That was the latest discovery from a voyage of mine to a land known till then from only the Atlas. I was directed towards the back of the flying machine where the co-passenger had known the toilet facility lay. Walking through the aisle with the pressure under my belly and taking the strange looks of hundreds of passengers, who had nothing to do but sit and watch, was an ordeal. “Should I keep a smile? Or do I reserve the right to smile?” was my dignified confusion.

I tried my best to be moderate and “non-terrorist” like; means, gentle, because my behavior and body language could potentially put them in agony of some unwelcome events, such as, one standing suddenly in the aisles and declaring that the plane had been hijacked and was going to land on an unknown island on the Indian ocean. I was careful to be myself but still necks turned backwards, fallowing my movements, and smiles unfurled on their lips for want a reason behind the awkward, staggering of a young man. I did not bother but walked on to that lonely destination; the toilet.

Here came my next test of endurance. There was a queue at the entrance of the toilet. I counted them; I was the 9th on the line. I knew well that nine was a good number according to numerologist and I was born on November 9 and several times I heard the goodness of the singular number being talked around me. On all counts I would disagree that the number as an occupant on a queue is never appreciable, especially while seeing eight people in front of you, bearing the same need at varying intensities, blocking your way to the place of urgency.

Should I cry loud? Then all of them would cry louder, I was afraid, because the need to be in the toilet was the only priority vested on all of us at that moment. Although I did not cry, my eyes welled up, my nose blew, and the one standing behind inquired compassionately. I blurted out few syllables belonged to my instant need. To my extreme joy, the man said I could go ahead to the door of privacy; the queue was to the coffee percolator and not to the toilet. I rammed on to the steel door and it folded in.

Again problems waited for me inside the narrow cubicle that had several unfamiliar utensils arranged around the walls. Where was that “sandal shaped” porcelain trough with a hole at the tip on which I could squat and release my pressure? You see, I was not used to any European closets at home. All the time till then, I had used only the Indian “squatting toilets” and here was one that looked like a toilet vessel having a hole, though I could not squat. My thinking was that in case if it was for some other use and I did excrete in it, would that bring in further problems. There was no time for me to wait and decide on the issue; I stood on it and squatted for a release. Excreting process in a toilet was never that much enjoyable and ever after in my life, although I had to do a lot of cleaning to bring back the area intact. Toiletries, perfumes, soaps were there in plentiful for my refurbishing episode. I tried the working of the flush several times that fascinated me since it worked without water or with very little water; I don’t know.