From The Mouth Of The Nation: The Great Indian Expectoration
There is one thing — and I say this with the full weight of empirical field research conducted over several years of ducking, swerving, and occasionally not swerving fast enough — that absolutely, unconditionally, magnificently unites this country. Not cricket. Not cinema. Not Pakistan. It is, my friends, the glorious, glistening, gravity-defying art of THE SPIT.
Oral Tradition, Taken Literally
India does not have a caste system when it comes to spitting. It has a classless system. CEOs in BMWs, uncles on bicycles, aunties in salwar kameezes, priests exiting temples, politicians exiting rallies, software engineers exiting Ubers — all contributors. Equal opportunity. No reservations required. Age? Irrelevant. Gender? Abolished at the lip. Religion? Every faith practises it with devotional sincerity. The toddler in the pram is already in training. The 90-year-old grandfather is still at the top of his game. This is the one Olympics where India has been winning gold since before the British arrived.
The Science Of The Spit
It more complex than ISRO’s trajectory calculations, I assure you. The velocity is a direct function of what has been consumed. Plain saliva? A gentle, apologetic drizzle. Fresh pan masala, two minutes in? A confident medium-range projectile. Zarda, fully marinated, held for strategic duration? We are now talking ballistic. The thickness — oh, the thickness — achieves a viscosity that NASA materials scientists would pay to study. It defies classification. It defies gravity. Occasionally it defies the person who launched it, when the wind, that treacherous accomplice, decides to change sides.
The Great Indian Aerosol Export Industry
Forget caste. Forget creed. Forget income brackets. When it comes to public spitting, we are one glorious, synchronized civilization performing a mucus-led flash mob across the republic.
The billionaire in a luxury SUV.
The uncle on a scooter carrying three children, two gas cylinders and unresolved anger.
The gym bro with protein shake confidence.
The paan philosopher outside the tea shop.
The corporate executive who says “circle back” twelve times a day but cannot locate a dustbin within a three-kilometre radius.
Spitting Is The True Secular Activity Of The Subcontinent
No discrimination. No exclusion. No RSVP required.
And the styles. Sweet mother of projectile geometry.
Some spit like they are launching a weather satellite.
Some spit with the emotional turbulence of a failed relationship.
Some do a gentle “tchh” like they’re rejecting a bad IPO.
Others sound like they are rebooting a tractor engine from 1974.
Then Comes The Texture Department
Thin consistency. Thick consistency. Foam-based experimental formats.
Limited edition tobacco slurry.
Vintage paan residue with notes of regret and cardamom.
Each spit tells a story.
A biography in liquid form.
You can almost reverse engineer breakfast from the splatter pattern.
“Hmm. Strong gutka notes. Trace elements of masala dosa. Possibly one cutting chai. Fascinating viscosity.”
NASA studies asteroid debris.
We study staircase corners.
And what strategic decision-making!
Indoors Or Outdoors? Take Your Spit!
Indoors, the creativity truly blossoms. Staircases are galleries. Lift walls are canvases. The corner of a landing between the second and third floor of any government office building has witnessed more human expression than most art museums. Bathrooms, of course, are the sanctum sanctorum — though the mystery remains eternal about why someone standing six inches from a pot decides the wall is a better target. Ambition, perhaps. Vision beyond the visible.
Outdoors, the moving vehicle spit deserves a thesis. The train-window spit, executed at 80 kmph, achieves a horizontal spread that meteorologists would describe as “significant precipitation event.” The bike spit — left side, without mirror-check, at a traffic light — has ruined more white shirts than every dhobi in the country combined. The car spit, practiced with the window barely cracked, suggests a man who wants to spit but also maintain air conditioning. He wants it all. He gets it all.
Footpaths near restaurants, schools and temple entrances are, of course, premium real estate. There is something profoundly philosophical about spitting at the entrance of a place of worship. It suggests a man who is leaving his burdens behind. Spiritually unburdened. Orally evacuated. Ready to face God and the world with an empty mouth and a clear conscience.
