Whenever I observe people here, I am appalled at how dirty we are as a nation.
To the woman I see everyday eating her roasted groundnuts from a newspaper cone at the railway station:
Why do you crumple the piece of newspaper and throw it on the tracks? Do you think the train vapourizes it?
To the child who eats his Lays chips and watches the packet drop from his hands:
Why were you not taught better? If you knew garbage went in garbage bins, I might even get past your objectionable behaviour and find you cute.
To those who spit their beeda on the road, and those who rinse their mouth after eating their bajjis, and those who find it convenient to send out bullets of their phlegm whenever you walk past them:
Next time it rains and there is a puddle of water, please remember you are wading in your spit.
To the men who think the entire country is their urinal:
Every wall, every street corner, every lamp post, every pavement on which pedestrians walk, every place hidden or not from public view – you give it the gift of pungent odours.
To the people who travel with wet tissues and wipe their palms after coming into contact with something they think has germs:
Where did you drop the tissue?
To whoever emptied their bowels below a poster of “Clean stream is the dream of Indian Railways”:
Did you not notice the toilet fifty feet away from you?
To the family I came across while traveling from Chennai to Chidambaram in a train:
How wonderful of you to have your breakfast on the train, how thoughtful of you to bring paper plates, napkins, plastic spoons, idlis, sambar and chutney in disposable boxes. How intolerable that you chose to casually discard all of the above through your window, and how polite of you to glare at me for pointing out the location of the dustbin to you.
Why should I not be angry?