We go down the stairs, 20 yards in front of the building, make a right turn, past the door that has thousands of flies buzzing it, to the back part of that building. They jangle their stick of keys and open the padlocked door.
There are 3 stalls, each about 4'x4'. One has a pull string with a nozzle on the ceiling. As long as there was water in the container on the roof, I can wet down, soap, and rinse. The far stall has a squat toilet, which was for the cleaning family, from India's lowest caste, the Harijan Caste, who had a lean-to hut against the building, with whom I shared the john. It was clean, flushed, and had no flies.
The middle stall had a walnut stained wooden box with cover and under it a hole big enough for my butt. They had made me an American toilet. They were proud, but they noticed I was scrunching my shoulders, not just because the walls were narrow, but because of the living wallpaper.
Stationed every 10 inches or so, on ceiling, walls, and floor, with their feelers twitching, was an army of 3-inch cockroaches.
One of the Indians inquired, "Shab, shab no like roaches?"
The other said, "Shab can kill roaches."
Knowing a little about the Hindu reincarnation beliefs, I said nothing but would try his deadly advice.
It was a lesson in warfare that some politicians should learn.
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