Not long after the Great War I had occasion to visit the sub-continent on business. Acquaintances had told me much about the place, yet I judge it is impossible for a gentleman to prepare himself for the primitive extremes of India. The disgusting smell, the non-existent hygiene of the natives, the teeming unwashed masses loathsomely sleeping in putrid gutters…One cannot imagine how much more dire the place’s situation would have been if the British had not guided these ignorants with a paternal hand for so long.
Several days after my arrival I found myself on a crowded train bound for Madras. Some confusion at the booking office had landed me in second class, even though I had paid a friendly local chap handsomely to arrange a first class berth for me. Either the local’s poor grasp of English was to blame or I was a victim of the dishonesty these people are infamous for. Whatever the case, I found myself squeezed in with common Indians, who either stared or grinned idiotically at me.
My discomfort was pronounced. The heat of the day was extreme and intensified by the crush of the crowded carriage. I dared not remove my jacket in the certainty it would soon slip away in thieving, black hands, and could only comfort myself by unbuttoning my waistcoat. Even my proximity to the open window offered little relief. The air from outside was occasionally refreshing, but often carried the stench of rotting garbage and other unspeakable odours. The view was only of crumbling buildings, desolate countryside or dozens of savages defecating beside the tracks. If I turned my face back into the carriage, I was assailed by vendors pushing foul-smelling foods at me, or passengers asking rather personal questions in broken English about my employment and marital status.
Just when I thought my situation could not become more interminable, an ominous cramp wracked my innards. I suppressed a moan and cursed my luck. I had done all possible to elude illness since my arrival. I had avoided unboiled water and the bizarre local food, as well as consuming regular gin and tonics for the beverage’s medicinal value. Until boarding that damnable train, I had been accommodated by an English colleague in Bombay and dining exclusively on continental fare. As my bowels twisted painfully, I doubted the hygiene of the native kitchen staff my host had employed and cursed their beastly ways.
I lurched unsteadily to my feet and staggered through the crowded passageway to the end of the carriage. Where the seats ended was a door with the word “Latrine” stencilled on it. The stench emanating from the place did not bode well, but my stomach was in no mood for negotiation. I opened the door and stepped into that blasphemous place.
I must warn that the nature of the episode I am about to relate is not suitable for members of the fairer sex, and even gentlemen without the steeliest of nerves should consider not reading on from this point. Indeed, a singular feeling of shame grips my person as I recall this horrid instance, but the tale must be told given the peculiar nature of the thing that occurred.
At first I thought the cubicle to be empty of any fixture, for there was neither commode nor basin. I spied a rusted faucet protruding from the wall at shin height. And in the corner beside it – oh, horror of horrors! – a foul, tapered cavity in the metal floor. I turned to leave the offensive cupboard but another terrible cramp wracked my gut and I reluctantly shut myself in that uncouth place and latched the door.
Perspiring from the heat and my own discomfort, I edged towards the hole to see it became a long pipe burrowing down through the bottom of the train carriage. The tracks beneath were visible as the train rushed over the top. I will not speak of the state of the inner walls of the pipe, nor of the pan that the cavity tapered into. It is enough to say that the sight of the matter encrusted there bought bile to my throat and condemnation for these primitive heathens to my mind. The last curiosity of this atrocity were two metal platforms rising to floor level out of the front of the pan. I nearly cried aloud in outrage when I realised the purpose of these crude platforms, when it dawned upon me that I was expected to place a foot on each platform and squat over that unspeakable receptacle.
I will not upset the reader with a description of what followed, suffice to say that nature does not care much for the qualms of gentlemen and I performed the task my body demanded of me. When it was done, I saw that there was no evidence of any lavatory paper to be seen. With dread, I recalled wild stories I’d heard of Indian methods of ablution. Such tales I’d never given any credence to, but when my eyes levelled with the low, rusting faucet, within convenient reach of my ridiculous position, I realised those stories had been all too true.
After a few panicked moments I concluded that my initialled handkerchief would have to be sacrificed in the name of decency. Still in a primitive squat, I was fishing through my pockets for it when the train lurched around a corner. I lost my balance; my shoes scrambled on the tiny platforms, and the unthinkable happened. My right foot slipped into that unspeakably foul pan and became lodged in the pipe. Trousers still around my knees, I cried out in disgust and pulled desperately at my foot for no result; the shoe was firmly lodged in the pipe.
Oh, cruel fate! Unspeakable destiny! Dear reader, can you imagine my predicament? There was I, trapped in the most ungentlemanly of situations with no apparent option but to call out for help.
Yet I could well imagine how gleeful the heathens would be at finding a white man in such a predicament. No matter how desperately I pulled at my trapped leg I could find no purchase. The metal cubicle was intensely hot, and my sweat mingled with the tears now welling at my eyes. I decided to have one last attempt at freeing myself. But after pulling up my trousers, I sensed movement behind me.
An elderly, half-naked Indian had appeared and stood leering at me. He mumbled something indecipherable in his primitive tongue and, smiling lewdly, extended a claw-like hand towards me. I saw that the door still remained firmly closed with its latch in place, and a corner of my desperate mind pondered momentarily how the man had gained admittance. Perhaps it had been the rattle of the latch which had alerted my to his presence; these people are known for their devious nature and dealing with a latched door would certainly not be beyond them.
With little other choice on offer, I took his proffered hand to be shocked by the wizened creature’s iron grip. He pulled me close and hissed in a guttural tongue which I know to this day was no dialect as innocent as Hindi:
“Ai! Ai! Shub Niggarath…excreta lavatorium…moronas anglo stupido…Ai! Ai…”
At that, he gave a mighty heave and my shoe was pulled free of that horrid, offensive abyss. I quickly arranged my attire in a manner approaching civilised, rained a few coins on the man in return for his cries of, “Baksheesh, Sahib”, and pushed my way out of that unspeakable cubicle.
Back in my seat the whole episode seemed singularly unreal, and I soon took to wondering if I had not imagined some of the more extreme details in my feverish state. But of one thing I am certain. From the time I left that cubicle and returned to my seat, until the train arrived in Madras over twelve hours later, I did not take my eyes off the latrine door. And the repulsive Indian man did not exit from that terrible cubicle.
Copyright Clinton Green, 2002. First published in House Of Pain, November 2002 and in Fantasies (anthology published by Cyberwit).