Browsing Tag

India

So you want to use an Indian toilet

March 28, 2011

So you want to use an Indian toilet. Congratulations! If you’re lucky, you’ll have two choices.

TOILETS

1. The Indian toilet (aka Eastern toilet, keyhole toilet, squatter)

Squat here.

 

How to use: Face forward, feet on the designated foot pads, rear hovering over the hole. Situate yourself in a classic squat position, with the backs of your thighs meeting the backs of your calves.

It will feel freakin’ weird, and it will take every ounce of your focus to avoid peeing on your feet. But eventually you will find that this is a much more natural and easy position for elimination when compared to the sit-down toilet.

Don’t worry about the water around your feet. (Keep telling yourself it’s just water.)

2. The Western toilet (aka American toilet, sit-down toilet, crapper)

You recognize this guy, right? Lucky you, this one even has a seat!

 

Hopefully, you’ve already mastered this technique: Sit. Strain. Poo.

CLEANING UP

If your business was of the number one variety, don’t worry about flushing the urine away. You’ll be wasting precious water in a place where you should be conserving it.

Number two, however, is a different story.

If you are using a Western toilet, chances are the flusher doesn’t work. If there’s a bucket, you might try filling the tank with water. If the flusher still won’t budge, you’ll have to run out of the bathroom and pretend you weren’t the poo culprit. Practice saying, “Wow. Watch out for that stall … I mean, it was like that when I got there.”

If you are using the Indian squat toilet, aim for a hole in one. That makes things easy-peasy. If you’ve missed the hole, use the nearby cup and bucket of water to flush everything down. If there is no nearby cup and bucket of water, you’re on your own.

CLEANING YOURSELF

Done? Well, unless you’ve brought it yourself, there is no toilet paper. Don’t even bother looking. In fact, many Indians view our toilet paper ways as wasteful, unhygienic and positively barbaric. They are probably right.

So instead of paper, you’ll be using water to wipe.

Draw a cup of water from the nearby bucket, and pour it forcefully on your own business. Sometimes the water is even warm, which is a pleasant treat.

Just think of this faucet as an unlimited roll of toilet paper.

 

Most toilets will even have a washpipe with a squirter to assist you in cleaning yourself. Think: High pressure car wash for your bum.

Use this device for all your high-pressure, bum-squirting needs.

 

Squirt front to back or back to front — it’s your personal preference — but from my experience, front to back is the smarter way to go. Keep squirting until all the waste has been removed. If you need assistance, bring in your left hand for a little extra scrubbing power.

Note: Always wipe with your left hand. Your right hand is reserved for other business, like eating, accepting gifts, shaking hands, etc. Even so, one would hope that you have washed both hands — with soap! — after using the toilet.

Think wiping with your hand is gross? Don’t. As one of my Indian friends says, “If you won’t touch your own ass, who will?”

My only issue was with the wetness that remains after squirting myself with water. (Well, I also have a problem with faulty squirters shooting me in the eye. But that’s a different story.) My Indian friend, again, made an excellent point.

“It’s a hot country,” he said. “You’ll dry.”

 

Grief at the ashram

March 28, 2011

I had big expectations for Sivananda ashram. Probably too big.

I figured this was my opportunity to recover after my mother’s death. A time for meditation and prayer, yoga and chanting. I would push through my grief one downward dog, one “om shanti” at a time, emerging on other side complete, happy and stitched back together.

Six days at an ashram isn’t enough time for that. I know this now.

Part of the problem is that I’m not sure if I’m doing this properly. I don’t know if my emotions are healthy, or if I’m in such denial that I can barely feel anything at all.

Because what I have now is what I call The Big Empty. It’s a dull, gaping expanse — a hole with a jagged maw that has settled in and made a home in my chest.

The strange thing about it is that I am not actively grieving. The tears don’t threaten to overflow the way they did in those first few weeks. There is no raw, gnawing feeling of sorrow. Sometimes I forget that she’s even gone.

But other times, The Big Empty pulses like a dark heartbeat. That’s when I look around at this massive world and realize my mom is not in it. There are all these breathtaking, sensual, smelly, frustrating, wild, wonderful things I experience every day, and my mother will never see them, never hear about them, never get a taste for them. And that’s not fair.

Every day I prayed at the ashram, and I waited for the answers to come.

Every day I realized I didn’t know what questions to ask.

 

OMG

March 26, 2011

Forget Bethlehem.

A houseboat trip through the Indian backwaters of Alleppey brought me to the real birthplace of Jesus — where saints are crafted and God is created.

The St. Thomas Statuary, of course.

 

Ashram field trip

March 25, 2011

You know it’s been a good day when you have to scrub away sweat, salt and three colors of sand.

When you go to bed choking on giggles, even though you have to wake up in a few short hours.

When your gut is about to burst from candy and chutney and spice, and you don’t regret a single calorie.

When you play in the ocean until your muscles hurt.

When strangers become friends.

I’ve spent the past few days locked away in an ashram near Trivandrum. But Friday was a day off from serious yoga, meditation and attaining enlightenment — so a bunch of us took a field trip to Kanyakumari, the most southern tip of India. It’s where three bodies of water converge, the Bay of Bengal, the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea. The different currents wash up different colors of sand, so wet toes kick up layers of gold, red and black.

It’s also a spiritual place for Hindu pilgrims, as it is where the virgin Kanyakumari — an avatar of the goddess Parvati — waited to win the hand of lord Shiva.

As the story goes, Shiva failed to show up for his own wedding. (Bastard!) So all the food from the wedding feast was angrily tossed into the water and onto the shore. The grains of rice eventually turned into stones, while the curries wash up on the beach, creating the different colored sand we see today. Goddess Kanyakumari continues to watch over the area, and  a 3,000-year-old temple on the beach pays tribute to her.

Our day brimmed over with waterfall dancing, battling the ocean waves and getting blessed with smudges of red paint and sandalwood paste on our foreheads. We were like kids unleashed at an amusement park for the first time — indulging in soda, eating too many sweets and dosas, and laughing until we cried.

More proof that field trips ALWAYS rule.

 

Splish splash

March 19, 2011

The rippling sound of giggles, screams and laughter had more power than the waterfall’s babble.

About 10 women stood in a circle, holding hands. They were waist deep in the greenish water, bouncing up for one second before submerging themselves all at once. Their sari fabrics billowed and ebbed with the currents, swirling in a cacophony of color.

These ladies were modest enough to wear their clothes into the water, but practical enough to leave their panties behind on the dry rocks.

After about 20 minutes of bouncing and delicate paddling, the whole scene devolved into splashing and dunking. Their laughter was practically electric, impregnating the air with lightness and joy.