“They hunt in pairs,” commented my husband watching my prowess with the fly swatter. He is generally a well-informed spectator at these events. I had hardly squashed a fly out of existence with a blistering forehand smash when another, a fruit fly this time, landed on the kitchen counter.
“So will I, then,” I said, snatching with my left hand a maimed fly swatter whose handle had got severed during a pitched battle with these tormentors in the kitchen. My ambidextrous ability was soon on display as I went after the fly with both swatters while my husband provided a running commentary on its movements. “On the rim of the glass!”, “Now it’s flown to the wall, there!”, “Ah, just missed! Clever chap, it’s camouflaged itself on the black handle of the ladle.”
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“Great! An ace!,” he exclaimed in approval as I finally managed to get the fly crouching on the side of the sink with a clever, dipping, left hand serve right on the line.
My husband steps in when rats and the occasional snake need to be tackled, but when it comes to smaller household pests like cockroaches, flies, spiders and centipedes, I am the terminator, the Arnold Schwarzenegger of this house.
Both my son Amar and my husband believe it is my job to send these creatures to the other world.
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“A spider in the bathroom!” Amar would yell and I would rush to render my services, brandishing a broom. Spiders are great hoppers and can give frogs a run for their money. After a few agitated hops, skips and jumps from the spider with me trying to match some of its steps, it would finally make a wrong and fatal move. Bang! My broom would find the target but before I could even exult, my husband would have sighted a cockroach. A deft weapon change would be required. Substituting the broom with my chappal, I would go after the cockroach which would play hide-and-seek for a bit before bowing to the inevitable.
It is one thing to perform such feats at home but quite another to be forced to display your skills in public. The other day I decided to pamper myself a bit and went to a hair salon for a nourishing hair wash. My hair was spread over the wash basin and I was beginning to luxuriate in the feel of the cool water running through it when I heard the assistant say, “Oh, no, there it goes.”
I thought she had dropped something in and waited for her to recover it, eyes closed. I sensed some activity going on. “It keeps going up,” she exclaimed, tapping the sides of the basin.
“Keeps going up?” What article was defying gravity like that? I was a little intrigued, wondering what exactly was going on behind my back, rather, my head.
“I’m scared of these creatures, they can bite,” she muttered.
“What!” I jumped up, rescuing my head from the washbasin with a jerk that almost sprained my neck, and then turned to examine the danger that lurked within. It was a centipede, wriggling about the washbasin, as if it was its home abode.
“Kill it!,” I squealed. I looked at the lady with indignation. Why, it could have nipped my neck. Or my scalp.
“I’m scared,” she said with a calm that belied her words. “My mother does this at home.” Well, well, I think we mothers should form a ‘Pest Extermination Club’.
“May I?,” I asked, one eye on the centipede.
She nodded her head. I rushed out, got one of my chappals and managed to get it. “Ha, good!,” she smiled in approval and sent it to a watery grave. “Now place your head on the basin,” she ordered.
I returned home, eager to tell my husband about my adventure when I found him totally engrossed in his new pastime – hunting mosquitoes with the new electric bat. “There’s another one!,” he exclaimed, executing an overhead shot. “And here’s a fly,” I said, spying one circling over the table and went for my fly swatter. Now shots flowed and we hunted as a pair.
(A fortnightly column by the city-based writer, academician and author of the Butterfingers series. She can be contacted at khyrubutter@yahoo.com)