I woke up this morning and found myself ‘formically’ threatened. A huge army of ants had taken over one wall of the bedroom and it took a while to figure out that the wall turning black overnight was no optical illusion but the reality of a mass incursion of ants. Yes, ants, the small, sneaky, biting sort that travel all over you in search of adventure and make you painfully aware of their presence at sadistic intervals. I had planned to write my article in the morning, but clearly the ants had other ideas.
I panicked and sought my husband’s help. Together we discovered another battalion marching all over the mosquito net. The net was quickly dumped into a bucket of water. But there were ants on the floor as well and soon we found some breakaway groups on the bed and the pillows. I marvelled at the speed with which they were taking over the room. It looked like something out of a sci-fi movie, well, almost.
‘Did you drop food here?’ my husband asked, scrutinising the bed minutely. ‘They generally come foraging for food or water.’ ‘Of course not!’ I was quite indignant. ‘Do you think I sprinkled food particles all around? Come on, do something.’ All women have this touching belief that husbands can work miracles during a crisis.
Mine didn’t let me down and immediately brought the vacuum cleaner. ‘Vacuum cleaner? But that’ll suck ants in.’ ‘Of course it will. That’s the idea,’ he said turning it on. ‘But it’s torturous for them,’ I protested, shouting over the din caused by the gadget. ‘Not more than drowning in a bucket,’ he retorted at the top of his voice. Touché.
I disappeared into the kitchen to fix breakfast and found ants crawling everywhere. ‘Eek!’ My shout brought my husband racing there dragging the vacuum cleaner behind him. He looked around wide-eyed and exclaimed, ‘Eow, here too? The naturalist E.O. Wilson says ants belong to a ‘eusocial’ animal group and are ‘the most successful social animals on earth.’ ‘Really? Then please tell your E.O Wilson to take this eusocial group from our house and socialise with it in his,’ I replied impatiently, trying to wipe the kitchen counter clean of ants that smartly headed for the dishes and the crockery on the draining board, swiftly engulfing them.
‘Could they be a mating swarm?’ he continued, undeterred, aiming the cleaner’s nozzle at a line of disciplined ants speeding towards the sink, as if they had been asked by their leader to resort to honourable suicide. ‘But why make such a song and dance about it? Ouch, they’re biiiiiting me!’ I sang tunelessly, dropping a spoon. ‘Ouch, ouch!’ he echoed, and began a wild war dance. The nozzle fell with a crash as he jumped about trying to scratch his neck, legs, back, chest and arms at the same time, giving a live demo of Shammi Kapoor at his prancing best.
After he had calmed down I drew his attention to some ants carrying eggs. ‘See, eggs. That puts paid to your mating swarm theory. My mother says ants take their eggs away to a safe place when they sense rain,’ I said, rubbing my itching neck vigorously.
He didn't believe my forecast of prospective showers for it was a warm, cloudless day. ‘Not today,’ I hastily added. ‘After a few days, but the rain will be really heavy, whatever E.O. Wilson may have to say about it.’ He responded with sceptical silence, broken only by the sound of intermittent scratching.
As we made these speculations and predictions, we worked as laboriously as ants to rid the place of them. But the ants had a fine sense of migratory timing. The moment we got a room ant-free, another horde would pop up in the next. They brought all other activities for the day to a standstill as we washed sheets and pillow covers, aired the mattresses, vacuumed the floor and walls, cleaned the crockery, wiped the counters and the furniture, all the while braving their constant and painful intrusions on our persons; intrusions that resulted in the swift and instinctive annihilation of the intruders.
My friend who called in the evening assured me that ants generally leave the way they came. I hope the survivors find their complicated route back. It’s been an exhausting day, there has been no rain, I don’t know if the ants will return, but at the very least, they owe me an article. Here it is...
(khyrubutter@yahoo.com)
{A fortnightly column by the city-based writer, academician and author of the Butterfingers series}
