Enter the dark side
I love nature. But I hate mosquitoes. These feelings are mutual. Going by the frequency I mention lizards, one might assume I hate them. I don’t. I am freaking scared of them. I don’t fear mosquitoes. I will fight them in a room. Can’t say the same for a lizard whether it is buff like the reptile version of Schwarzenegger or a teeny-weeny one resembling Michael Cera. As soon as I spot this creature from my peripheral vision—I don’t even have to look directly anymore to know who it is — the feminist in me instinctively screams out for my wife — not very long ago, it used to be my mother — and she will whip out the broom to guide the terrorist out of the room. While doing so, there is not an iota of hatred in me for these creepy crawlies. None. On the contrary, I aim to ensure they aren’t killed in the eviction process. Although I’ve been afraid of them for more than quarter of a century now, I’ve killed only one of them back in 2009 and that too by mistake.
The story is slightly different when it comes to the most dangerous being of all.
Yes, you read that right. Mosquitoes are the worst of all species known to humankind. We might be naturally goosebumpy about lions, tigers and such wild creatures but we are much, much, much more likely to die of dengue than be shredded to pieces by sharks. In fact, according to anthropologists, mosquitoes have always been the greatest cause of death in humans. They not only feast on us but, sometimes, just for fun, leave us debilitatingly close to our end. Vampires see them as role models for a reason.
Now that we’ve established the evilness of these suckers, let me explain where my hatred comes from. I am a terrible sleeper and with the change in weather, things have only gotten worse. In other words, my grievances are linked to their arrogance. They can quietly steal my blood and fuck off but no, they won’t do that. They’ll put up a musical show. First, there will be an annoying hum in your ears to inform you that they’ve chosen you for your personality. And if that doesn’t ruin your sleep, they will go ahead and chug on your bloodstream before leaving an acidic sensation on your skin. This will break your already insufferable sleep which will make you feel itchy and helpless. Before you suggest repellents and coils and lotions, let me inform you how Gurgaon balances its underwhelming fruits with overevolved mosquitoes.
Nothing works on them in our apartment. Except a mosquito killer bat.
That thing is brutal. It looks like a tennis racquet blessed with the power to zap the hell out of those tiny flying demons. Before going to sleep, I chase them with the racket and after waking up, I perform tai chi with it. Why? Because those bloody assholes get fat and fly slowly in the morning. Sometimes, they even beg me to put them out of their misery. A pathetic sight of debauchery.
OK.
Here’s the dark side: When the electric grid touches them, there are sparks and many times, a distinct burning smell. Every once in a while, a mosquito gets trapped in the grid and tries to fly out, resulting in multiple tiny explosions, reminding you the violent remix of popcorn burst. I hate to admit this but that sound makes me feel good. Not about myself specifically. But about some of them getting what they deserve according to my sleepless mind. The sheer joy I derive from swinging the racket and trapping and zapping could be a worrisome symptom of revenge. I consider myself benign who happens to be a meat-eater only because somebody else is doing the butchering bit. I don’t see myself in a physical battle and am rather comfortable with the term coward. Yet, despite all these factors, I’ve been on a murderous rampage for about five nights so far. Earlier, I used to wet my hands and catch them — clapping is an effective method, according to my yet-to-written bestseller— as water makes them lose their sense of direction. However, wet hands are no match for this satanic racket.
Sometimes, while thoroughly enjoying the vengeful massacre, I wonder if this is what the hunters of the past and the present feel. To be fair, though, what did those poor animals ever do them? To be fairer, how am I ascertain whether I am killing the same mosquito who fed on me or its unfortunate cousin? Lastly, would we be reacting differently to mosquitoes if they were able to scream while being chased and annihilated? Does the silent of their death boost our bellicose nature?
To put my moral dilemma to rest, there are a few billions of us and hundreds of quadrillions of them. This is a matchless contest and yet, for a brief while, I connect with my primal hatred in letting the blood spill. The irony being, that the blood most probably belongs to me.
