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You roll up your pants or salwar so the hem doesn’t get wet, hop around a bit, secure your phone and your eye glasses, pull down your pants, and aiming for the hole under which visible tracks clack-clack-clack, hanging on to the vertical wall rail by one hand while you sway in time to the motion.
If you’ve ever traveled in an Indian train, you know how it works.
Though we’re probably the largest, smelliest of the lot, a lot of Eastern Europe plus the entire British commonwealth have trains equipped with drop-chute toilets, leaving many countries to deal (or not deal) with the problem of waste on the tracks.
In fact, I try to avoid any trains I have to board midway through their journey and not at the origin station for one reason and one reason alone: the loos.
And I’m not the only one; many people, especially women, would rather splurge on a plane ticket than face the horrors of the train toilet.
You sidle into a small 4×4 cubicle equipped with a basin, a perpetually empty soap dispenser, either a squat toilet or a Western commode, with a blue button the size of a 10 rupee coin on a square panel attached to a water pipe that says PUSH.
After this soul-jarring procedure, you button up, PUSH the flush button, check the soap dispenser (I told you it’s empty), rinse your hands, check your phone and eye glasses are still on your person and not on the tracks, and then exhaling, shiftily exit sideways; roll your pants/salwar down once you’re outside.
“We need 1 lakh (100,000) bio-toilets in 5 years.” It’s a big ask.