Imagine that squat toilet being your only option on a five-hour train ride. Imagine the train car slinging and bouncing along the track. Imagine the water with which previous passengers have been sloshing out the squatter, sort of puddling and pooling along the bathroom floor. Imagine clutching your little ziploc bag of toilet paper (SUCH A WESTERN SISSY!) with one hand, holding your trousers off the floor with the other hand (WHY DIDN’T I WEAR A SKIRT?). Where is that third hand with which to balance yourself against the wall? Exactly. There you are in Indian train’s squat toilet without a third hand, dammit.
But hey, you’ve been doing yoga for a while, so you can just slide into that chair pose and hold it, hold it, hold it (WHOA GOING AROUND A CURVE). Finish your bidness and find a way to wipe off the bits and parts, and stand up without letting the trousers drop into the sloshy stuff. Find yourself deeply regretting the decision to wear birkenstocks instead of, say hip-waders or steel-toed boots, find yourself wishing briefly that you were a man with a man’s stand-up apparatus, and then make your way back to your seat. Realize you are having minor cramping in your quadriceps, but it’s a small price to pay for not falling down. Or in.
Namaste, my friends, namaste.