HOLDING….AND LETTING GO: THE BALLAD OF FLATULENCE It had actually started few minutes after I walked out of that darn restaurant.  It was a regular run of the mill buffet; Tandoori  Chicken, mutter paneer, butter chicken, youknowwhatImean Korma and some stale dessert they perhaps made few days ago.  The ‘Delhi Palace’, ‘Taste of India’, “Rasoi’, ‘Hyderabad Kitchen’ whatever name it had, I mean who cares,  was so lackluster I wanted to turn around and bolt the moment I stepped in . But the cute hostess made up for whatever misery that restaurant had to offer.  I almost asked her name and number the moment I realized she had F1 visa written all over her.  A Bollywood movie in the local AMC, an ice cream and a Coach handbag would have at least got me somewhere if not inside her pants. I had tried that once, talking to this cutie from Senegal  attending IIT over the phone who was more than eager to spend weekend with me over a nice dinner. She was so beautiful, she would give Naomi Campbell a run for money, but I chickened out at the last moment and didn’t answer her calls. Not sure about Senegal, but them Africans do have HIV and I didn’t want to do something that would land me up shit creek without a paddle. And I am not as rich as Magic Johnson. I looked at that cutie again, she smiled back. And for a second I wondered why I was the only person who she bequeathed, with all her attention. And then looked around and noticed there wasn’t a single person in that restaurant except me.  Of all places in Chicago, I had to eat in that f$#Ked up restaurant in WIllowbrook.   The reason I chose Indian buffet is because of the fact that I had skipped breakfast that morning, ate only salad last night and wasn’t sure when I’d get to eat dinner that night. It was Friday and I had been at work since 5:00am to make up for leaving early that day. And before I forget to mention, I was actually driving to Springfield to meet a girl – a Nepali girl. And to make it sound more interesting, I was actually going to marry her if everything went okay. Great undertaking, I know, for a woman I was yet to meet, but we had talked on phone for over a month, chatted in yahoo messenger, talked to her sister, her brother in law, her mother in Nepal  and saw a picture of her stupid dog I was forced to call ‘cute’. Actually it was a set-up which started with her picture my mother had emailed me, a young 25 year old from Battisputali, 5’4”, Gyanodaya, Xavier’s and TU and who  looked  sexy in sari. However I had made one thing clear to both my mom and hers - that is, if we weren’t compatible I’d call it off.  I define compatibility in simple terms - nice pair of t!ts and a fine a$$. Heck I am but just an ordinary man; I have ordinary needs like ya’ll do. She was visiting her sister for Dashain , from Nepal. She was returning back before Tihar but if we liked each other she would stay for another few months until the visa expired or maybe we’d get married and she wouldn’t have to worry about visa at all. That kinda surprised me a little considering how times have changed and how wealthy people have become to send their kids to United States to celebrate Dashain. I remember my father travelling to US back in early eighties; I was a kid back then but was aware that the entire neighborhood knew he was travelling. Now that chick’s sister was almost twice her age whose kids went to Northwestern and Loyola. I actually met her nephew, a wildcat sophomore who rolled up a fine joint as we drove after dinner at this Korean place.  An awesome dude, we got along just fine.  Who would have thought that the kid of a nerdy professor at UIS was a pothead. My future sister in law had married a thin and lanky bespectacled professor who spoke as if he was going to commit suicide the next moment. Anyways, so it had started right after I walked out of that Indian place. My stomach grumbled as if I had eaten a bomb that was somehow diffused miraculously halfway through the explosion. I sat down in the car and thought for a second if I needed to get back in that restaurant and use the rest room. Moments later I was southbound I-55.  ********************************************************************************************** “Mmmmmphhhh” I grunted one last time with my jaws clenched and eyes closed to no success. I had waited for that last person in the rest room to walk out of the door before I made that noise. After driving for an hour I had to find this rest area to respond to my bowel movement which, to my dismay, automatically stopped the moment I pulled my pants down. After  15 minutes of unsuccessful attempt of emptying my bowel, I was back on the road again, listening to 50 cents and rocking my body back and forth trying to generate that pressure again.   **********************************************************************************************  “Namaste!” She greeted me with a smile as she opened the door.  Her sister Sujata Dijju was hotter than I had expected, much hotter for a woman in her forties who looked like a fusion of Arundhati Roy and Manjushree Thapa. Dressed in yoga pants and Bears Tee shirt, she had painted nails and toned biceps, it looked she worked out every day. She was extremely pretty. “Namaste!” Greeted another young female with an accent who looked like young  Zeenat Aman. She probably was her freshman daughter at Loyola, who would’ve come home for the weekend. Mandira, the eighteen year old towered me by almost two inches which made me extremely uncomfortable, she played basketball in college. Behind her was the woman I had been dying to see in person. Shailaja, my future wife was wearing a salwar kurta. Seriously, did they all think I was such a freaking prude? I gaped for a few seconds and a moment of silence ensued before I awkwardly hugged her. I have to be honest, I never hugged a woman in salwar kameez other than my mom and aunts and cousins until that moment. I then stepped back and examined her in detail. She was beautiful, more beautiful than any woman I had been with, actually she was so pretty I thought I didn’t deserve her at all. In a nutshell, every female in that house were HOT. But Mr. Professor was an entirely different story. He wore plaid shirt and old fashion dungaree and was devoted to the grill outside. When I first laid my eyes on him, he was examining a piece of chicken closely, few inches from his nose, holding it with a pair of tongs and completely ignoring my existence. “Oh hello!” was the only word he said….. ….that was before he was drunk.  ********************************************************************************************** After three bottles of Corona I started feeling I was back in Kathmandu and at my own neighborhood. I was glad they avoided talks of politics and career and Teej and Dashain.  Mr. Professor had already belted two bottles of beer and was now acting weird. He spoke about his current research for fifteen minutes which almost put us to sleep, including that poor yorkie who crept inside the coffee table and rested on his forelimbs. “Dad stop!” Cried Mandira,” let’s eat now can we?” As expected there were more dishes than that Indian restaurant I had visited in the afternoon. I was nauseated the moment I looked at them. I already had few pieces of barbecued chicken, some edamame and shrimp dumplings as snacks. “Can I skip dinner please?” I asked fearfully. “I know you are full” said Sujata dijju “but you need to taste the tama-curry Shailaja has made” I almost said I hate bamboo shoots but that would draw ire from everyone, including my mother back in Nepal who had no friggin’ clue how full I was. I conceded and took some tama curry and rice. The first spoonful of rice and tama did the trick. My bowel which was silent for last four hours rumbled tremendously as soon as I swallowed the first bite - as if it were a catalyst. I put a straight face and stopped breathing. I read it somewhere that sudden stoppage of respiration stops the urge for nature’s call. I took another spoonful of rice and the bowel grumbled more violently this time. As I stared at infinity thinking about sprinting to the bathroom I realized how awkward it would be to leave my half-finished meal and everyone at the dining table and disappear for good ten minutes. “How is the curry?” Shailaja asked curiously. I smiled painfully and nodded. It was the third bite when it escaped, that pungent whiff of gas that silently found a way out of my rear orifice and diluted into the air instantly. As the smell hit my nostrils I almost wept out of embarrassment. This was the smelliest fart I had ever emitted. I remember how me and my brother used to fart and aggravate each other as kids and they did smell bad at times – but not like this one. This was not a fart, this was more like a dead skunk which had been garnished with garlic and onion and stored and aged at one’s basement for over a month and then someone suddenly opened its door. I tried to smile and tried to concentrate on varsity basketball Mandira was speaking of. Nothing happened for the next two minutes. I emptied my plate and carried it to the sink and despite my urge to run towards the bathroom I returned to the dining table. That was exactly when the second batch of gas oozed out. Thankfully it was still silent, but was ten times more malodorous than the previous one. The little yorkie, who was still under the coffee table and was right behind me suddenly stood up and started barking. “Eww, what is that?” Mandira frowned, “something smells bad”. “Not sure” her mother replied, “Can you please close the glass door? I saw a dead squirrel the other day near the deck” A dead squirrel? Seriously? Is that what my fart smelled like? I was thinking and laughing about that newly acquired adjective when Mr Professor suddenly blurted out the inevitable. “It smells like fart” He said taking a long swill of beer with his eyes closed. He was clearly drunk. “Shut up! You are drunk Mukund” Sujata Dijju hushed. The next five minutes of my life was full of pure agony. I let the gas out once each minute, but in minuscule amount, only enough for that yorkie to bark.  That stupid mongrel barked five times in five minutes. He stood right behind my chair, perhaps aiming at my ass and was growling the entire time, ready to bark when I'd shoot the gas again. I then felt something brewing deep inside my belly and confirmed that stopping it or letting go in installments would be an apocalypse. “I will be right back” as I said and lunged towards the rest room. No drama was necessary, I had been on my best behavior for last three hours and I needed to dump and since it would be highly embarrassing and morally inappropriate and perhaps  a federal crime to defecate at the dining table. No shame on that, I did the right thing by leaving for the rest room. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Who knew restraining flatulence could be so life threatening. As I walked to the rest room I thought about the books written about one’s inability to hold sexual urges, or robbing a bank because of hunger or killing someone for self-defense. All subjects equally vital for one’s survival -  but not once, did some brave heart speak about the need to defecate and how holding it would result in unsavory consequences.  ********************************************************************************************** “Prrruttt……Praatt….Booink…..Sloth…gloth…bloth”  My sound coming off my buns was anything but ordinary.  I tried to do it slowly, silently, and in installments like before, before letting it all go. But it seemed that the levee just broke the moment I sat on the commode, everything I ingested in last six hours went down the ceramic bowl in less than fifteen seconds. I then spent the next thirty seconds breathing heavily. This was orgasmic, I felt like I ejaculated inside Uma Thurman. Actually I contemplated what would I do first? Poop when my life is at stake or have sex with Uma Thurman? After this day I’d not even think of the latter. The entire bathroom smelled like a chemistry lab where Hydrogen sulphide and Phosphene were prepared simultaneously. The smell was so bad I almost puked over my own fart. It was then I remembered I forgot to turn on the exhaust fan. With the speed of Cheetah I sprang from the commode, before even wiping myself and switched on that goddamn fan. It whirred and came to life instantly, but the damage was already done, with what that small bathroom contained, even nine more fans wouldn’t have helped. I then looked for that room freshener scavenging the drawers and closet to no avail. Defeated, I cleaned myself, washed my hands throughlly, looked myself at the mirror and brushed my hair with my fingers before I unlocked the door and stepped outside praying no one would use the restroom for next ten minutes….. ……only to find Shailaja waiting.  Last edited: 10-Oct-13 12:09 PM