diarrhoea, even cancer and AIDS. But what really got my attention was that urine could cure baldness.
‘Yes, yes,’ Dr Prakash smiled. ‘You put urine on the scalp and the hair should grow.’
‘That would require spectacular aim, Mr Prakash.’
‘No, no. You have to use old urine.’
‘Old urine?’ I had images of trying to milk geriatric men. Or worse, bowing before them in public urinals. ‘All I’m asking is for you to …’
‘The urine has to be four days old and left out in the sun, then applied to the affected area,’ he said, making a rubbing motion on his scalp.
‘Yeah … but the smell.’
‘Sure, but if you want the benefit, then this is a small price.’
When I gave a look that suggested that the author had been drinking too much of the stuff, Mr Prakash lit up.
‘Anyway, you should use it to treat your malaria. There is this woman who was close to death. She has the leukaemia. She tries everything but nothing works. But then she is given the urine treatment – no food, just urine – and she is cured.’
‘What is she doing now?’
‘Oh …’ he sighed. ‘She is dead. Hit by a bus.’
Mr Prakash took me outside to watch the school assembly. The students marched ankle-deep in the sand of their quadrangle, then sat in rows and prayed to Saraswati, the Goddess of Knowledge, who was depicted above them in a picture in which she played a long-necked string instrument called a veena . I watched a male lyrebird fly down from a wall behind the students and peck at morsels of food left in the sand.
What struck me the most about the assembly was not the pressed blue shirts that were so remarkably neat and clean in such a dusty landscape, but that there were only 25 girls among the hundred or so boys and they sat in segregated lots. When I asked the principal about the disparity he said, ‘Families do not think that girls need education. They will only get married or work on the farms.’
I spent two nights in Shergarh and on the morning that I was leaving I had tea with Rikesh at his house. His parents, in their 60s, sat in the shadows like old furniture.
‘When will you come back?’ asked Rikesh.
‘I’m not sure. Thank you for everything,’ I said. We hugged and I wheeled the bike through sand until the bitumen resurfaced like a buried elephant’s back.
I turned over my shoulder to see Rikesh still there, shrinking in the distance. He had been a good friend for the past two days, showing me around the town and introducing me to his friends. He had a gentle kindness, a quiet humility I immediately felt when I first met him. I hoped to see him one day again.
The quietness of the desert reminded me that I was now alone again. My only company was the knocking gait of my chain, the slow sound of my breath drawing in and the odd shift of tools in my luggage.
Faced with no one to talk to, I talked to myself and sang. For some reason, old television commercials crept up from my childhood vault.
Up, up and away with TAA, the friendly way to FLLLYYYY!
Not long after this, I found another part of my body singing, as I squatted, pants hoisted down, stomach grumbling its own sonata over a small cactus. The sudden eruption seemed to settle things down … for a while, until again I found myself stirring up an aria over a culvert. I felt decidedly ill.
In my haste, I had punctured the front tyre on a thorny branch. I searched around in my front pannier for my tools when The Golden Fountain flopped out.
Now, I hadn’t been overly impressed by the principal’s suggestion of drinking my own piss, but something in The Golden Fountain made sense. It said that urine, being a natural antiseptic, would kill germs in the digestive tract. Hmm. And I needed to pee.
I took my drink bottle from its cage on the bike, drank the rest of the water and looked around. No one. Furtively, I whizzed away and felt the warm urine crawl up the bottle. I looked inside; it was the colour of a beer including
‘Yes, yes,’ Dr Prakash smiled. ‘You put urine on the scalp and the hair should grow.’
‘That would require spectacular aim, Mr Prakash.’
‘No, no. You have to use old urine.’
‘Old urine?’ I had images of trying to milk geriatric men. Or worse, bowing before them in public urinals. ‘All I’m asking is for you to …’
‘The urine has to be four days old and left out in the sun, then applied to the affected area,’ he said, making a rubbing motion on his scalp.
‘Yeah … but the smell.’
‘Sure, but if you want the benefit, then this is a small price.’
When I gave a look that suggested that the author had been drinking too much of the stuff, Mr Prakash lit up.
‘Anyway, you should use it to treat your malaria. There is this woman who was close to death. She has the leukaemia. She tries everything but nothing works. But then she is given the urine treatment – no food, just urine – and she is cured.’
‘What is she doing now?’
‘Oh …’ he sighed. ‘She is dead. Hit by a bus.’
Mr Prakash took me outside to watch the school assembly. The students marched ankle-deep in the sand of their quadrangle, then sat in rows and prayed to Saraswati, the Goddess of Knowledge, who was depicted above them in a picture in which she played a long-necked string instrument called a veena . I watched a male lyrebird fly down from a wall behind the students and peck at morsels of food left in the sand.
What struck me the most about the assembly was not the pressed blue shirts that were so remarkably neat and clean in such a dusty landscape, but that there were only 25 girls among the hundred or so boys and they sat in segregated lots. When I asked the principal about the disparity he said, ‘Families do not think that girls need education. They will only get married or work on the farms.’
I spent two nights in Shergarh and on the morning that I was leaving I had tea with Rikesh at his house. His parents, in their 60s, sat in the shadows like old furniture.
‘When will you come back?’ asked Rikesh.
‘I’m not sure. Thank you for everything,’ I said. We hugged and I wheeled the bike through sand until the bitumen resurfaced like a buried elephant’s back.
I turned over my shoulder to see Rikesh still there, shrinking in the distance. He had been a good friend for the past two days, showing me around the town and introducing me to his friends. He had a gentle kindness, a quiet humility I immediately felt when I first met him. I hoped to see him one day again.
The quietness of the desert reminded me that I was now alone again. My only company was the knocking gait of my chain, the slow sound of my breath drawing in and the odd shift of tools in my luggage.
Faced with no one to talk to, I talked to myself and sang. For some reason, old television commercials crept up from my childhood vault.
Up, up and away with TAA, the friendly way to FLLLYYYY!
Not long after this, I found another part of my body singing, as I squatted, pants hoisted down, stomach grumbling its own sonata over a small cactus. The sudden eruption seemed to settle things down … for a while, until again I found myself stirring up an aria over a culvert. I felt decidedly ill.
In my haste, I had punctured the front tyre on a thorny branch. I searched around in my front pannier for my tools when The Golden Fountain flopped out.
Now, I hadn’t been overly impressed by the principal’s suggestion of drinking my own piss, but something in The Golden Fountain made sense. It said that urine, being a natural antiseptic, would kill germs in the digestive tract. Hmm. And I needed to pee.
I took my drink bottle from its cage on the bike, drank the rest of the water and looked around. No one. Furtively, I whizzed away and felt the warm urine crawl up the bottle. I looked inside; it was the colour of a beer including
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