While Salim lost himself in bird watching in the delicate flutter of bird wings—binoculars pressed to their eyes, whispering about rare migratory species—, Anirud in hoarding watching, I, a trained doctor with years of peering into human orifices, found my true calling in something far more grounded: shit watching.

Yes, you read that right. Not bird watching. Shit watching. As I shuffle along Indian roads, railway tracks, or those suspiciously quiet morning-walk paths, the world reveals its dietary secrets in glorious, steaming detail. Forget fancy apps or ornithology books; all you need is a sharp eye, a strong stomach, and the soul of a desi detective.

My mother used to say that even in pre-school I would stare at glittering signboards on sidewalks, squinting to decipher the faded alphabets like they held the secrets of the universe. She was being kind. I wasn’t precocious—I was just wired differently. While my engineering batchmates graduated on time, I was the guy who showed up two years late, still trying to read the writing on the wall (or the pavement). Much later, when colleagues upgraded to birdwatching for “inner peace,” I stayed loyal to my original vice. Hoardings first, then… well, nature’s own billboards.

“Arre Doctor Saab,” my friend Raju once asked during a walk, “why do you keep stopping and staring at the ground like you’ve found gold?”

“Because, my friend,” I replied, adjusting my imaginary stethoscope, “this is better than any endoscopy. No sedation required, and the patient never complains.”

Take the classic Chapatis Stack Shit—tall, proud towers of perfectly layered discs, sometimes still warm from the morning rush. Clearly the handiwork of someone who demolished a dozen rotis with aloo sabzi the night before. “Beta, thoda aur ghee daal do,” the wife must have said. Result? A monument to carb overload that even the Taj Mahal would envy for its structural integrity.

Then comes the Pebble Shit—tiny, hard, reluctant marbles scattered like forgotten rajma beans. Pure constipation poetry. “Arre yaar, fibre khaane ka time nahi mila,” the owner probably muttered while rushing for the local train. These little guys fight their way out like constipated soldiers in a war movie. I once saw a particularly stubborn pile and whispered, “Come on, soldier… you can do it next time.”

My personal favourite is the Shot-Put Shit—one massive, dense, Olympic-level projectile that looks like it was launched with full force. Usually accompanied by a sigh of relief audible from fifty metres away. “Aaj toh elephant jaisa feel ho raha tha,” the producer must have thought. Beside it, you’ll often find the Flaky Grass Shit—loose, fibrous flakes that scream “I ate too much saag and the cow next door is jealous.” Cow dung is majestic in its own right—broad, flat, eco-friendly pancakes that smell of holy grass and rural wisdom—but human versions add that special chaotic spice.

And then, the medical red alert: White Shit—pale, clay-like, ghostly deposits that make even a seasoned gastroenterologist pause. Obstructive jaundice, my friends. No bile, no colour. “Doctor, mera potty safed ho gaya!” the patient would wail in OPD. I’d nod sagely: “Bile duct blocked, jaundiced eyes incoming. Time for ultrasound, not excuses.”

One crisp morning walk, I spotted a particularly artistic specimen near the tracks—a perfect Sausage with Cracks (Bristol Type 3, for my fellow doctors). I stopped, phone in hand, muttering observations like a true connoisseur.

“Sir, kya dekh rahe ho?” asked a curious uncle in a baniyan, pausing his own constitutional.

“Diagnosis, uncleji. This gentleman had adequate hydration but skipped the salad. Mild IBS suspected.”

Uncle chuckled. “Arre, main toh socha tha koi bird dekh raha hai!”

“Birds fly away, uncle. Shit stays and tells stories.”

Nearby lay a tragic Liquid Diarrhoea Splash—the aftermath of questionable pani-puri or that extra spicy vada pav. It looked like a crime scene. “Bhai, kal raat street food ne dhokha diya,” I imagined the victim confessing to his wife.

Raju, catching up, shook his head. “You’re hopeless. Salim is spotting kingfishers, and you’re cataloguing tatti taxonomy.”

I grinned. “At least my hobby is free, locally sourced, and keeps me humble. Plus, as a doctor, it’s continuing medical education—al fresco edition.”

So next time you’re out for a walk, don’t just dodge the landmines. Pause. Observe. Appreciate the Guddi ke Laal of the pavement—the hidden jewels in the mess. That stack of chapati shit? A love letter to roti. The pebble pile? A cry for more water and exercise. The white ghost? A warning worth heeding.

And if you ever see a middle-aged doctor in specs crouching thoughtfully beside a fresh deposit, don’t judge. Just nod and say, “Fortune IAS nahi, Fortune Digestive System chahiye, saab.”

Because in the end, whether it’s faded hoardings or fresh roadside art, the world is full of stories—if only you have the patience (and stomach) to read them.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a particularly intriguing Shot-Put with Corn Kernels calling my name near the next lamppost. Research awaits.