Way past sundown. Linking Road, Bombay. Hoots. Horns. Headlights. Traffic. Jams. Wares sold. Goods bought. Throats sore. Feet tired.

I weaved my way home. In fits and starts, courtesy all the desperate shoppers and sellers and vehicles.

A lady moved briskly in front. Done with her chic clothes shopping, she browsed the shoes on display. For some strange reason, I had my eyes fixed on the back of her just-beginning-to-age head.

Suddenly, without warning, she spat. And I walked splat into the spit. I hauled her up for her act. She apologised. And life went on. As did the spittle provider. Heusen intact. Levis intact. Road soiled. Mood spoiled.

I know that lady. I've seen her in every bulgum spitting Indian Spitter. She represents Type One.

Type Two is the paan chewing type. Type Two is a taxi man. A kaam waali bai. A government employee. A dhabba owner. A lawyer. An engineer. An anybody. An everybody.

Type Two paints the town red. Literally. They create abstract forms on walls. On floors. In subways. On doors. They spare nothing. And no one. They spit. And they do so with a certain elegance.

They throw back their head, curl up their lips and with a forward jerk of their neck, let fly that obnoxious fountain of red repellent.

Spitting is their birthright. And they jolly well shall have it.

Some will make an attempt to spit into the yellow tin containers provided by our gracious government. I stood waiting for a bus on a bright and sunny morning. A somebody across the road caught my eye.

That somebody slowed down his walk when he was within spitting distance of a dangling yellow something ('something' because it never seems to serve the purpose it's there for), mapped out a certain point in the container, locked his decided-on target and spat.

And missed. Resulting in a red trickle that dripped down the side of the dangling yellow dustbin to form a piddling puddle on the road beneath. Never was either cleaned.

And life went on. As did the spittle provider. Conscience intact. Values intact. Road soiled. Mood spoiled.

What makes these people the way they are??! Somewhere down the line, I've figured that I haven't ever seen a Spit Where You Like dominant gene. I haven't seen a Spit Where You Like recessive gene either.

So then, by rules of elimination, it has to be our Socialisation (and not Hereditary) that contributes to us either learning to Spit Where We Like or us learning to Not Spit Where We Like.

You know, in an insane way, you and I are responsible for the bulgum spitting and the paan spitting types. And for the 100 other types that swarm our society. That roam around with a purpose in mind. With the purpose to dirty. To live an indifferent life. To not care. To never care.

You and I are responsible. They said, long long ago, See No Evil, Speak No Evil. We do just that. Literally.

Our apathy has conditioned the offenders. Has given them free reign. Has given them the right to Rule Supreme. In a way, we are just like them. Lethargic and unconcerned.

Maybe we should paint everything red. Red Roads. Red banks. Red Residences. Red Offices. Red Parks. Maybe that will solve our problem.

Maybe we should have pee-pans hanging on every roadside wall. Bank walls. Residence walls. Office walls. Park walls. Every wall. Maybe that will solve our problem.

Maybe we should fine the offenders with their household's monthly salary. Maybe that will solve our problem.

Or maybe we should just shake ourselves out of our slumber. Maybe that will solve our problem faster.