And mind you, this is a ‘pan‘ India phenomenon.
And Then…PHOOOOOOOTTT
The saliva exits at Mach 3 while innocent commuters on Platform 2 reassess life choices.
Bike spitters are particularly ambitious.
At 60 kmph they rotate their neck exactly 17 degrees, calculate wind velocity, traffic density and karmic indifference before ejecting what appears to be a sponsored content partnership between paan and lung capacity.
But the undisputed grandmasters?
Car spitters.
Especially luxury car spitters.
There is something deeply poetic about a man emerging from a vehicle costing more than a small island only to spit like he’s marking territory for future archaeological excavation.
And then there are the anti-wind spitters.
These are the scientists.These are risk-takers. These are people who believe physics is merely feedback.
Spitting against the wind is not an act. It is a lifestyle philosophy.
Nature has a sense of humour. And excellent aim.
Occasionally the spit returns home. Like a subah ka bhoola hua.
Landing magnificently on their own windshield. Or on the windshield of the Innova Crysta behind that has been trying to keep safe distance( read 6 cms).
The Distance Game Is Another Matter Entirely
Every spitter secretly believes they are competing in the Commonwealth Games.
Some aim for two feet. Low on ambition, I dare add.
Some believe they can cross state borders. That’s my boy!
You can almost hear internal commentary.
“Ladies and gentlemen, representing Sector 4 Bus Depot, weighing 84 kilos and carrying years of nicotine experience… Rajuuu ‘The Spraymaster’ Yadav!” Move over Gun Master G9.
Release angle: 43 degrees.
Trajectory: alarming.
Public hygiene impact: catastrophic.
Acknowledging The Raw Material
It will be remiss of me not to bring in all the state actors involved. All of them must be acknowledged with due reverence. Pan Parag, Rajnigandha( endorsed by Hrithik Roshan), Vimal( endorsed by half of Bollywood) , Goa 1000, Manikchand, Director( Rohit Shetty offering a helicopter view to the brand), Kamla Pasand ( Big B, Sunil Gavaskar, Ranbir Singh and the list goes on), Rajshree (Salman Khan) — these are not brands. These are patrons of the arts. Without their generous sponsorship, the pavements of this nation would be tragically beige. Thanks to them, our public infrastructure has developed a rich, impressionistic colour palette that no government beautification scheme has ever come close to matching. The WHO can keep its reports. MOMA(Museum Of Modern Art), Louvre Museum watch out. We have murals. At every nook and corner.
Without them, half the walls in India would regain their original colour.
Entire economies are built around generating raw material for public expectoration.
Marketing teams somewhere are probably brainstorming:
“How do we create longer-lasting flavour with greater spit retention and improved launch capability?”
Tagline possibilities:
“Now with Extra Splash Technology.”
“Leaves a Mark. Literally.”
“For those who believe walls deserve personality.”
Meanwhile every public wall in India has already become a customer testimonial.
But Beneath The Laughter Lies The True Marvel
The confidence.
The absolute, unshakeable belief that the world is one giant biodegradable spittoon.
No hesitation.
No shame.
No warning label.
Just a primal conviction that gravity and public spaces are here to collaborate.
Which brings us to the biggest question.
What exactly happens inside the human brain seconds before spitting?
Is there a committee meeting?
Does the saliva submit a resignation letter?
Is the mouth saying:
“Team, we’ve had a fantastic quarter together. Unfortunately due to restructuring, some liquids will be transitioning externally.”
These are spit second decisions.
Tiny moments between impulse and impact.
Civilization hanging by a thread of mucus.
And somewhere, every freshly painted wall is whispering softly:
“Brother…not again.” There you go: I exercised my License To Spill.
If this blog post appeals to you and you would like to engage with me, I will be happy to receive your thoughts on suresh@groupisd.com
PS: On a completely different note, I am taking the liberty to share here that my other blog SOHB(State Of The Heart Branding) Story is now a Podcast as well. You can access it on these links below:
