of glass. I depressed the tarnished swiveling lid of the bin to make an opening, hung the undershirt over it by its cleaner end and shook it gingerly. I wished to believe the measure sloughed off the sneaky glass remnants, but it was not a night to take chances. 

I squeezed together the unmarred section of the rag, and dabbed it against the bottom of the bag. I swabbed the area slowly, hoping the meagre efforts would save my face throughout the journey. The undershirt gathered more soot and moisture. After five minutes of scrubbing, I raised the backpack and sniffed at its underside. I did not have to, for the whole enclosure was redolent of the offensive stench. The fabric was still wet to touch, but looked fit to dry with an hour of aeration.

I discarded the wasted sweatshirt into the bin, being mindful to spread it over the large pieces of glass that would leave little doubt as to what had been dumped. 

The door slammed against the latch again, this time with an urgency and a frustrated pst.

I stepped in toward the washbasin and eyed the mirror affixed on the side wall. Staring back was a face I could not help but immediately associate with wayside bums that littered the sidewalks in certain lowly areas of my hometown. The effect was mostly the doing of a bushy cluster of beard and unkempt, overgrown hair; much of my face was shrouded. I patted down a couple of particularly nasty cowlicks and finger-combed the hair as best as I could, to no grander outcome. I took one more moment to edge my face closer to the mirror and inspect the streaks of red spidering away at the edges of my eyes. Then, I shook my head, let slip a grimace, and hooked my backpack into my arms.

I counted the number of things that would make me look foolish the moment I stepped out the door : One, I had stepped into the cramped bathroom with a bag incongruous with the intended business; Two, I looked more of a dork done jerking off a load than like someone that had relieved himself proper; Three, I was leaving behind a reek of alcohol that was not immediately noticeable but definitely lingering. And then some.

I fought to keep my cool as I opened the door, exitted the cubicle with an audible sigh for the benefit of anyone present, and strode towards the interior of the coach. From the corner of my eye, I saw a dark, corpulent man standing by the door of the car, possibly looking into the mirror, and sensed his head turn and follow my movement. I did not give him the satisfaction of noticing him.