His problem

 The brooke of murky waters gushed in the hollow of the bulging expanse. The ebb and flow tickled his sleepy self. The gurgling waves disturbed his quietitude. The wind made its way noisily, echoing in his ecosystem. His nose twitched from the offerings of the wind. Nature should never be suppressed, he thought. 

For sometime, the turbulence felt silent. He rested his back on the bark and was about to doze off when the dam broke. All the hell broke loose, too, as the brooke decided to embarrass him post a hearty meal at his saali's house. 

Bhilavi Prasad Chaurasiya rushed to the toilet where already somebody was digging gold. He banged the precarious door with precaution as he had no intention of being the goldsmith today. His own precious mines were melting. From tapping to bombarding the door with his fiesty fist, Bhilavi demonstrated his internal conflict externally. 

'Arey bhaiya, please come out soon. The rivulets are now flooding my distraught banks.'

Bhilavi clutched his ever expanding rear globes and pirouetted on the threshold of the toilet. His palms were now sore from compressing the exploding lava. But the lavatory occupant seemed in no mood to oblige him.

'Bhaiyyaji, there are no diamonds absolutely in there. I have been there million times. Come out.'

Finally, the nirvana attended Budha of lavatory emerged with a royal, satisfied expression. Bhilavi pushed him aside and crouched to let the wailing Walmiki within him so that he could also attend nirvana. The purpose attended, his pants cursed him for the watery abuse. The gurgling liquid sank down the dark alley like a monster burying it's ugly head in a swamp.

******

A government employee, Bhilavi worked in the LIC office of Meerut in Uttar Pradesh. The sleepy town nestled in the suburbs of the city harbored many such government offices were people occupied their chairs like the supremacy of a throne and extended it in legacy to their good for nothing rattlings. Designations were booked with family names like dynasties of Yadavas, Sharmas, Guptas, Singhs and similar kings. Promotions or demotions were the ice of Alaska, never seen or never experienced. 

Bhilavi Prasad was one such clerk who arrested his chair at 11am and released its woody handles at 4pm. In these hours to breathe and to snore was no different. Sometimes, the latter preceded the former. Life was all hunky-dory for this andropausal man apart from his unpredictable intestines.

'Chai, Chai, Chai...' In tattered, dirty vest and equivalently smudged half-pants, the tea-boy, chotu announced his arrival. He placed steaming hot cups of tea on the Babu's desk laden with unattended files. From Chai to chatpati gossip, the Babus enjoyed everything. To Bhilavi, they urged,'Pelo, pelo...' But poor Bhilavi could not oblige them.

Like the post at LIC was a descended one, his intestinal rumblings too were ancestral and milk was a poison for these troops of Chaurasiya. The metaphor of 'thoda chai pani pilana, kam ho jayega' was the irony of his life. Milk and its products were venomous snakes that terrorized his living.

'Your physiology and you have caused much a chagrin to us.' Lajjo, his wife of twenty years would snap at him.