I arrive belated for buses, trains, and transportation as often as little children say to librarians, "I'm looking for a book."
I blitzed onto a bus from Agra to Jaipur with the yearning to urinate more than my steady solicitude to attend ugly sweater parties. I eloquently begged the bus driver to delay the bus: "I'm sorry, but I am on this bus, here is my ticket, and unless you wait for me for two minutes to pee in a toilet outside, I will pee inside. And that will be bad."
I sprung from the steps like I was on speed and sprint-shuffled in the direction of the shack Savior had pointed to. I scurried inside with a solace-sigh and shoved the door shut. I scarcely noticed the door ricochet from the frame as I stood in the room and hawked for the hole. Bathrooms consistently have a hole in the floor. They frequently have foot imprints. This bathroom had a concrete floor. No hole, no drain, no footprints. Just a floor. Stationary, my pointer finger drummed against my bottom lip as I puzzled how I would relieve myself without plunging my feet in pee.
Language groans and grunts intoned from behind me like a moose craving attention. I turned to observe an elder Indian woman in a saree. She prodded me aside, pulled her skirt up, squatted, and motioned for me to do the same. Grandma continued to counsel me not in Hindi or Bengali, but in Neanderthal-murmur. She conceivably thought I could comprehend her better in burbles and babbles.
The bus' horn honked, I shrugged, stripped my pants and underwear from my waist, and squatted.
Urine boomeranged from the floor to my feet. My toes slipped in my sandals as liquid loped across my skin and I rushed outside to my bus.
When women receive their Indian visas they should be obligated to observe a video on peeing techniques. I've been in India over a month and even with a hole and footprints, still splatter pee in undesirable places. Maybe there's a pee-funnel in existence.