25 July Mosquito Party

Centre Court at Dusk

Is it just me, or do other people in this city also suffer from ‘tennis elbow’ without ever having set foot on a tennis court? You get it from two strenuous sessions, at dusk and dawn, of swatting mosquitos with the Chinese electrocutor racket.
Out here where the Ram nadi flows…err…flows is really a fanciful exaggeration; let me rephrase: Out here where the sluggish green slime that passes for water stops in puddles formed by the rubble thrown in by encroaching builders, industries that have no business being there, and tonnes of plastic garbage from residents upstream, we are in mosquito haven. Yes, you remember right, there was a Ramnadi agitation, there was much noise and finger-pointing, and yes there were citizens who managed to get the authorities to come and actually look. This was from the time that the Ramnadi broke its banks and spewed all that devout muck that we offer our rivers into the houses of bordering colonies.
But this time round, there’s no fear of flooding – we are staring into the hot eyes of a drought. This time round, it’s the mosquitoes that threaten to physically carry you away if you stand still; or they can hum you to an early grave. Something like the final scene in Hamlet: ‘And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest’.
A few phone calls to the relevant PMC vibhag, and an obliging and enthusiastic young fellow is dispatched. He shows up, spraying some liquid that smells toxic enough, and for an hour or so you put your killer racquet down and give your elbow and wrist a rest. The liquid sprayer is followed by a fogger, who goes up and down in the dusk, spreading his supposedly deadly mist. Asthamatics, old people and babies have to simply suck it up, do you hear?
But the contents of both these fellow’s spraying and fogging machines are magic-mystery chemicals. They seem to have the Axe Effect, like they show you on TV in the deo ads. The mosquitos possibly smell even more sexy after this application, and the news spreads far and wide. It’s as if they have sprayed on perfume and then slapped on some cologne, and now every female mosquita within a 5-mile radius comes clamouring for every male mosquito, has her way with him and his buddies, and then proceeds to have their babies. Of course, stopping en route for liquid sustenance at the B+positive bar that is your leg or your arm.
It’s back to the dance of death with the killer racquet for you. Now the entire neighbourhood is going zit-zat-zip-zap and we are secretly thanking our Cheeni-bhai from across the border for flooding us with this lifesaving piece of equipment. After haka noodle and chicken manchurian, this is the best thing that they have given us, those industrious Chinese people who we love to mock and despise. Some of us fantasize about there being a smaller version available, to deploy close to your body, like a table-tennis bat.
Meanwhile, the municipality exhorts us to introduce guppies in our lakes, ponds, gutters, puddles and potholes. I got myself a batch of them, but the lazy sods don’t seem to be gobbling up any mosquito larvae, as promised. They come to the edge of my little lily basin and make feed-me feed-me mouths that you just can’t ignore. If they had fingers, they would point dramatically into their gullets. I call up the relevant vibhag and ask them, what do I feel these blighters? The mosquitoes are multiplying and the guppies are hungry. I’ve got my sums all wrong. A patient voice at the other end asks me: “Aho Madam, do you have the mosquito killing racquet?” I can’t believe he’s asking me this. What of the vibhag’s misters and foggers and guppies, then? He goes on firmly to outline the plan: I am to collect the carcasses of the mosquitoes that I zap, and feed them to the fish. This will develop their taste for mosquitoes and then for the eggs. Apparently mosquito eggs is an acquired taste, and we have to Master Chef our way to the guppy’s tastebuds. Then we’ll be rid of the menace.
So it’s back to the forehand, backhand, smash!
Tennis anyone?
Gouri Dange