Poaching of the Roaches

I always took pride in the fact that my move to Bangalore was accompanied with a move into one of the priciest and most posh localities that the city houses. It was with the jealous pleasure of a girlfriend that I would enjoy gazing at the luxurious furniture and spectacular kitchen of my new home and bask in their reflected contentment. Today I discovered a new dimension to my relationship with that venerable kitchen - that of a serial poacher.

Lately, it was becoming a regular phenomenon to find little cockroaches scurrying about merrily in the closets. You know what I mean? I would see one on the sugar jar, another munching at my pasta, one snuggling in with the cake in the oven. Cute and benign, really. Just a merry addition to the family. Today, when I opened my drawer stuffed methodically with spoons and forks, I chanced upon the magic of the new-born so touted by young brides in Hollywood. To be read in a dreamy tone - “When I first lay eyes on my little angel, it was such a magical moment. I felt as if my life was touched and transformed.. blah… blah”. My life was touched and transformed too. Touched by a million little cockroach eggs and transformed into one of a killer.

With a deep sigh, I pulled the drawer out and nonchalantly swept off the million eggs onto the floor. Just then one of the indignant mothers came rushing at me. Caught slightly off-guard, I swatted her with my slipper. Then came a veritable tide of fathers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, second-cousins, family friends, family doctors, college hang-out gangs, Cockroach Union leaders, and the entire House of Parliament all seeking revenge. Felicitously, I let out a scream and let my roomie know that an assault was in the offing.

My roomie arrived, armed with Baygon. And with that began the war between species - the test of fortitude, endurance, perseverance and sheer physical ability. We fought with surprising valor and courage considering it was just two of us and possibly 500 of them. The “them-folk” were quite wily, what with their ability to sneak into crevices and crannies and tease us with their amateur games of hide-and-seek. Despite my recent dabbling with work-outs and salads, I could not match them in this regard. So we chose vantage-points, fully exposed to the enemy.

With logic hardened through years of coding, we developed an algorithm for the attack. I spray, you swat with slipper. If you are successful, we move on to spraying in a new nook, else I scream, you scream, we scream and then well, you swat it with slipper.

It was quite an intimate experience though. I got acquainted with the entire hierarchy of the roach establishment. The grandfathers, we afforded due respect with extra screaming and puffs of the killer spray, with the babies, I went sniper and preferred the silent attack, not to mess with their psychologies that were already getting distorted in the face of a holocaust of their kind.

Wars are always messy both for the victors and the vanquished. Luckily, the roach clan is a bloodless lot. Yet, a million dead cockroaches on the marble floor (do I ever miss a plug to laud my house?), can be quite disconcerting even in the face of a successful conquest. An extra couple of hours of sweeping, scrubbing and mopping later, I returned to my scripting with an aching back and a proud heart.

Pepper Stray

Have you ever sprayed pepper spray over yourself and been paralyzed with pain for the better part of an afternoon and an entire evening? If yes, join the club. If not, lucky you!

To make sure you know of one trick to keep away from the elite clique of masochists, this is what to do:

Keep away from pepper sprays.

What with the apprehension of rapists, kidnappers, pick-pockets and irritating people at an all time high, a well-wishing friend got me this lethal spray from Uncle Sam’s land. With female-empowerment speeches and self-defense advices ringing true and clear within my ears, I turned the nozzle of the weapon and sprayed it right out of the window.

So far; so good. Blood red liquid squirted out tentatively. With a new-found confidence, I squeezed the nozzle a second time with the same vigor I would a deodorant before an important date. A jet streamed out laced with my very own sense of purpose. Self-reliance, self-importance, self-defense, all achieved without tedious classes in kick-boxing and karate surged through my veins.

That’s when I noticed little trickles of Oleoresin Capsicum forming rivulets on my hands. Indifference and nonchalance born of my feminist mood soon turned into a shock when even tap water refused to relieve me of the irritation that started as a pin-prick and went on to become a full-blown mind-numbing throbbing.

Research on Google and Wikipedia only told me that there was no way of neutralizing the effects. Cold water, cool air and milk were the only ways to soothe it. I sent my flat-mate helpfully entering with a bottle of lotion and coconut oil scurrying away when I found out that oil makes the particles firmly stick on to your skin. Then began the saga of me washing my hands with Vim Supreme, Garnier Fructis and lots and lots of water. And to top it all, I realized that this stupid ingredient is insoluble in water!

Well, documents claim that the effects last for 2-3 hours. It’s been 5 hours now, and well, if a distracting stinging that makes you want to squeal counts, I am still in pain. And yes, one out of 600 people has been reported to have died when exposed to pepper spray. ;)