When I was a kid, my parents complained that I occupied the bathroom for a long time. My brother, with his gift for hyperbole, would say, “If he enters the bathroom now, we will not see him until tomorrow.” He must have passed on the idea to his wife when he married, for I remember getting a birthday card from her twenty years later that pointedly quoted from Martin Luther’s diary, “The more you wash, the dirtier you get.”
I am sorry to report that neither the complaints nor the sarcasm had the intended effect of reforming my behavior. I continue to tarry in the bathroom. I simply love the place. Buddhadev Basu wrote a charming essay years ago explaining why the bathroom was his favored place. He said that was the spot where he felt the most untroubled, immune from others’ demands. Nobody could reach him; family members hesitated to knock on the door. He was totally free of the world. To my family’s annoyance, I read the essay aloud to them after dinner.
I don’t quite have the same problem. I live alone in a three-story home, where there are two bathrooms, and, in addition, what Americans call, two ‘half bathrooms,’ that is, bathrooms without a shower. I am never in the way of a guest or a visitor who feels an irresistible urge. Yet Basu had a point. Once you close the bathroom door, you have a world of your own, private and peaceful. Whatever mansion or hovel you live in, that remains a reassuring refuge.
A neighbor across the street, a widower, lives with his brother. The brother lost his job and his apartment, and came to live with his sibling – temporarily. That temporary period has now extended to seven years and looks certain to continue. My neighbor, though clearly very fond of his brother, has a recurrent theme in his conversation: he does not have a space to himself. He cannot speak on a phone, sure that he will not be overheard. He cannot be in a room, sure that his brother will not walk in. He dreams of the day he can again have his space to himself, though the prospect seems unlikely.
I don’t quite have the same problem. I live alone in a three-story home, where there are two bathrooms, and, in addition, what Americans call, two ‘half bathrooms,’ that is, bathrooms without a shower. I am never in the way of a guest or a visitor who feels an irresistible urge. Yet Basu had a point. Once you close the bathroom door, you have a world of your own, private and peaceful. Whatever mansion or hovel you live in, that remains a reassuring refuge.
A neighbor across the street, a widower, lives with his brother. The brother lost his job and his apartment, and came to live with his sibling – temporarily. That temporary period has now extended to seven years and looks certain to continue. My neighbor, though clearly very fond of his brother, has a recurrent theme in his conversation: he does not have a space to himself. He cannot speak on a phone, sure that he will not be overheard. He cannot be in a room, sure that his brother will not walk in. He dreams of the day he can again have his space to himself, though the prospect seems unlikely.
I have all the space I need to myself, in fact much more than that. Having grown up in India, where people live in smaller houses with smaller rooms, I have a recurrent sense of guilt for wasting so much space. I know I will be content with a smaller, one-level apartment, where all I need is an independent study or office. But, even in that smaller lodging, I would prefer two bathrooms, so that I don’t have to share it with a visitor. I would like the unhurried use of my bathroom behind a firmly closed door.
My family, including my sister-in-law, was quite right: I shower for a long time. I thrill to the abundant sprinkling of modern shower heads, where you can regulate the volume and power of the water jets. I confess I am not yet used to the more modern types where the water jets come at you at various levels in different angles. I am sure they are very hygienic and serve to massage distinct parts of the body. My world-weary body is not yet accustomed to this cutting-edge innovation.
My family, including my sister-in-law, was quite right: I shower for a long time. I thrill to the abundant sprinkling of modern shower heads, where you can regulate the volume and power of the water jets. I confess I am not yet used to the more modern types where the water jets come at you at various levels in different angles. I am sure they are very hygienic and serve to massage distinct parts of the body. My world-weary body is not yet accustomed to this cutting-edge innovation.
I am guiltily aware that I use more water than I need to clean myself. UNICEF tells me that one billion people in the world don’t have access to clean water. At least I am not using the large bathtub in my other bathroom. I have used it sometimes, but the long ritual of filling it with warm water, putting in bath salt and immersing myself, while refreshing, is not for my everyday routine. I like the simplicity of a dial or a couple of faucets, and the next moment you are delightfully drenched from head to toe in warm water.
In Japan, I was impressed by the practice of scrubbing and cleaning oneself before getting into the bath, which is really for relaxing. I use the shower for both, first for cleaning and then for relaxing in the warmth of flowing water. I follow the Japanese in another way: I turn up the water heat once I have showered for a while. It is supposed burn calories, reduce blood pressure and strengthen the heart. Whether you believe that or not, you cannot question what I immediately feel after a warm bath like that. It dramatically lifts my spirits and blows away my blues. I am glad to pay a little more for my water bills if it gives me this quick track to euphoria.
In Japan, I was impressed by the practice of scrubbing and cleaning oneself before getting into the bath, which is really for relaxing. I use the shower for both, first for cleaning and then for relaxing in the warmth of flowing water. I follow the Japanese in another way: I turn up the water heat once I have showered for a while. It is supposed burn calories, reduce blood pressure and strengthen the heart. Whether you believe that or not, you cannot question what I immediately feel after a warm bath like that. It dramatically lifts my spirits and blows away my blues. I am glad to pay a little more for my water bills if it gives me this quick track to euphoria.
There are records of people taking a bath since 3000 BCE, and the Greeks and Romans had both public baths and private bathrooms, at least in the wealthier homes. Clearly the private ones were for cleaning and resting, while the public ones were for relaxing and chatting. From the sixteenth century, public baths went out of fashion, but the Japanese were smart and kept their wonderful sento and onsen. I loved the onsen in Chiba, though the locals clearly did not like that, unlike the Japanese, I had not waxed my bodily hair before immersing. Nor did they care for my daughter’s large tattoo.
My children may laugh at my long shower and my beloved sister-in-law may continue to send me sardonic notes. I tell myself that Homer’s heroes took baths to gain strength before a major encounter. The great Achilles’s mother Thetis bathed him in river Styx to make him invincible; sadly, she held him by his heel, which remained vulnerable. I too am vulnerable, very vulnerable, and not just in the heel.
But if I must have a room to myself, it has to be the bathroom.
My children may laugh at my long shower and my beloved sister-in-law may continue to send me sardonic notes. I tell myself that Homer’s heroes took baths to gain strength before a major encounter. The great Achilles’s mother Thetis bathed him in river Styx to make him invincible; sadly, she held him by his heel, which remained vulnerable. I too am vulnerable, very vulnerable, and not just in the heel.
But if I must have a room to myself, it has to be the bathroom.
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