Turds Of Gold

By Jugal Mody

Bombay is suffering from a severe gastric epidemic of inexplicable origins. A young freelance caregiver, Nikunj, discovers that he has the superpower to make anyone poop, and with that poop, cure the person of any stomach ailments. As Nikunj begins to help people, and make money using his superpower, things start looking up for him. Till he meets Kalpeshbhai, a billionaire paraplegic whose family owns Param Churna, India's best selling Ayurvedic cure for constipation. Kalpeshbhai, who hasn't pooped in over two decades, hires Nikunj to heal him.

Will Nikunj's superpower be able to make Kalpeshbhai poop? Will they cure Bombay of the gastric epidemic?

Irreverent, audacious, and hilarious, Turds of Gold is a story of greed, blind belief and small miracles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins India
• Release date: Feb 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9789354894213

Jugal Mody

Jugal Mody has worked with storytelling, design and digitalmedia across sectors from journalism to gaming. His firstnovel, Toke (HarperCollins India, 2012), was about stonerssaving the world from zombies. He has also written Indianactor and star Alia Bhatt's official mobile game, Alia Bhatt:Star Life (Moonfrog Labs, 2017), a narrative adventure setin the Hindi film industry. Jugal was also a consulting editorwith the award-winning feminist magazine The Ladies Fingerand has collaborated on projects with comedian Aditi Mittaland online comics platform Brainded India.

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Prologue

Dhiraj 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, wasn’t the kindest soul and didn’t 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 Santacruz–Chembur 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.

Dhiraj’s 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 Dharmeshbhai’s 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 CAN’T 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 didn’t 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.

1

Agastric 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 wasn’t expected to contribute financially (or otherwise) to the family till he got a job. Nikunj still didn’t 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 uncle’s farsan shop, but he didn’t want to because, one, it was all the way in Kandivali and, two, farsan wasn’t really his thing (tandoori chicken and anda bhurji were more his jam). He couldn’t join his other uncle’s 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 father’s 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.

The whole ‘last-vacation-ever’ business got to their heads. So Buzzcut, Ghaps and Nikunj decided to make it the most vela summer of their lives. The three of them pooled in Rs 2000 and bought 100 grams of weed. Every afternoon, Ghaps stole three bottles of beer from her family’s wine shop, and met Buzzcut and Nikunj in the garden on one corner of the neighbourhood maidan. While everyone else played cricket, the trio sat under a tree in a corner and proceeded to get bombed. Twice, they rode triples on Buzzcut’s bike and went to a resort in Virar, via Ghodbunder Road. The resort gave them an AC room and access to the pool for the day for 500 bucks. They pooled in the petrol money and ate at the food stalls on the beach outside the resort.

True to his name, Buzzcut had a buzzcut. Every week or two, when his hair grew out, he changed the inscription on the buzzed part of the cut. His hair art always had the motif of a lightning bolt. Buzzcut always wore a hoodie (with the hood off), no matter how hot it got in summer. And to go with the hoodies, Buzzcut had two pairs of jeans and one pair of cargo pants.

Ghaps’s real name was Gayatri Kumar. She was damn pissed about it. Only aunties were called Gayatri, she said. Larger than life and with something to say about everything, Ghaps always wore a colourful cotton Indian-style skirt with a bright shirt or a T-shirt with some catchphrase printed on it. She always had clip-on piercings on her face and earrings, which she removed only when she slept. She had given herself the nickname ‘Ghapaghap’ because when she was hungry, she ate pani puri ghapaghap, when she was drinking, she did shots ghapaghap, and when she rapped, she ‘put rhyme on rhyme ghapaghap, bachi!’ When she spoke, she even cussed ghapaghap.

Ghaps’s rhymes were always accompanied by Buzzcut’s beats. But she still hadn’t had the chance to showcase talent of rapping, cussing, cussing while rapping, and rapping while cussing anywhere outside of Instagram. Secretly, both Buzzcut and Nikunj knew, she was afraid to try because she was afraid she would fail. Instagram and YouTube were safe spaces because then you always had a ready excuse: ‘I’ve just not been discovered yet.’

That day, Ghaps had stolen six bottles of beer. ‘Aaj Saturday hai and Saturdays should have more chill in them.’

Buzzcut, whose bag was their official weed storage unit, agreed. ‘Toh aaj, we double the number of joints too.’ He pulled out two fat kalis instead of one.

After six joints and six bottles of beer, the three of them were successfully swimming in a place just outside reality. That’s when Ghaps’s phone dinged. She picked it up to see a notification from their one and only fan: Utkarsha.

‘Bachi! This Utkarsha chick is really into our sound, isn’t she?’

‘Or she’s into one of you?’ said Nikunj.

‘Band bana nahi, Yoko pehle aa gayi?’ Buzzcut laughed even though he was actually afraid of Utkarsha turning into their Yoko.

‘What if I have sex with her and then realize that I don’t love her?’ Ghaps had other imaginary problems. ‘I don’t want any chick drama.’

‘You’re a chick.’ Buzzcut laughed.

‘But I’m a ghapaghap chick, bachi. Not like other chicks.’ Ghaps pushed him. ‘You say no, has Raveena even said Hi to you?’

Buzzcut’s college crush, Raveena, lived two lanes away from his house. He sometimes took the longer route to his house to see if they would still acknowledge each other if they ran into one another.

‘I’ve passed her twice and we have only waved at each other so far.’ Buzzcut took a sip of his beer.

Nikunj, of course, didn’t tell them that he had been chatting up Fehmida on Instagram (@ghalatfehmida). By chatting up, he meant he sent her a ‘Hi’, and she’d reply with a ‘Hi’ and a link to her latest TikTok (for Nikunj to heart). Then she’d ask him to send her a selfie. It was like Nikunj and Fehmida were in Prolonged Eye-Contact 2.0.

Fehmida’s eyes always pierced Nikunj’s soul. He wanted to believe that she must have been using enchanted kohl. The only jewellery she wore were earrings and a silver nose ring with a diamond flashing in it. Fehmida was always dressed in tight jeans and flat shoes.

Nikunj hadn’t told Ghaps and Buzzcut about Fehmida because he didn’t want them making fun of her grin. It was a liberated and post-ironic grin, with all her teeth on display. Nikunj knew that Buzzcut and Ghaps would call her ‘faavda bhabhi’, and he would get pissed and scream at them. Then Buzzcut and Ghaps would apologize after a couple of days. And then Nikunj would have to forgive them in a dramatic and quiet Bharat-milaap scene. Nikunj didn’t want any of that drama. Plus, Fehmida and him had just started talking. That didn’t mean anything.

So that Saturday evening, as the last two cricket teams were packing their gear and making their way to the golawala outside the maidan, Buzzcut, Ghaps and Nikunj pulled their phones out to play some PUBG. That was when Nikunj’s sister Nikita called.

He pulled himself out of the stupor, picked his phone up and sounded sober as ever.

There were no hi’s or hello’s. ‘Where are you? Listen carefully. Papa has had a stroke at Dr Garodia’s clinic. Nikita said each word very deliberately. Come to the clinic. They have called an ambulance for him. Aai is on her way to the clinic. I will meet both of you at the hospital. You got it?’

‘Yes.’ Nikunj knew better than to ask questions.

His high immediately took a backseat. He turned to Buzzcut and Ghaps, and the look on his face told them everything they needed to know. The three of them took a rickshaw to the clinic.

2

Nikunj’s father, Vipulbhai, was in the AC cabin of Dr Garodia’s clinic when a clot in his bloodstream reached his brain. He clutched his head and collapsed on to the floor, pushing against the wheelchair in the room, which rolled across the floor and slammed straight into Dr Garodia’s crotch.

Dr Garodia stopped himself from screaming, walked out of the cabin into the waiting area of the clinic, and announced the collapse of his assistant to his patients. Then, he spread his arms wide and said, ‘I am going to revive him with my powers.’ He invited the accompanying relatives of four of his patients to help him prop Vipulbhai up on the executive chair. Dr Garodia pressed the muscular puncturopathy points with his fingers as the AC inside cooled down the waiting room outside. The chill breeze coming through the door hypnotized the sweat-drenched audience.

Five minutes into the show, the aunty who always wore a Punjabi suit and Keds panicked. She had seen this before with her father. He had had a stroke and died in front of her eyes. She sprung to action, calling an ambulance, and then finding Vipulbhai’s phone and contacting his wife, Ilaben, with it. Most of the others thought of her as a heretic, a philistine, to not have enough faith in Dr Garodia and his muscular puncturopathy.

Vipulbhai had been an assistant to Dr Garodia, the famous ‘muscular puncturopathy’ therapist, for almost six years. Don’t bother googling muscular puncturopathy therapy. Dr Garodia had entirely made it up. And he kept building on his tale to change any circumstance in his favour. Nobody knew what Dr Garodia’s real education was. He claimed that he knew specific points of energy in the human body, which, when punctured by his fingers, and his fingers only, could heal any disease or disability. According to him, one was chosen to be a muscular puncturopathist by the universe; you couldn’t just become a muscular puncturopathist, even if you studied it extensively.

Ghaps, Buzzcut and Nikunj arrived at the clinic just as the ambulance was pulling in. The ward boys and the real doctor jumped out of the ambulance and ran to the cabin. Dr Garodia welcomed them warmly, and moved aside to let them do their work. He noticed that he was losing his patients’ attention to the work of a real doctor. So he quickly told the real doctor, ‘I have him ready for you. I have applied pressure to the right muscular puncturopathy points in his body. Your job should be easy from here on.’

The real doctor ignored him and looked around the room till he spotted Nikunj, who resembled his father. ‘Are you his son? We have to take him to the hospital urgently.’

Swimming as his head was, Nikunj just nodded.

‘Move aside then.’

The ward boys brought in the stretcher and transferred Vipulbhai on to it. As they carried him to the ambulance, Nikunj’s mother, Ilaben, reached the clinic. Nikunj ushered her straight from her rickshaw into the ambulance with Vipulbhai. Buzzcut and Ghaps decided to wait at the clinic in case Nikita got there. Nikita, who was still on her way, messaged Nikunj urgently: ‘Keep all the bills and paperwork from the hospital. My office’s health insurance plan will cover this.’

After the procedure, Vipulbhai did not wake up until the next morning. Various members from their extended family and friends from Bhayandar and Mira Road, arrived late that night and stayed with the family outside the hospital. Almost everyone Vipulbhai was related to by blood or through work showed up. In his community, he was known as the family member with the most experience of hospitals. If anyone in his circle needed to be hospitalized, they would call him. He would make a list of things to pack and an itinerary to follow, and then he would be there himself to help. So when Vipulbhai was admitted to the hospital, the news spread like wildfire and everyone showed up with food, a bag (each) filled with Vipulbhai’s list of hospital things, and wads of cash.

Ilaben borrowed some cash from her brother. For the most part, they used Nikita’s two credit cards – both of which had been kept aside to use only for emergencies. The next day, Nikita took Nikunj with her to the bank to break some FDs and withdraw cash. The feeling of being alone inside a hustling and bustling bank branch was the first time Nikunj felt financial anxiety. The standing in line, the filling of forms, the wait, the look from the cashier (like he didn’t really want to give away the money) – everything made Nikunj feel that losing this much money must be a big deal.

The day after Vipulbhai regained consciousness, both Nikita and Ilaben returned to their jobs. Ilaben had recently scaled-up her small tiffin business. She had expanded from providing tiffin service to people in their building complex to the entire neighbourhood.

Nikita, on the other hand, had completed her BMM and landed herself a well-paying job as a junior account manager at GloboKon, a big multinational digital agency. When she was still in college, she would help her mother in the morning with the cooking for the tiffins. After Nikita started working, Shardaben entered the lives of the Gholte-Butalas. Shardaben lived next door and had just sent her only son to the US. She suddenly realized that she had a lot more time on her hands than she thought she would. So she and Ilaben started working together, and expanded the business some more. For the first day of Vipulbhai’s hospitalization, Shardaben managed the entire cooking by herself.

That day onwards, the responsibility of taking care of Vipulbhai fell on Nikunj by default. Obviously, the women couldn’t stop working. Vipulbhai, of course, didn’t want to stay at the hospital at all. ‘These doctors don’t know what they are doing. Take me to Dr Garodia, and I will be fine in no time.’ Once every few hours, he threw a tantrum, tried to get up, pack his bag, and asked the nurse to do his final billing. The nurses just made excuses and vanished until the doctor showed up for rounds. Or until Ilaben or Nikita showed up to give Vipulbhai stern looks.

The problem was Vipulbhai had still not regained the use of many parts of his body. His left eyelid drooped a little. His eyes didn’t respond fast enough to the doctors shining a torch into it. He didn’t have complete control over his hands. They sometimes didn’t move at all.

By the time Vipulbhai got discharged, he was mostly alright. Except for his eyes and hands. His fingers didn’t respond to signals from his brain. And he had to wear sunglasses all the time. (Nikunj magnanimously lent his father his old pair of reflective aviators, which he hadn’t worn since they went out of style.) The doctors said it would take some time and physiotherapy for things to return to normal.

Vipulbhai scoffed. ‘Dr Garodia will fix it in no time,’ he declared. Nikunj was highly embarrassed by his father’s ungrateful behaviour. But the doctors didn’t mind. They were used to having alternative medicine bhakts as patients. So they just smiled, listened to their beliefs, and later laughed at the stories during tea breaks.

3

Once Vipulbhai was discharged, Nikunj and his father became regulars at the waiting area of Dr Garodia’s clinic. Dr Garodia’s clinic used to be an old real estate office. The walls still had frames with printouts of architectural designs and building projects. The clinic was in a lane with only hardware shops, one dairy and an old single-screen theatre (which played only Bhojpuri films since the multiplexes invaded). The real estate office belonged to one of Dr Garodia’s patients, who had been cured of his sciatica – which was one of few things that Dr Garodia had often successfully cured. That, spondylitis and slipped discs were his forte.

The AC cabin of the real estate office, where Vipulbhai had had his stroke, was Dr Garodia’s consultation room. The outer non-AC part of the office was the designated waiting area. The furniture had all been moved along the walls, and various patients were parked on it. The waiting area was always filled with people. Some of the regulars had chronic illnesses or disabilities, and had been coming to Dr Garodia for over five years, hoping for a miracle cure. They would come with their tiffin boxes and wait for hours. Some stayed behind even after their session. Over the years, they had all become friends and extended family for one another. The clinic