In the summer just gone by, in the days of sweating in 40 degrees Celsius, I was extremely comfortable that finally we have started bathing regularly, wearing clean clothes and possibly using some sort of deodorant.  

That personal hygiene has indeed reached new heights as far as our noses can pick. It then dawned on me and my anterior nares that throughout the period when Bongs emanate pongs, I was wearing a face mask, a protocol thrust on us by Covid-19.

On a positive note, gold digging with our digits, preferably index, had disappeared for fear of picking up the dreaded disease. For viewers inquisitive of what is at the end of the drill, the free show is back in town. The keen observer will notice that the true maestro is also a pinch barber. Ouch!

Painful it is that despite three years of intense practice, albeit under compulsion, we have not learnt to eject our personal belongings without polluting the environment. There have been several demo videos on TV and awareness audios on radio, posters and leaflets, but we are not good learners. Because we do not care to see, read or listen.

Alarmingly, there is this pompous notion that such campaigns, launched in public interest, are meant for the "public", whosoever they are. And every nitwit individual has a T-shirt emblazoned with the words, "I am special edition".

Photo: Christian Lue

So, happy coughing and sneezing, and keep deep pulling your dribble and slobber from the depths of your intestines.

To the generous spitter, the world is a wastebin. To keep himself clean in heart, lungs and gullet, he will dispose whatever is disgusting to him anywhere, occasionally on anybody, without blinking an eye. His T-shirt says, "My wrong is right".

Those around him, known or unknown, make an effort to stay clear of the splinters, which I am told travel at a staggering 400 km/hour. I also wonder about scientists who undertake such juicy topics.

Some people can remain clean surreptitiously. You discover them only after they have left your house. A memento left behind is tucked between two books, or another behind the sofa. Once I found a crumpled piece of used tissue in my back pocket after the party was overs. She must have tucked it while hugging me goodbye and my focus was hardly on my bottom. They are too clean to carry the dirt with them.

Fuchka, chatpati, pitha, kabab, jhaal muri, juices, and such make Bangladesh roadsides a haven for adherents of small-scale culinary sensations. Some caterers use gloves but the taste buds of the true enthusiast is satiated only when served by bare fingers.

Gloved hand and bare fingers are both used not only for preparing and serving food, but also for handling notes/coins and the cleaning gamcha, and again the food. Every now and then, their fingers engage in addressing itchiness in various parts of the body, a consequence of not bathing.

Ramadan is one time when street food is galore. Items that torture the nostril from half a mile away and arouse our appetite are literally spread openly on the road for flies and fleas to inspect. The buyers then take turns to prod their index into a jilapee or a piaju before moving on to the next van for further probing. We should be grateful that they do not check the quality with their mouth. Who knows?

Of no lesser concern is the boisterous parleying between vendor and buyer over uncovered food. Specks of spit cannot always be seen, not really tasted, but we cannot ignore them. And some people salivate more than others. This issue too had been removed during Covid due to masking. To this day, waiters in restaurants cover their face. But I have no clue what happens in the kitchen.

The unhygienic vendor deservedly gets paid by his own coin when he buys from another germ-infested counterpart. And we still wonder how diseases can spread so effortlessly.