Hilarity at the homoeo clinic

One of the happiest moments I remember with my mother and father’s is at Dr Reddy’s clinic. They’d decided to take an adoloscent me to the homoeopathy clinic to get rid of my dandruff. We sat in front of the doctor, me in the middle of mother and father, and I began answering a range of questions including some that did not seem directly related to the problem.

Doc: “Is your bowel movement normal?”

Me: “Yes, doctor.”

Doc: “Do you sweat a lot?”

Me: “Not more than normal, doctor.”

Doc: “Is there bad odour?”

Mum: “Yes, doctor. Sometimes!”

Now I’m not sure why my mum swooped in at then. But when me and my father looked at her, we grew cold in the intuitive knowledge that somehow she had zoned out at the second question and had currently answered the last question thinking the doctor had asked about the smell of my poop.

Every thirteen-year-old’s worst nightmare.

I frantically swatted my mum’s lap, clarifying to her in suppressed irritated whispers that the doctor was talking about body odour.

The stark hilarity of that moment suddenly hit all three of us at the same time — the three of us, seated solemnly at a homoeopathy doctor’s clinic, and one of us had just accidentally told the doctor that my poop stinks pretty darn bad — and my dad let loose a shameful chuckle.

I sometimes think that if it was anyone else that had expelled the first chuckle then it might have been easier to ignore it and move on. But my father is the more controlled parent. That chuckle was about as noticable as if Aishwarya Rai had just farted at a fundraiser event.

The doctor in front of us hadn’t really realised the tomfoolery that was unfolding in front of him. But when my mum began sniggering into her duppatta and my dad became redfaced with convulsing fits of muffled laughter, he looked up questioningly.

I sat there, cautiously amused, but more disbelieving at my normally respectable-in-public family sitting there acting so awfully and wonderfully juvenile. In a public place!

No pretense. Just the naked joy of a poop-joke that wasn’t.