North-Indian Network Of Projectile Spitters (NINPS)

My first stint in North India and I was thirteen. I went to live with my mother in Lucknow where she was working at the time. I was enrolled in an English medium school which of course meant everything including English was taught in Hindi. However, my Hindi hardly improved and remains an alien language till date. It was a tough childhood being raised by a parent who holds a Masters degree in English literature. Every time we sat down for a lesson I seldom escaped unscathed. I received more pinches on my thighs than any endearing ones on my cheeks. The only person who was impressed with my creative writing skills was Manju Aunty, my English teacher in school. The Hindi Aunty felt sorry for me and secretly wanted to give me a pass mark but I didn’t leave her much choice. Mine was an alternative school hence the ‘Aunty’.

While mommies in the West blackmail their kids into finishing their dinner by talking about starving kids in India, my mommy decided to show me these starving kids so I finish my dinner and hers. I was taken to the remotest parts of Uttar Pradesh in various modes of transport. In fact, not many non-UP-ites know of a Gita Press in Gorakhpur, a bed bug infested dodgy motel outside Rae Bareli and that Hotel Ashok in Varanasi serves the best Dal Makhani. On these trips I was introduced to the Uttar Pradesh Revolutionary Artwork Committee (UPRAC). Their work was truly inspiring. The red signs on every wall and the haphazard patterns on street corners were unmistakable. I was so impressed by these comrades for their dedication and outreach programme. Sadly, I was not allowed to probe into this matter any further let alone join the UPRAC. One morning I was reading my Physics textbook out loud. Every time I said “I-riin” (iron) my mother cringed and asked me to repeat myself. A phone call was made soon after and all I could make out was “I-riiinn!??!.....sending her back….next flight….” The next thing I know, I was back in my old school in Madras wondering what had caused this forced exile.

My second stint in North India and I am twenty three years old. I moved to Delhi four months ago to work in an NGO. Due to budgetary considerations and the obvious horror of having to utter anything in Hindi, I walk to work every morning. This has helped me uncover the mystery behind UPRAC. They never were a revolutionary group but form part of a greater organization called the North-Indian Network of Projectile Spitters (NINPS). It is a highly inclusive group that transcends age, gender, caste, religion and nationality. In fact, the members do not even discriminate between geographical locations. From walls, steps, buses, train stations and people’s feet the motto is ‘Been There Spat That’. I have started to wonder if the members perform a nightly ritual for the next day’s activities: An intense mouth exercise and a fluid diet so they wake up with an excessive collection of saliva. I recently rode in an autorickshaw that only confirms why I never want to do so again. The driver suggested (in Hindi) that I pay him 25 rupees while I disagreed and said (in English) I’ll only give him 25 rupees. Lost in translation and disillusioned, I got in only to find the driver spitting twenty five times in five minutes. I was determined to go home and look up the Guiness Book of World Records for any spitting entries that I could put his name against. It at least gave me something to write about- worth the 25 rupees in any language!