The sun had hardly started its leisurely rise above the Darsha estate, bathing the neat lawns with soft gold, when five-year-old Sharath Virayan Darsha made what was surely the most disgusting discovery of his brief but already action-packed life.
The privy of the family—loved by none and shunned by anyone with intelligence—was an architectural and olfactory atrocity, a crime against both hygiene and human decency.
[🐧 GOOD MORNING, CREATOR. ENVIRONMENTAL ANALYSIS: AIR QUALITY AT "DOOMSDAY SCENARIO." OLFACTORY ALERT: THIS SMELL HAS FILED FOR ITS OWN PARLIAMENTARY REPRESENTATION.]
The morning had begun auspiciously enough. Sharath woke up in his richly magical bedroom, sunlight streaming through ethereal curtains enchanted to admit but the mildest heat. The air was subtly scented by self-replenishing lavender sachets; the bed adjusted itself to his ideal comfort position; his blanket folded itself neatly at the foot of the bed.
[🐧 OPTIMAL TEMPERATURE, BEDDING IN ORDER, SLEEP CYCLE COMPLETED: 97% EFFICACY. IDEAL FOR A PRODUCTIVE DAY… OR AT LEAST SO I FOOLISHLY THOUGHT.
And then, of course, nature demanded to be heard. Not with polite suggestion, not with gentle urgings, but with the bull-headed insistence of a tax man who had already knocked three times. Sharath, half-asleep as he was, stumbled to the family's principal privy. This, it transpired, was his first error.].
[🐧 WARNING: ENTERING UNSANCTIONED BIOHAZARD ZONE. SUGGEST HAZMAT SUIT… WHICH YOU DO NOT OWN. GOOD LUCK.]
The building stood at the other side of the courtyard, a quaint wooden building that seemed to have been drawn up by a carpenter whose main experience was constructing boxes for potatoes. It leaned minutely to the side, as if bearing centuries of inexpressible weight.
Inside, the air was dense—no, not air. This was atmosphere, a toxic environment where sulfur, ammonia, methane, and shame fought for supremacy.
[🐧 CHEMICAL ANALYSIS: METHANE LEVELS EXCEEDING SAFE THRESHOLDS, HYDROGEN SULFIDE PRESENT, AMMONIA CONTENT "SPIRITUALLY OFFENSIVE." OTHER UNIDENTIFIED COMPOUNDS CATALOGED AS "DON'T ASK."]
The actual commode was a rough wooden bench with a big hole, which opened into an abyss of medieval misery. No water, no cleansing magic, no air flow. Just the gradual, relentless buildup of centuries' worth of… hey, let's just say "heritage."
[🐧 STRUCTURAL ANALYSIS: NOT A FUNCTIONAL SANITATION DEVICE. THIS IS AN HOLE. AN HOLE THAT DESPISES YOU.]
Sharath gazed into the void. The void, in turn, stretched forward with its head cocked to one side, curious about haggling over terms of mutual annihilation.
This is what I need to repair, he thought, his small hands crumpling into fists. Not politics, not economics, not education reform. The latrine. Because no human should have to confront this degree of bathroom-induced existential crisis prior to brekkie.
[🐧 EMOTIONAL MONITOR: STRESS SPIKE DETECTED. QUERY—ARE WE REROUTING YOUR ENTIRE LIFE MISSION BASED ON A SINGLE LATRINE VISIT?]
Yes. We are, yes.
Sharath did what he had to do—mouth-breathing, glaring at the wall, mentally creating blueprints for a better world—and fled into the morning air like a survivor from a war nobody could see.
"PAPA!" His voice broke with the anxiety of a man twice his age. "THE PRIVY STINKS LIKE… LIKE… EVERYTHING BAD THAT EVER OCCURRED!"
[🐧 DRAMATIC DELIVERY: 10/10. METAPHORICAL INTENSITY: SUFFICIENT TO CALL DOWN PARENTAL INTERVENTION.]
Lord Varundar strode out of the breakfast hall, the equable patience of a man who had lived his whole life with this stinky affliction. "Son, that's just what privies do. Everyone deals."
"But it's awful! Like a dragon died in there, then another dragon ate it and also died!"
Lady Ishvari appeared in the doorway, tea in hand, raising one elegant eyebrow. "If you think you can improve it, darling, you're welcome to try. But privies have been the same for centuries."
[🐧 PARENTAL CHALLENGE ISSUED. MISSION AUTHORIZATION RECEIVED. RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE PLANNING.]
Sharath's eyes lit up. "Really? I can fix it?"
"Of course," Varundar replied, convinced this was simply a fleeting fancy. "Go ahead, my boy."
Ideal. They'd authorized it and given him a blank check—without knowing they had just underwritten the most ambitious sanitation overhaul in the history of humankind.
[🐧 CREATOR, YOU JUST TRANSFORMED A Tantrum Over Stink into GOVERNMENT-FUNDED TOILET INNOVATION. THIS IS ART.]
The Great Recruitment: Building the Sanitation Dream TeamIn a matter of hours, Sharath became a miniature project manager traumatized child. He patrolled the corridors of House Darsha, searching for potential recruits.
[🐧 PERSONNEL ACQUISITION MODE ACTIVATED. GOAL: Locate individuals who can dig holes and cast spells.]
Number one on his list: Master Jorik, head groundskeeper. A calloused-hand man, decades in the business, with a suspicious acceptance of stenches.
"Master Jorik!" Sharath called, marching up to him with the authority of someone half his size but twice as determined. "I need your help with something important."
Jorik eyed him over a rose bush. "And what would that be, young master?"
"I want to make the privy not awful," Sharath declared. "We'll dig the best hole ever, put magic runes on it, and make everything clean!"
[🐧 TRANSLATION: ADVANCED WASTE TREATMENT WITH ODOR CONTROL AND FILTRATION—MARKETING IT AS 'MAGIC HOLE DIGGING.']
Jorik really did seem interested. "Magic runes for handling waste? Not a bad idea."
Sharath leaned in closer. "Can you help me construct the ultimate septic system?"
The groundskeeper rubbed his beard. "You know more about drainage than most of the apprentices I've met. How did you do it?"
Sharath grinned naively. "I just wonder about where water goes and how odors work!"
[🐧 LIE OF OMISSION SUCCESSFUL. CHILDLIKE WONDER MASKING ENGINEERING GENIUS.]
Jorik finally nodded. "Alright. If your parents approved, I'll start digging tomorrow."
"Good," Sharath said. "We'll need more people for the magic part."
By noon, Sharath had roped in three more essential allies:
Mistress Talan, the laundress, for her knowledge of purification charms.
Old Barun, the carpenter, for structural improvements.
Apprentice Mage Keval, who owed Sharath three favors from an earlier "minor incident" involving animated goats.
[🐧 TEAM ASSEMBLED. ESTIMATED SUCCESS RATE: 83%. PRIMARY RISK FACTOR: HUMAN TENDENCY TO CUT CORNERS.]
The boy outlined his vision—odor-neutralizing enchantments, composting magic, water recycling arrays. His "magic talk" was simple enough to make it sound like a game, but every detail had the precision of someone designing an actual infrastructure project.
End of Chapter TransitionBy evening, Sharath stood in the courtyard, his new recruits ready for instructions, tools in hand. The privy loomed in the distance, unaware it was about to face extinction.
[🐧 MISSION STATUS: READY. ALSO, PLEASE NOTE—IF THIS WORKS, I'M LOGGING IT AS "HISTORY'S FIRST AI-ASSISTED MEDIEVAL SANITATION UPGRADE."]
Sharath smiled to himself. Today, the toilet. Tomorrow, the world.