Have you ever waited by the zebra crossing when the traffic light showed green? If you haven’t, then you are a little short on excitement for it is pretty lively out there; you have to be nimble if you value your life and your dignity. It’s not just because drivers race like maniacs to whizz past before the signal changes to red and don’t mind flattening you in the process, it’s also because of the unguided missiles that shoot out of the windows of passing vehicles without any warning.
I was waiting to cross the road when I noticed the signal change. This was my cue and I had just put my right foot on the road when a monster private bus came roaring forward and I jumped back. An excellent move, for a spectacular blob of well chewed betel came sailing out, the bus’s speed making it trace a bizarre trajectory before falling with a splash where my right foot had been.
I wasn't completely spared, for the force of the spitting caused some of the red offering to ricochet on to my white salwar. Instead of crossing the road, I headed back home to wash out the scarlet spots, thinking annoyed thoughts about this disgusting habit prevalent everywhere.
What gives people the right to spit on the road? Nothing, actually, except the feeling that the road belongs to them as much as to the other person, so why not assert ownership by spitting. But it’s not just on the roadside; spitting happens just about anywhere.
Long back, when I didn't know the basics of cooking, I had a help who used to spit into the backyard all the time. I was afraid reprimanding her might make her eject one final meaningful mouthful and walk out in high dudgeon. I finally mustered courage to ask her why she did that. “Simply,” she said, and added after a pause, “I like it. It gives me satisfaction.” Since the number of dishes on my table was directly proportional to her state of well-being, spitting was never mentioned thereafter.
Some people make quite an art of it. I remember uncles whose spitting was revved up through three noisy stages - a loud drawing in of breath, a ferocious, guttural clearing of throat which actually was a collecting together of the spittle, and a final ‘thoo!’ that flung the spit to wherever it was directed. ‘Mhmm...khaaa...thooo’ we called it and as a child I was fascinated, practising it secretly.
The moment the topic of spitting in public places is mentioned, people immediately introduce Singapore’s anti-spitting law into the conversation asserting that such a ‘fine’ law is the only way to stop the offensive practice. But I can’t see it working in India where the mere threat of a fine would likely be greeted by a contemptuous repetition of the offence.
Believe it or not, in Europe in the Middle Ages, it was considered impolite to draw saliva in to stop oneself from spitting. In a scenario where chamber pots were thrown out of windows, and streets smelt to high skies, spittle was a minor player in the game. Fast forward to the twentieth century and chamber pots have disappeared while spitting on the streets has become a social no-no, with spittoons or cuspidors losing their shine and purpose along the way. But spitting continued to have a faithful following until the health hazard angle made chronic spitters swallow their pride and their spit.
Though researchers now claim it is very difficult to transmit infectious diseases through spit, spitting is firmly etched in people’s minds as socially unacceptable behaviour.
Does that stop people from spitting? No way. Sportsmen and athletes have the licence to spit though volatile footballers come close to spitting on the faces of opponents or referees to vent their feelings. Spitting is a crude way of showing contempt and quarrelling factions often end their diatribe with a suggestive gob.
According to Ross Coomber, professor of sociology at Plymouth University, ‘the three most significant spitting nations are India, South Korea and China’. He claims that spitting in India is linked to chewing betel nut, in South Korea to smoking and in China to distaste for swallowing.
But we know that in India spitting also happens for no reason, just ‘simply,’ as my help so succinctly put it. And as long as that continues, pavements, walls, roads and unsuspecting passers-by’s clothes will continue to be recipients of such bounty.
[khyrubutter@yahoo.com]
(A fortnightly column by the city-based writer, academician and author of the Butterfingers series)
