I walk through the market with all the tiny stores lining the street.  The vegetable sellers have their stands on either side, with some directly in the middle.  Piles of mangos, okra, potatoes, tomatoes... they are everywhere.

I'm looking for something specific, and I'm guessing I'll find it in a shop that sells plastic goods, like buckets and stools and pitchers.  I peer into the shops I pass, smiling briefly at people who look concerned when they see me, as if they've never in their life seen something so odd.  I know that this is just the famed Indian stare, though, so it doesn't bother me. Also, Indian women don't go out when they are pregnant, so I am rather strange.

I find a little shop and walk inside.  It is dark and there are three people sitting in the midst of piles of the things I think will lead me to what I'm looking for.  I don't think they'll know the word, so I try using gestures and other words.

"Do you have a small (I gesture the size with my hands) sort of toilet?  For a baby?"

They shake their heads.  "For a small child?  To sit on?  To use the bathroom?"

No they don't.  They shake their heads again.  I gesture again to show the size and shape of what I'm looking for.  "For a child?  A toilet?"  Nope, they sure don't.

"Oh," I say, disappointed.  "You don't have a potty."

The one young woman jumps up.  "Potty?  Yes, we have."  And she proceeds to show me the perfect, small, simple potty that I've been hoping for.

You know, I find that sometimes it works better to just start with the word, rather than becoming some sort of crazed foreign pregnant mime.  You know.