Smelling Crime

Marie-Rita looked thoughtfully at the corpse of the toothpaste tube in her hand. An otherwise ordinary day of lunch and laughter dissipated as the she continued to examine this tube, its plastic body twisted grotesquely. I thought I had replaced it this morning, she thought to herself, recalling that she had been instructing her husband to add his laundry to the pile before the bathroom door. This is really odd or have I started to forget things. No. She tucked the corner of her pallu across her waist, hitching up the front pleats to pull the saree a little above her calves, determined to reprimand her husband, Raj, who must have undone her work. He must have soaked the clothes for washing but forgotten to throw away the old tube of toothpaste. No sooner had she come to this conclusion than she marched downstairs and dramatically held up the emaciated tube before Raj. Barely awake from the prawn-curry induced siesta, Raj blinked at it. Other members of the household began to stir as if they could smell the impatience of the homemaker about to upbraid the husband. Inquiry conducted in soft suppuration yielded no solution. Raj’s attempts at reassurance were readily dismissed and Marie-Rita, climbed back up the stairs to finish with the washing. Young Xo, her favorite pet, followed at her heel, knowing full well that pretending to assist in household chores was always rewarded with hilarious scatological stories. Little Zia and littler Zlo were having a very quiet conversation huddled in the gap between the cupboard and window in the inner room while Mother began to boil water for tea in the kitchen.

Marie-Rita reached the top of the stairs just as she finished introducing the story’s protagonists; Xo hurrying behind, climbing two steps at a time to keep up with the plot. Flinging the tube under the sink, Marie sat down on the short wooden stool and proceeded to take the soaking clothes out of the bucket. After two shirts and a trouser were thoroughly investigated for hidden money, lurking handkerchiefs or rogue receipts, she glanced into the bucket. There were more clothes, which was fine. But the water inside was not. Normally, the foamy suds would subside into pale, soapy water that grays with all the dirt gleaned off the clothes. This had strange white globules, floating mysteriously.

Xo’s importuning to repeat the nastier details of the story brought Marie’s attention out of the bucket to the naughty glint in her niece’s eyes. Stories like these were taboo in her own house, Mother’s diktat favouring educational and moral lore. The hero in the story having upset the king by letting loose a nasty fart as he walked by was in danger of losing his head. The soldiers had gathered around him, one twisting his arms behind him to clamp the chains of punishment. Xo could barely contain her giggles but Marie’s determination to build the tension was momentarily halted as she unfurled another wet shirt from the bucket. Something odd and undetergent-like was smeared across it. She brought it closer, trying to smudge it away, only to realize that the glob spread evenly over the fabric. Xo, peering over her shoulder to discover the reason for the hero’s halted fate, squealed in disgust. Pigeon poo, ewww. Marie smiled. Yes, a pigeon came all the way and shat into the bucket, pooping exactly on your uncle’s shirt collar. But this glob was bothersome. Because it had gone forth and multiplied on most of the remaining clothes in the bucket.

On a sudden impulse, she decided to smell it, much to Xo’s amusement. Minty fresh. But how?

The ghost of the tortured tube of toothpaste glinted in the corner. Xo, were you playing with the paste? No. Xo, did you brush your teeth in this bathroom in the morning. No. Hmm.

What about the hero? Was he beheaded for farting before the king? Xo was not concerned with the mystery of the glob once it was established not to be pigeon shit. Half an hour of scouring and scrubbing, the clothes were clean; rinsed repeatedly though still smelling minty fresh.

The clothes peg snapped firmly onto the shirt, holding it still under the sun, just as the hero breathed a sigh of relief. The king, accidently smelling the basket of jasmine garlands that was lying near the hero, concluded that the offending fart was indeed fragrant. The king put him under house arrest and appointed a council to examine his shit daily. The hero was wily. Every morning he would smuggle a jasmine garland in his underwear and when ordered to poop would release the butt warmed flowers into the chamber pot.

Xo handed the last peg as the princess’s hand was offered in marriage to this hero. Back inside the house, the family was gathering around tea and bajjis, as Xo and Marie walked in, the latter reciting the menu of the wedding feast which the eager groom wolfed down. The man who had pooped only flowers for a month! Xo’s enjoyment blossomed with the culinary details. Zlo and Zia were still rapt in deep conversation, not lured by the aroma of the food in the room. But the groom kept eating, aunty. He just kept eating. What will happen to him?

Marie decided to retrieve new table napkins from the cupboard in the inner room, Xo’s questions trailing behind her. She bent down to reach for the lowest shelf. And she smelt it. Minty freshness. Minty fresh Zlo and Zia peered at her not unlike the fart oppressed hero in the story. Xo began to say something again. What do you think happened?

All shit came loose…

Zlo and Zia were summoned to the main hall. Investigations began. Bored out of their minds, these two had snuck upstairs after lunch. The room was bare, the bathroom more so. Except for the bucket with clothes and the new tube of paste next to it. This 500 mg Salome of oral hygiene rolled invitingly in Zlo’s hands. She tasted it. She Eve-ed some to a very compliant Zia. Tempting as it was, they could not eat all of it. Neither would it leave their fingers. It stuck like sin. They tried everything. Washing their hands in the soapy water. Smearing it on their T-shirts.

But the stench of mischief did not abandon them.