Spit and miss

Being convinced of the futility of trying to dissuade people from spitting, I have developed an ingenious defence mechanism...

Being convinced of the futility of trying to dissuade people from spitting, I have developed an ingenious defence mechanism that keeps me unscathed in public places. The mouth of the man ambling along the pavement is a launch pad of missiles 8212; read spittle. I manage to fend off such missiles by dint of this defence mechanism.

If I walk close behind any potential missile launcher and suspect him to be steeling himself for the act, I would not tell him, 8220;Don8217;t spit8221;. Such injunctions offend him! So what I do in such circumstances, where one has to be discreet, is to clear my throat or hum a tune. The sound thus produced makes him sense my presence near him and mercifully he procrastinates until I am out of harm8217;s way.

This way I avoid bad blood even as I achieve my aim. After all, means are as significant as ends! Having employed this mechanism on numerous occasions, I have now started emitting these sounds absently even if a threat doesn8217;t loom over me.

I do not lower my guard on a bus either. At times occupying window seats is courting trouble. So while on a bus, I bring my defence mechanism into full play. Lest the traffic din should drown out them, I turn up the loudness of my sounds slightly, often attracting quizzical looks from fellow travellers. But I have noticed that not many are as innovative and cagey as I am and occasionally they suffer at the hands, nay, mouths of the missile launchers.

There was this young lady of special charm, who, being the last passenger to board it, found the bus packed to the last seat. As a chivalrous gesture, I beckoned to her and yielded my window seat with alacrity. She accepted my offer, though hesitantly, smiling her thanks at me. The lady had hardly found herself in the seat when she paid the price for not being wary. The man, sitting in front of her, braced himself for the act of spitting. Mouthful of reddish betel juice flew out of him, as if from a spray gun, and she bore the brunt of the spatter.