The Proper High Toilet

When I was three and a half , we lived in a little flat in Bahawalpur . The flat had a sum total of two bathrooms and both were Indian toilets .

As can be imagined I dreaded trips to the toilet because three year old legs are treacherously short and liable to slip on the ridged ceramic and get stuck inside. None of which is particularly enjoyable. But I was freshly potty trained and visits to the toilet though daunting were also an integral and important part of my existence .

I could have refused to go at all. But I was in my own small way, a perfectionist. I had a pristine track record and was loathe to give up my faultless potty training credentials for anyone or anything.

So, I persisted . Until. One day my mother announced that we were shifting house . She mentioned in passing that the toilets in our next house would be proper ones.

High ones.

A Proper High Toilet.

The cold hand of fear gripped my heart. Although I was familiar with a potty, an Indian toilet and your regular every day commode.

I had never up to that point encountered a contraption called a Proper High Toilet.

How high was high? And by what mechanism did it merit the term. proper?

If it necessitated the use of a separate adjective. It must be pretty high .

I was determined to retain my rights to the title of most continent in the land. So ,I pondered over the possible logistics of its use.

I already needed a stool to access a regular commode. For this new variant, would a ladder be required, or a staircase perhaps?

Would I have to climb it myself or would aid be proffered?

Staircases intimidated me and ladders were the stuff of nightmares. I envisioned dizzying skyscraper-like structures soaring up into the air, surrounded by a noxious halo of gaseous emissions.

Spindly ladders leading up to scatological thrones perched precariously on top.

I was not happy . I was in fact , downright indignant. Had I not done my best? Wasn't potty time enough of an ordeal already? I still dimly recalled the indignities of being usurped from my beloved potty seat by my imposter sibling .

Subsequent to which I had been exiled to the back waters of the Indian commode with the rest of the peasants. While he sat in the lounge, pert posterior affixed smugly on the ancient red potty where I had once held court and been the sole recipient of parental applause and adulation.

But now, even the insult and hazard attached to the Indian commode, paled in comparison to the chilling prospect of the Proper High Toilet. My mind boggled with questions.

Where did the poop go?

Exactly how high was it?

What if I fell in?

What if there were birds.I did not like birds.

What if I fell and broke my neck trying to climb it. I made nonchalant inquiries. Was it as high as the roof? Or say the next door neighbors house? Or a small tree? My mother brushed off my queries with a laugh.I was slightly disturbed by her cavalier disregard for my handicaps. She clearly had no understanding of what it felt like to be a very short person in a tall persons world.

I tried to point out the good things about our current habitat .

The sunshine mottled lounge. The big backyard.I told her I liked, nay loved the Indian toilet. But it was too little. Too late.

The formerly scorned Indian toilet. Which had heretofore been the target of my undeserved ire was now a sanctuary which I regarded with wistful longing.

The day of our departure arrived .

I dragged my feet.

I threw a tantrum.

I bit my little brother.

Dig in my heels as I would.

Eventually I was removed bodily from the premises.

Our new abode, looked unpromising enough.A blandly beige second floor flat with a small but tenacious patch of scraggly greenery encroaching upon the concrete. The structure went no higher than the second floor.

I was momentarily relieved. At least there would be no birds.

But. What if IT wasn't even in the house?

What if IT was housed in a separate building An ominous tower-like outhouse of horrors reserved specifically for the Proper High Toilet and its victims.

A very high, very separate tower.

Where no one would hear me scream as I fell.

Even the red potty had been retired now.

I wondered fleetingly how the tiny usurper would make do.

But in moments of peril it is every child for themselves .

The parents had callously condemned us both to a dirty and pointless death. I cried.

I cried for myself and I cried for the clueless tiny usurper.

Until I was too spent and exhausted to do anything but sleep.

The next morning, I woke up and I needed to pee.

I contemplated staying in bed till my bladder gave out.

But no.

Better death than the dishonor of soiled bedding.

I decided I was entitled to an escort for my final walk to the gallows.

So I tried to wake my mother. She wouldn't budge.

Not only was I to die. But the conscienceless criminals complicit in my death would not even deign to witness their folly.

I was thoroughly disgusted.

Shoulders squared. I ventured out of the bedroom into the hallway.

At the end of the hallway was a white door.

I trudged to that door with leaden feet and opened it.

I rubbed my eyes. My prayers had been answered.

In front of me was a very normal, very regular commode with a little white stool placed thoughtfully to one side.

This was the Proper High Toilet?

I looked inside. It all seemed innocent enough .

This couldn't be right.

But there was no other toilet in sight.

Maybe my mother had been mistaken.

Maybe we had moved to the wrong house.

I rushed to wake up my mother and the horrors of the last week all came tumbling out in an incoherent barrage of tears.

Needless to say she was very amused.

I was not.