By Karan Thapar

I’m beginning to think that whenever I go to the loo there’s an earthquake. Consider the facts. On Republic Day the quake struck minutes after I’d entered the bathroom. A month later, on the 25th of February, I was just stepping in as the doors and windows started rattling. And then, last saturday, I was firmly in place (if you know what I mean?) when the ground started to roll. If all this is a coincidence it’s uncanny. If not, it’s bizarre.

But this is not the only peculiarity I’ve spotted. There are several more. This year all the earthquakes in Delhi have happened on holidays : Friday the 26th of January, Sunday the 25th of February and Saturday the 28th of April. Each time these have been holidays at the end of their respective months. And on every occasion the earthquake has struck in the morning – 8.47 a.m., 9.15 a.m. and, most recently of all, 8.36 a.m.

If you think about it, millions of you, like me, would have been in the loo as well. After all, 8.00 a.m. is loo time for all of us. So is there a deeper message here? One that perhaps was not obvious when the rumble first manifested itself.

The good Lord, it would seem, wants to catch us with our pants down. Not content to merely terrify us he’s also determined to cause as much embarrassment as he can. What happened to me last saturday was a case in point.

I had just about settled down and turned to The Indian Express – my favourite reading on such occasions – when the floor started to shake. The Leader on the Hurriyat was already difficult to follow but now, as it involuntarily shook in my hands, it became incomprehensible.

“Damn” I said because more often than not the Express and I have similar views on Kashmir even if we only discover this in the confines of my loo. But when the newspaper fell out of my hands I realised the problem was more than the blurred print or typeface I couldn’t read. We were in the middle of an earthquake and I was, once again, stuck in the bathroom.

It was an awkward situation to say the least. First I wasn’t sure what to do. But the uncertainty only lasted for a flash. My next instinct was to bolt. Survival takes precedence over concerns of decorum and presentability. But before I could reach the door and rush out like Archimedes the shaking fortunately stopped. So I retreated, heaved a sigh of relief and – how I shall put it? – got back to reading the Express.

Just then Chander Singh started to knock on the door. Actually to say he was knocking is to inadequately describe the desperate urgency with which his hands beat on the wooden frame of the bathroom door unless, of course, the intention is to suggest he was about to knock it down.

“Sahab, Karan Sahab” he shouted, his voice clearly conveying the panic he felt. “Bhukamp.”

“Kya?” I said, not because I had not heard or guessed but because a man in panic is difficult to follow and also because I needed a little time to work out my reply.

“Bhukamp” Chander shouted back. “Nikaljaye.”

It was probably at this point that Chander suddenly realised that the earthquake had actually stopped. There he was banging on the door whilst the cause of his panic had abated. Earthquakes stop just as unpredictably as they start. Consequently his fear gave way to an instant calm – much like the core of stillness that follows the outer fury of a tornado. When he next spoke his voice was no longer edged with tension. In its place there was a trace of comedy.

“Theek hai ji ” he said. “Waha hi rahe.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. Everything that had happened had been for my benefit even if it had made me feel a trifle foolish. So I said nothing. I let the moment pass without answer or comment in the hope that if I did it would disappear and soon be forgotten.

Now, we’ve had earthquakes before and none of them have brought Chander rushing to check on me. But because I was in the loo he broke with his natural reticence to rush to my aid. Later when I questioned him he merely laughed it off.

“Darge” I asked trying to camouflage my embarrassment behind a craftily manufactured allegation of his fear.

“Ha” he said disarmingly. “Mujhe aap ke liye daar tha.”

“Mere liye? Mujhe kya hona tha?”

“Aap gussalkhane the” Chander replied. “Waha kuchch bhi ho sakta hei.”

Heaven alone knows what he meant but I did not have the courage to ask!

There was a time when earthquakes would happen at night. The Uttarkashi earthquake occurred around 2.30 and the one in Latur at 10.00. Undoubtedly they are more scary in the dark but unless you are a newly married couple the timing is unlikely to be indelicate. So, to return to my original set of questions, why are earthquakes now happening in the morning, on holidays and at the end of the month? And why when I’m in the loo?

I’m convinced there’s a spot of research that can be done on this and I would encourage anyone who wants to try. To my mind it’s a more profitable venture than studying astrology in university and any conclusions or predictions you come to would be at least as accurate. Of course, they could be a lot more practical.

In the meantime we might have to consider changing our vocabulary. Up until now the question ‘did the earth shake?’ was an inquisitive but harmless enquiry into the degree of pleasure you might or might not have experienced. After the last three earthquakes it’s likely to be misinterpreted!