Since summer holidays have begun, I have travelled by Vande Bharat a few times – to Bangalore, Mysore, and right now, I am on my way to Madurai.
In my younger days, train journeys were simple. Now everything has changed.
Vande Bharat is not a train. If you have been in one a few times, you will realize that it is actually a small-town airport that accidentally got attached to railway tracks.
The doors open and close on their own, the seats recline, you get newspapers, water, and food, there are charging points, and even the announcements are polite.
Every seat comes with a footrest – just that the way it is designed, it looks like it wanted to be a doormat, but became a footrest because of parental pressure.
Everything is “just perfect” till you get up from your seat and walk out through the automated doors and are confronted with two signboards: Western and Indian.
At that moment, every man (I only speak for men!) is forced to make a life decision.
And unlike most life decisions, your wife cannot make this one for you.
Though I am sure, if Rekha knew I was going to use the lavatory, she would still try.
“Go to Western,” she would say.
“Why?”
“Just like that.”
Now, there is no point arguing with your wife when she says “just like that,” because in marriage, “just like that” is not a phrase. It is a court order.
But since I had succeeded in sneaking out while she was sleeping, it had to be my decision. I stood there for a few seconds and evaluated my options.
Sometimes the decision is made for you – when one of the two restrooms is engaged.
However, this time God was making it difficult for me – both of them were ‘vacant.’
An Indian toilet meant squatting. A Western toilet meant trusting the previous passenger.
At 50, both are dangerous.
After a personal turmoil of about 15 seconds, during which I also kept an eye on the automated door for possible competition, I chose the Indian toilet.
My dad had served in the Indian Army for 32 years, so deep down I am a patriotic individual. Maybe that’s why I went for the Indian, or like every 50-year-old man, I still believe that I am physically capable of the things I did at 25.
I entered the Indian toilet, locked the door, turned around, and looked at the setup.
Everything was compact. By compact, I mean if you exhaled deeply, your stomach could accidentally flush the toilet.
At 50, sitting on the Indian toilet is not easy. Thankfully, there was a steel rod to hold on to…but within seconds, I felt as if Yamraj was waiting outside the door with a clipboard.
“Take your time, Rajan. I have already marked you present.”
That’s when I spotted the dustbin right in front of me, exactly at eye level.
The train was moving fast, my thighs were trembling, my knees were making sounds I hadn’t heard in a long while, and then I got a waft from the dustbin.
I don’t know what was inside it. But whatever was inside the dustbin had lived a full life and died with regrets.
I tried to finish the job quickly, but Indian toilets after 50 don’t allow speed. They demand a strong lower body, meticulous planning, breathing technique, and one hand rail for emotional support.
Slowly, I used the wall, the handrail, the door handle, and the last bit of self-respect left in my body to stand up.
As I stood up, all of my body’s blood rushed to my legs. But we Rajans are built tough…I held the washbasin for support and hung on. Beyond the door, I could visualize Yamraj crossing out my name and walking away disappointed.
There is a certain happiness to walking out of a train’s toilet – your butt may be wet, but your mind is relaxed. You know that now you are a free man!
——X—–X—–
When it comes to matters of the digestive system, God has been kind to me. So, I got a chance to visit the toilet again on my way back from Madurai to Chennai.
This time, I decided to try the Western Toilet. After all, I am a modern man – I use UPI to make my payments, hold my wife’s bags, and don’t tell anyone this…but also occasionally try out her lip gloss.
Confidence is a dangerous thing in public toilets.
I opened the door and saw the toilet seat. The lid was up. I don’t understand why Indian men don’t put the lid back.
I am sure these are the same men who don’t cover the microwave bowl with a plate while heating dal or subzi, and then act surprised when the inside of the microwave looks like a crime scene.
With as little of my index finger as possible touching it, I pushed the seat cover down. It fell with a thud.
There was water on the cover. At least, I hoped it was water. In public toilets, hope is the only tissue available freely.
Like a surgeon about to perform a complicated operation, I took out the tissues I had with me and began cleaning.
By the fourth tissue, I started feeling like I was doing housekeeping for Indian Railways.
After wiping everything, I started spreading tissues on the seat.
By the time I finished, the seat looked like it had been gift-wrapped by someone with trust issues.
As I sat down, I wondered: “If only my wife saw what a swell job I had done in laying out the tissues on the seat cover, she would appreciate me. Pity this had to be a private affair.”
That is when the announcement started.
“Dear passengers, please remember to flush after using the lavatory.”
Then they repeated it in Hindi. Then Tamil. Then English again.
When such announcements happen while you are inside the toilet, you feel personally attacked.
It is not a general announcement. It is a warning. “Rajan, we know you are inside. Flush.”
I wanted to shout, “Let me finish first!”
But there are some sentences a man should not shout from inside a train toilet.
The announcement continued. “Please keep the lavatory clean for the next passenger.”
The next passenger? What about the previous passenger – why wasn’t he told to be considerate about me?
Then I had to flush. A sound came from below so powerful that I immediately apologized to all the Gods. For one second, I thought the train had launched a missile.
As the echo of the flush died down, a huge sense of relief came over me. If you have ever spent time in an Indian Railways toilet, you will know that pressing the flush button is like paying the final EMI for your car loan.
Like a true gentleman, I wiped the toilet seat again and washed my hands with the soap from the dispenser.
As I walked out of the Western toilet, I wiped my hands on my jeans – that’s a man’s way of knowing that everything was back to normal in his world.
I returned to my seat, exhausted.
“Long queue?” Rekha asked.
“A friend had called,” I lied. I didn’t tell her that my friend’s name was Nature.
Being married to Rekha for 20+ years, I know that she can turn even a toilet visit into a performance review.