You sit on the commode like a king,
but it doesn't rain with thunder
like it usually does.
You give in, come out of the
bathroom confused, wondering
If you should have washed your
misfired cannon or not.
You sip black coffee to trigger
your bowels, then sabja seeds
to build up the pressure.
Breakfast goes in, just hoping to
come out, but today it's in no hurry.
The stock market opens,
Arnab screams in reels,
the traffic moves, people go to
work, and you too join the race.
But you got unfinished business.
The anticipation of which holds
you captive every half an hour.
You carry the discomfort into
office, meetings, small talk, and
even lunch-- Geopolitics,
Climate change, who's nailing who,
when is the appraisal?
Everything goes on the usual
platter, except your colon.
On days like this, your gut
feeling is often flatulence.
The anxiety eventually turns
into a neat philosophy-
What is a man who has not
defecated? Is free will real?
Should the right to defecation
be part of human dignity in
Article 21?
The growling in your belly
changes the relativity of time.
The time dilation reminds you
How Buddha died of diarrhea
and you think how lucky he was.
Every decision feels blocked.
Every emotion feels backed up.
The kind of awakening you're
pushed into by evening-
You are spiritually constipated
and every philosophical question
seems to wait to be answered
by the same damn pressure.
And then, suddenly, late in the
night, when the body speaks-
The fluency of pressure pushes
you into a simulation-
For a while you're under that
goddamn Bodhi tree, and you
realise that enlightenment may
have been greatly exaggerated.
And if asses could speak,
Every fyn shyt would be a
preaching and every bathroom
would be a consecration.
Which, in all reasonableness,
even now, is no less than a
place of worship.