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Even though Reema was born in West Bengal, she had lived in the United States since she was four, so she barely knew Bengali and also only spoke a little Hindi. So when she went to visit relatives in Mumbai, she knew this would be a minor problem, especially since she knew no Marathi. She knew to have some of her female cousins along to help translate things for her while out and about in the city for the week she would be there, but one day she decided to go shopping by herself. Reema didn’t have any problems at first (her Hindi was adequate enough for speaking with merchants and shop employees), but after drinking two bottles of water because of the sweltering Mumbai heat, she soon found herself needing to urinate. Worse yet, she knew none of the shops around had public toilets. Her need rapidly grew worse as the minutes passed. She started pressing her hands to her lower belly as she searched for a toilet---it didn’t help matters that she started to get lost. Reema asked passersby in Hindi if there were any public toilets nearby. Some of the men also reacted with slight hostility for her even asking for such a thing as a woman. As her need to pee grew much worse, a woman she asked finally told her where to find public toilets as she stood dancing from foot to foot. Reema hurried down the street and then turned a corner into a wide alley (she could smell the toilets even before she had turned all the way). There were two lines of people---one for men and one for women----that led down to two different rows of four sheds each, which were, of course, what passed for public toilets. Unsurprisingly, the men’s line was considerably shorter than the women’s and moved up faster. The women were all in various stages of desperation as well. There were also two men standing in front of the toilets charging for money to use them. Reema had read something on the Internet about this not too long ago. It was free to use public toilets like this if you only had to urinate, but you had to pay if you had to defecate. Then Reema noticed with dismay that the men were charging all the women! Another half-an-hour passed as the women’s line slowly moved forward and Reema’s bladder screamed at her for relief. But finally she was second in line for the toilets. The sari-clad thirty-something woman in front of her frantically pleaded with one of the men in Marathi. Even though Reema didn’t know Marathi, it wasn’t too hard for her to figure out what they were talking about: she obviously didn’t have enough money. After about a minute of futile pleading, the man (who had almost no teeth even though he was in his late 20’s) yelled at her some more in Marathi, shooed her away and she ran off crying with her hands pressed into her crotch. Then it was Reema’s turn. He held out his hand and began to speak, but Reema spoke up first in Hindi. “I...have to pee.” The man shook his head and replied in equally halting Hindi. “You may lie, have to shit. Three rupees!” “But, sir….” “Three rupees!” he demanded again. Reema looked in her purse and found with horror that she didn’t have any change, only traveler’s checks. Reema tried to beg one more time while doing a serious pee-pee dance. “I have no…money. Please…I just need…” “No money, you don’t go!” he yelled. “Go away and stop holding up line!” He pointed to the end of the alley. Reema walked away in despair. She just didn’t know what she would do. If she didn’t get to a toilet soon, she was sure would pee in her jeans. Reema stepped back out onto the street. The agonizing pressure on her urethra now made every step more difficult. She spotted the woman from earlier crouched down on the ground with her hands in her face and sobbing loudly. She also noticed the huge puddle of urine underneath her and that the bottom lower half of her red sari was wet. Several men were standing around near her, laughing, leering, and making obscene comments. Disgusted, she felt like saying something to them, but kept on walking. Reema was now frequently pressing her hand discreetly in her crotch. She decided she would take a taxi back to her aunt’s house and hope she could hold it until she got there. When she hailed one, she was somewhat happy to find that the driver spoke Hindi with a Bengali accent like her. But as she talked with him in Bengali on the way to her aunt’s house, she became annoyed as she found he talked too much. At least it helped take her mind off her bursting bladder a little, however. She sat in the back of the taxi for the entire ride with her knees pressed closed together. It took them an hour to get to her aunt’s house in a wealthier neighborhood because of traffic. Reema thought it was a miracle that she made it. She pounded on the locked wooden front gate and yelled “Let me in!” in Bengali. Her aunt’s maid opened it up and she ran past her and directly to the bathroom. Unfortunately, she found the bathroom door locked as well. “Hurry up, please!” Reema exclaimed, pounding on the door with one hand while burying the other hand in her crotch. “I really need to use the restroom, it’s an emergency!” “Sorry, I’ll be done soon!” the voice of her 14-year-old cousin Mahima answered back. But Reema couldn’t wait another minute: she had to go now! The only thing that Reema could think of to do besides wetting her pants was to go pee in the backyard. It was already dusk, so hopefully there wouldn’t be anyone else outside. She sprinted to the back of the house and past the rest of her bewildered relatives, yanked open the back door and out into the backyard. But just when she started to take off her jeans, her zipper got stuck! “No, no, not now!” she moaned. She struggled with the zipper for another minute, but then finally she couldn’t hold it any longer and began to pee in her pants. Oh, NO! she thought. She heard the faint hissing sound of the urine coming out of her body and into her jeans and felt the wet warmth as it quickly spread from her crotch and down her legs. She peed for well over a minute and the urine ran out onto the grass at her sandaled feet. Reema looked down and surveyed the damage. The wet stain on the front of her jeans from the crotch down looked almost black in the early evening. She felt relieved to have an empty bladder, but also very embarrassed for wetting herself. At least she did it at her relative’s house and instead of in public.
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