In the dusty, litter-strewn corridors of Nilgiri House, IIT Delhi, there is in practice a game so ancient, so unique and so arcane that scarcely anyone on the outside is even aware of it. This game has a history and yet no name, an audience and yet no applause, and it is, by and large, the only game on the planet that is played everyday. I wish I could name it and make it my own, but the task is too momentous; so I shall, for the sake of this one take, call it Hit-the-Shitpot.
Hit-the-Shitpot is a bastard. The mother is Nilgiri, of course, and she never takes lovers. A million guys have laid claim to both her and the child, and they’ve all bitten dust. The conception thus remains in doubt, but the rules go somewhat like this:
Every morning a resident of Nilgiri wakes up, shakes the bunnies off and leaves his room to answer nature’s call. When the call is minor, the game is called off. If, however, it turns out that the player must not just pee, it is, by decree, called Game On.
First, the player must reach the nearest Khula Hugga. This is defined, in rough parlance, as the first open shithouse you can find.
Now the player must try to enter, or peek in. Very often the smell itself is enough, and it is advisable to follow your nose. Once the peeking or the sniffing is done, one of the following two cases may arise.
The pot (assuredly Indian for all the Westerns are smashed to smithereens as part of the game’s patriotic flavor) might be occupied. The occupant might be human, either asleep or addled, or it might be a mound of crap (same difference). In this case, the player must run with shock, disgust or twisted bliss. All three are allowed
Then the last step must be repeated for the next-nearest Khula Hugga.
In the second case, the pot is free. The player must then enter, disrobe in the way his daddy taught him, sit on his haunches, open the morning paper if he may so desire, and shit.
That’s all about the rules. Now comes the important part: the part that decides whether the player is just a common victor (for a chance to crap is victory in itself) or a gifted champion. Here is how it goes.
The player, on instinct, at some point during the shitting process, turns on the tap. Now, if Mother Nilgiri is in a happy mood, there shall be water, water and water everywhere. Then the player must curse his luck, wash and leave. It was not his day. On the other hand, if Mata is pissed off, the tap shall spill a few drops, and then no more.
It is now that the line is drawn.
The commoner will go out, get water somehow, wash up, clean up the cubicle and leave. Good for him.
The true Nilbull, on the other hand, shall never stoop so low. He is not one to waste his time on trifles. He shall not fetch water, he shall not wash. Never. Not even if he has just splattered loosies all around. He shall simply pull up his pants and leave. He is the ideal winner, the Pete Sampras of tennis, the Don Bradman of cricket. The Sabse Aage Ladka.
But the reason that this game is such a delight is that is doesn’t end here. Every once in a while there comes a man so special that words stutter in his wake, descriptions fall way short, and Father Fate bows in awe before his might. This man shall turn on the tap, find his mom happy and giving, and then, with a sagacious smile, turn it the other way. With a flourish he shall rise, with another he shall yank his pants. And then, with the confidence of the eternal conqueror, he shall unlock the door and depart, leaving in his wake a territory full of his own crap till the next brave man makes his move.
This champion is the Roger Federer of tennis, the Sachin Tendulkar of cricket. He is the Alexandar of war: the quintessential Veer Launda.
There are a few men who are ineligible for this great game. They are those who sing while shitting (that’s against the rules for its unfair to the game’s spirit of anticipation), those who don’t lock their doors just for the fun of keeping others from victory, and those who simply don’t take a shit in their own hostel. These last are considered the worst breed of betrayers, and they are looked down upon by every exponent of Hit-the-Shitpot.
At the end I must say that if you ever spot the true dude I mentioned a while back, make sure you give him a hug. I am a traitor myself (yes, I admit, the worst kind), but earlier today I met with a change of heart. While shaving I found this person who went in, crapped and came out in under two minutes. The pungent smell was unmistakable, there was certainly water to be had, and as the person passed me on his way out (he wouldn’t wash his hands, the master) evening sunlight from one of the windows caught his face in the soft light of dying embers. In that light I saw the smile, the one of utter relief, satisfaction, disdain and unending glory.
I was so smitten by that moment that I forgot I had lather all over my face, I forgot there is something called civil decency, I forgot even that I don’t kiss guys on principle, and I ran over and smacked the Launda’s cheek loud and clean. I stamped my feet a hundred times, and I cried at the top of my voice:
“SABSE AAGE LADKE KAUN!!! NILBULLS!!! NILBULLS!!! VEER BAHADUR LADKE KAUN!!! NILBULLS!!! NILBULLS!!!”
Long live Hit-the-Shitpot, and long live its champs.
