For reasons that I’ve failed to attempt understanding, red ants hate the Visakhapatnam summer. Attacking every piece of plum real estate in the kitchen and the refrigerator is passé; even the innocuous wardrobe is now victim to these tyrants. Blindly putting on such afflicted clothes, I sat down for the daily swing of the remote. Separated by a whisper and a yowl (in that order), a tickle and a sting spur me into fickle effervescence.
It’s weird how life can send two conflicting messages with the same courier. As I remove my scratching fingers to reveal the results of a weak insect’s poison, I am lost in thought. There are times when if one would run out of ink, even blood would bobble in effortlessly to keep the penning going. At others, it’s a feeble sputter, stutter and stop: shut shop. After feverishly dusting any remaining ants off them, I wear that salmon kurta and green shorts from last year’s Holi again, wondering where my pen is headed.
Only a couple of days ago, my two masters shrugged off Morpheus’ advances to be in probably their last moments as students of R in G-104. While the Deranged Delanged One and I kept the ever-aimless chatter going as I was packing, the Lead (Air) Guitarist couldn’t start, never mind continue, any conversation all the way till the Jan Shatabdi’s engine signalled our parting. Probably it was because he hadn’t slept for three days, and was in spirits way too high (not the metaphorical ones) to know it. The tickle was excruciating; the sting bovine.
