This is why I refused to return home all these years, staying in Canada and doing the white man's job up till 2016, because i hate Nostalgia.
Up on the hill, I sighted the house, a symbol of anachronism, from afar it looks almost normal, like every other house of the not so wealthy, its unpainted walls standing in defiance to the sun, as if it is telling the weathering elements to do their worst.
In 1948, just after the world war, this very house was a marvel for Indians, people stood in the valley admiring it, people from other villages came as tourist to see the white man’s wonders, and papa gave certain important people among the teeming the chance to see the modern toilets and the plumbing system. the faucets amazed everyone, both old and young, and papa who would suddenly open the toilet doors and wait expectantly for the incoming gasps and sounds of muffled amazement would, pause, look at their faces and try eloquently to explain to them how the toilet worked and some would even ask questions like how it felt to sit on one, or whether someone can fall into its watery abyss.
Papa was a head master in the local school, the British school superintendent had built the house since papa was not from the village and had complained about accommodation problems. Even the standard six people upon graduation where given an honourable tour of our house but the toilet received most attention in the house since it was a piece of western technology since there was a scarcity of western technology. And yes papa like every other colonial worker in the rest of the world owned a radio, watch and a compass, but these are far too valuable items or even personal or private items for the ogling perusing amusement of the locals, only a few friends have seen the compass, and papa rarely wore the watch except on very rare occasions.
Well I made friends in school just by promising pupils that they would see our toilet, and if they are exceptionally good towards me, they might even get to use it, which obviously from the way they shrieked with delight, using a toilet would have been a turning point in their lives, like a religious conversion or something memorable, well my frequent promise of toilet sightseeing and use got me the unfortunate but cool name at that time “toilet boy”. the few school pupil who followed me after proving to me multiple times their unwavering loyalty and mesmerisation with acts of kindness, papa had stood behind us as the boys watched and talked about how white it looks like an egg or argue about whether it was made with the skeleton of the dead, papa would take time to explain, not just only taking time to explain, but he took pleasure in the act of explaining, that toilet had inspired so many young people to become Indian engineers.
Straddling towards the home on the hill, a monument of changing times, path hewn by feet’s who came to see toilet and watched in fascination as it flushed, feeling its fine marbles, not at all perturbed by the putrefaction which it might have consumed, a circus of western magic the house was, but the long row of beautiful houses on the street of Mumbai, standing tall, dwarfing the first of its kind shows how far India has come.


Espionagesavvy.