The icky factor

In me, it runs high. Slimy substances gross me out like nothing else. Hell, they might not even be dirty, but in my mind, those things are untouchable. Till date, I shudder at the thought of pulling out my hair from the bathroom drain. When I am forced to do it, I use plastic gloves. I can’t imagine cleaning out the waste from the kitchen sink, without wearing kitchen gloves. I can’t imagine touching the wet cloth that is used to mop the floors. Those things make me want to puke. Really.

One of the reasons I am not sure I will be a good mother is because I can’t imagine changing diapers. I don’t know if I have it in me to clean poop, wash the baby’s bum with my bare hands. I see parents doing it, and they never cease to amaze me.

My mother is a person who is rarely grossed out. She will effortless clean every soiled surface within her sight, without any thought of dirtying her hands. Each time she would ask me to swab the floor in the maid’s absence, I would agree to do it most reluctantly. The mop would be held by the tip of my fingers, so that I could avoid as much contact with the slimy cloth as possible. Most times, she would laugh and take over the task on seeing my agony. A lot of times she told me that the cloth was actually clean. That it had been washed, but nothing convinced me. In my mind, that object was classified as ‘dirty’. It repulsed me. All along while growing up, I heard my mother telling me, that one day, I would be forced to do something that I considered gross. Only that would help me overcome this feeling of disgust.

And it happened. Your mother’s words always come true. Always. I was in college. We were at a friend’s place, working on one of our group projects. I decided to take a loo break. She had an Indian toilet. I had my cell phone in the back pocket of my snug fitting jeans. You know where this is heading, don’t you? It’s always hard to squat while wearing tight pants. The moment I bent a little, I heard a little splash. To my utter shock, I saw my cell phone inside the hole on the ground with a pool of water surrounding it.

I ran out in a frenzy and told my friends. They were thoroughly amused. What was to be done now? I still remember my friend’s words. “Dude, did you just pee on your cell phone? This has to be the funniest thing, ever!”. No, I hadn’t peed on my phone, I assured her.

Really, what could I do? I was a student, and I really valued the cell phone my dad had bought for me. I couldn’t afford another one. Should I sneak in my hand and try fishing it out? I couldn’t even bear the thought. On the other hand, the phone was completely submerged and it might never work again. Was it worth putting my hand inside? Perhaps it would be easier to bid my phone good bye. Perhaps I should just flush it?

I spent two minutes thinking about it. Much as I dreaded it, I decided I had to try and rescue it. Even if there was a 50% chance of my phone surviving, it was worth it. I hadn’t earned that phone myself. I couldn’t afford to burden my dad by asking for another one, again.

My friend whose house we were in, told me she would ask her maid to pull it out for me. I considered this for a moment, and tempted as I was, I declined and told her I would do it myself. How convenient it is for us to pass on such chores to people who belong to a lower strata of society. That, according to me, is nothing but taking advantage of our social economic status. The poor maid may not have had the authority to refuse, even if she wanted to. I didn’t want to subject her to that.

So after pulling a plastic bag up my sleeve, I walked in to do what I couldn’t imagine doing. My friends were excited, gearing up for the entertainment, surrounding me with cameras, to record the feat and pass it on to my other batch mates. I took a deep breath, shut my eyes and put my hand in. By now, the phone had gone in deeper. I could only see a little silver tip. Since my hands were covered in a plastic bag, I couldn’t get a hold of it easily. After a few minutes of effort, I pulled it out. The next second, I threw up.

It was my lesson in humility. It was important for me to experience it. And yes, the phone worked. All it took was the hair dryer. It was a Nokia 6610, in case you are wondering.

Since the past few days, my maid has been on leave. We take turns to do the dishes. Each time it is the sister’s turn, I see her refusing to touch the food waste lying in the kitchen sink. I don’t insist on her picking it up. I cringe and do it myself. Because I know where she comes from. Perhaps one day she will be more willing to do it.

As for me, I have come a long way. I still cringe and at times, refuse to pick my hair lying in the bathroom drain. But perhaps, that is because I have a husband who, unlike me, tells me he has no problem doing it.