Jugal Mody - Turds Of Gold

TURDS OF GOLD

JUGAL MODY

To Nayana Mody, Naresh Mody and Abhishek Mody

Dramatis Personae

The Gholte-Butala Family

Nikunj Gholte-Butala Protagonist

Nikita Gholte-Butala Digital Marketing champ and Nikunjs older sister

Vipulbhai Gholte Assistant to Dr Garodia and Nikunjs father

Ilaben Gholte-Butala Home chef and Nikunjs mother

Abhimanyu Nikitas boyfriend

Nikunjs Friend Circle

Buzzcut Beatmaker

Ghaps Rapper

Raveena Buzzcuts love interest and future manager of the friend circle

Utkarsha Ghapss love interest

Fehmida TikTok influencer and Nikunjs love interest

The Sheths

Kalpeshbhai Nikunjs client, who hasnt pooped in 20 years

Kashmira bhabhi Kalpeshbhais wife and primary caregiver

The Sheth Family Owners of the nations bestselling laxative, Param Churna

Dr Garodias Clinic

Dr Garodia Muscular Puncturopathy Therapist

Rameshbhai Dr Garodias devoted patient and deputy to Vipulbhai

Diksha bhabhi Rameshbhais wife and primary caregiver

The Picnic Dr Garodias waiting room, full of devoted patients

Nikunjs Caregiving Circle

Dhiraj Nikunjs caregiving mentor, who later becomes his manager

Kapil Karmarkar Disability rights activist, social worker, and Nikunjs client

Navinbhai, Dharmeshbhai, Prafuldada and others Nikunjs clients

Ilabens Circle of Influential Ladies

Shardaben Ilabens best friend and tiffin business partner

Toral bhabhi Their younger, savvier neighbour who joins the tiffin business

Hansaben Shardabens elder sister and jhaad phook dabbler

Chhotiben Shardabens aunt and jhaad phook expert

Contents

D hiraj was rarely ever late, but on that day, he was. The highway was chock-a-block, as he weaved his way between cars, rickshaws, buses and trucks, riding his bike on dividers and footpaths, slipping in and out of the service lane, to ensure he somehow made up on lost time. His client, Dharmeshbhai of the famous Ghatkopar House of Gathiyas, wasnt the kindest soul and didnt mince words when it came to airing his grievances.

Dhiraj was a freelance caregiver, aka a half-nurse. People with disabilities and the elderly enlisted his services to help them perform their daily activities from bathing to enemas to physiotherapy exercises. While Dharmeshbhai had been temporarily disabled due to a freak accident, his recovery had taken the longest because he refused to follow any of the instructions given by his doctors or take any of the medication prescribed.

Unfortunately for Dhiraj, he had to drive past Vile Parle to get to the SantacruzChembur Link Road on his way to Ghatkopar. The moment he passed the Bahar Cinema junction, and crossed the invisible border between Andheri and Vile Parle, he felt every last bit of water being drained from his body. His stomach caved in. His breakfast churned in his intestines, and bubbles of gas that tasted like deconstructed milk tea escaped his mouth in the form of a burp.

Dhirajs elbows fell weak and he hit the brakes before he could hurt himself. Breathless and drenched in sweat, he felt all the undigested food in his stomach make a beeline for his anus. He dropped his bike sideways, and tried to recompose himself. He looked at his watch, and cursed his wife for not checking if the milk had gone bad before making tea with it.

To his surprise, a lot of the vehicles around him were pulling over, and their occupants falling out of their car seats on to the side of the highway. Some curled up in a foetal position. Others screamed in the vain hope of finding a bathroom to use.

Finally settling into this unsettled state, Dhiraj picked his bike up and continued riding till he reached the airport junction, which was full of hotels and a couple of public toilets all of which had long lines snaking outside them already. Finally, he gave up on decency, sneaked into the ruins of Jas Hotel, the one abandoned hotel and relieved himself. He looked at his watch to see that it was already time for his appointment. His phone started ringing and flashing Dharmeshbhais name and face. He ignored the call because he was, nonetheless, going to get an earful when he got there. Why take the call and be told off, he reasoned to himself.

Someone from another dark corner of the ruins shouted, SHUT YOUR PHONE! I CANT GO!

Maybe the news channels were not lying. They had said that an unknown loose motion epidemic had suddenly hit the people of Vile Parle. The week before, it had been Grant Road and gas, and the week before that it had been Chinchpokli and constipation. Most people didnt take it seriously till it hit their area.

When Dhiraj felt he had no more to add to the ruins of the long-forgotten Jas Hotel, he pulled out the wet wipes he always carried with him for his clients. He shouted, Best of luck! to the man in the other corner, and got back on his bike to get to Ghatkopar. On his way, he stopped by a zunka bhakar centre to grab a nimbu pani to rehydrate. His completely empty stomach felt unsettled with nausea and exhaustion. As soon as Dhiraj crossed the next signal and entered Santacruz, his stomach felt fine again. Like none of what had transpired in the last half an hour which felt like many hours ago now had happened at all.

That was the moment Dhiraj knew that whatever was affecting the city of Mumbai, everything that he had been ignoring in the news, was not natural. He remembered the stories his guru had told him: Of Tatti Raja, a superhealer, who could make anybody poop on command and, with that poop, heal any stomach illness that person had.

Dhiraj prayed for the arrival of Tatti Raja.

A gastric epidemic was affecting the stomachs of Mumbai like it was playing an idle tap mobile game on a map of the city. It was an epidemic made of many small epidemics, ranging from constipation to loose motion. It affected a suburb and every house there would have at least one infected person for a few weeks, and then moved on to the next. The government had no idea what had hit the city. None of the food and water tests showed anything abnormal. The germ levels were, as they always were, a little higher than the healthy limit.

Mulund had so far escaped the wrath of the tummy troubles. Nikunj Gholte-Butala had lived all his life in the Gujarati part of this Central Line suburb, in a 1BHK, a lane away from the lane famous for having the highest number of farsan shops in the city. Oil fumes always hung low over the street from the constant frying and consumption of snacks.

Nikunj had just finished his BA from one of those colleges with a really long name. Being the younger of two siblings, and the only son, he wasnt expected to contribute financially (or otherwise) to the family till he got a job. Nikunj still didnt know what he planned to do with his life once the summer of 2018 was over and he got his BA final year results. His worst-case scenario was to apply for a loan, buy a bike and work for one of the food delivery apps or runner services. He could always join his uncles farsan shop, but he didnt want to because, one, it was all the way in Kandivali and, two, farsan wasnt really his thing (tandoori chicken and anda bhurji were more his jam). He couldnt join his other uncles accountancy practice because he was an Arts student.

Nikunj wondered what direction his life would take once the results came out. His classmates joked about how this would be the last vacation of their lives. Some had even made TikTok videos, shooting themselves in slow motion. Others had already gotten jobs in offices, where someone from their family worked, or at their fathers shops, or taken up economy gigs. Three classmates joined small digital agencies as actual paid interns. One classmate joined an animal rights NGO, and another joined a Mulund-based cable news and infotainment channel. The only ones left were Buzzcut, Ghaps (short for Ghapaghap) and Nikunj, who were a group on WhatsApp, on the last bench of their class, and in real life.