December 15, 2007

Some people might not know it, but arthropod classifies almost all insects, from the common housefly to the intriguing water-skidder. At least Sara did not know this when I told her one morning that Karachi would very soon be invaded by arthropods.

“What pods?!” She exclaimed. Then realisation dawned on her. “You mean… you surely don’t mean … aliens?” She looked positively frightened.

“No.” I explained patiently. “I mean insects; thousands of them, hundreds of thousands. It’s because of the drastic climatic change. Have you not observed…?”

“Of course, I have observed.” She snapped, fishing out a small mirror from her handbag lying imperiously on my cluttered coffee table. “My lips are so dry these days! And anyone would think I have charged my hair… you know… like those crazy pop stars.”

I couldn’t agree less with her. Her hair was perfectly fine. No, it was gorgeous. But I never give in to female attempts to weasel a compliment out of me, so I remained mum for a while, then continued. “This sudden increase in the insect population might not be such bad news after all. I mean, the grasshoppers are nothing but trouble. And the moths, well you know what pests they are…”

Sara’s mobile trilled. She fished that out as well, spent an awfully long time gawking at its screen then coloured. “That Sami is the biggest pest of all.” She declared matter-of-factly, looking up at me as if positive that I could not disagree. I hastened to prove her otherwise.

“But Sara, Sami is not an insect. I’m talking about what may be the most disastrous turn of the 21st century. Imagine a farmer’s whole crop destroyed by locusts… or the cottony-cushion scale, or aphids even. But there are ladybugs that eat pests. Did you know that ladybugs were believed to be a gift from Virgin Mary?”

“Virgin Mary? That’s the silliest gossip I’ve heard of! A girl wouldn’t give anybody bugs. Unless of course it was another Sami…”

I had a sudden urge to tell Sara that she had a fair-sized grasshopper clinging to her trouser leg. But since she happened to be sipping coke at the moment, I didn’t breathe a word about the uninvited party. She might ruin my velvet couch, and that would never do.

I myself was enthralled by such a big, colourful species of grasshopper. Perhaps I might now get to learn more about their protective front wings. In my captivated mood, I overlooked the fact that I was breaching unauthorised territory.

“What are you looking at?” Sara demanded loudly, sitting up and folding her arms. I gulped. But the necessity of my explanation was made obsolete by the psychology of the ill-fated hopper. It changed its mind. It decided that a long black shaft that could move so suddenly was a very uncomfortable place to spend such a fine autumn day. It hopped up on to Sara’s thigh, in plain view of her discriminating eyes.

For a minute, everything seemed to freeze. Then came the scream that I was prepared for. What I wasn’t prepared for was to have my civilised guest jump to her feet, shudder violently and then begin attacking her sorry outfit while revolving slowly on the spot. I averted my eyes from this unseemly ritual going on in my moderate, sophisticated presence and began the inevitable task of locating the victim of the exaggerated misunderstanding. I found it on the door. It was sitting perfectly still and was looking very sorry for the chaos it had caused in my house. Much more sorry than the actual doer of the brouhaha, who came up beside me (a little further back, though) and said rather cruelly, “Squash it!”

I had a sudden inspiration of forming an SPCI, i.e., Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Insects, and suing Sara on the spot. “Come on, be a man.”

Even the most modern man will be motivated by being reminded of his savage ancestors. Sara handed me a magazine. I gritted my teeth and whammed the bug. I’m sorry to say, it did not die peacefully. It dropped to the ground, and Sara jumped back some five feet. I raised my foot. The bug seemed to be saying through its pitiful wriggling, “What did I do to you?” I had an answer to that. I thought, “You ruined my begonias.” And the execution for the above mentioned crime was carried out spontaneously.

“Persecution of arthropods bugs me a lot.” I confessed softly.

“What is an… an antipod anyway?” Sara said rather tactlessly, then added in a charming voice, “How do you like my manicure?” She had regained her composure, brushed her hair and drunk quite a large amount of coke by now. I shrugged and thought, “Why not?” I joined her on the couch and began practising my complimenting skills, telling her that her lips and hair were unsurpassably flawless, and agreeing enthusiastically with her that Sami was indeed the biggest pest that I had ever seen.