There is no record of anyone having entered a toilet on an Indian railways train by just opening the door and stepping in. There is an un-tutored and subliminal dance that unfolds before the entry can be effected.
He stood as far as possible from the toilet door in question, but without getting too close to the door opposite; using the tip of his most infrequently used digit he nudged the door slightly without looking anywhere in particular and expecting the worst. There were visions; unsettling visions of anarchy and bowels gone wild. And hopelessness; for he had been delaying the inevitable until this last moment in the faithless hope that it was all a dream or really nasty nightmare at worst. But he had to go and here he was.
The inevitable had brought him running to the door with less than a minute to spare for reconnaissance, ground clearance and the rest that usually follows.
With the gentle suggestion to the door, to open, he impulsively drew back an inch, bracing, and without an ounce of irritation or disgust. His eyes wandered around the small room, trying not to spot anything untoward. His attempt was not to survey the place and pass judgment, but to identify redeeming factors, like the fact that the window glass exists and is clouded or that there is an exhaust fan, spinning or not. Having spotted the merits and ascertained the unsuitability of the room for the rather urgent purpose, he rushes with vigor and a pained expression; actual physical pain coupled with the mental agony of knowing that he does not possess soap, to the next candidate loo.
Nobody or nothing is perfect. It's all about relative merit. And time is running out. Having eventually settled on the most suitable location that he dares to even enter, he starts stepping in. not in one sweeping motion, but one toe at a time. Yes, he's wearing thick soled shoes, but he tiptoes in. At this point, freely flowing liquid signifies cleanliness. He tries to avoid the obviously solid particles, stepping only in the friendly wet zones, skipping now and then to avoid moving solid waste that is swirled around with the movement of the train. The goal is the raised pedestal. Once he gets up there, he knows, he's safe. By the time he gets both feet firmly pressed on the foot seats, he's almost in tears; and he's still standing, fully clothed.
He slowly prepares for the launch. It's actually quite fast but to him it feels as though time has stopped. His bowels by now have raised their hands in despair , releasing all manner of waste in torrents. Lucky him. Mere mortals would first need to position themselves comfortably before their bowels will consent to anything; in which case one needs something to hold on to, as the train hurtles down the tracks, cutting across lush green fields soaked in fresh clean rain water, peppered with milk white migratory birds that wait patiently by rivulets for that errant leaping fish; they sometimes wait for half a day before moving on to another location. Yes, there are designated handles. The trick though is to squat while holding your clothes above the water level and catch that designated handle with the tips of at most 2 fingers; you wouldn’t want to risk more. All this as the train swings in all directions and the bowels have consented and the business of the day has begun. How did he do it then, if it's all so difficult and troublesome. It's a bit like judo. He used the train rather than oppose it. He goes with the swing, a melodious union of sorts; not some monotonous latin pop hit, but more a nuanced and uptempo jazz jam.
The foreign scents and sights have been overpowered now. All the cares are forgotten; it's almost unreal. I mean, there still is a world out there, but It's beginning to feel like home now. Bliss. At a level one can never hope to achieve in the cleanest toilet under the most pleasant of bowel circumstances.
When he realizes that he's sucked the bliss dry and the flow has stopped, he's brought back to earth and the train with the toilet with it's occupant in it. It's getting dry and he needs to get on with his life. He has to face facts, gather his resolve and… turn around. The tap faces the other way and points vertically down. A somewhat inconvenient location. While the self closing tap and he are in the same room, the relative position and distance between them renders it impossible for him to use the tap in any useful way. He could, for example open the tap and watch the water flow down and ponder the melting glaciers in Greenland. Or he could navigate himself to the tap and just sit there for he would be too close to operate it. Agility, speed and dexterity again come to his rescue. He swings his right hand behind him and uses the strong triceps to keep the tap open. Meanwhile his left hand approaches the falling water from beneath, and when a left-handful of water has collected, he swiftly transports it to the work site. He repeats this process as required until the job is done or the triceps freeze or the water runs out.
Getting up now is easy. He feels lighter and younger.
Having no soap at hand, he stands his palms below the self closing tap, alternating hands every few seconds and when the obvious odors have been washed away he opens the latch and steps out triumphantly. No tiptoeing now.
Wait. There's a guy selling paper soap strips passing by. There couldn’t be a happier ending.
Just after writing this I went and did what had to be done… it wasn’t as bad. And the soap guy passed by before I went into the loo.
09-June-2009 - Bangalore to Guwahati (somewhere before ongole)
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