Love bites...

So love does bite. And its the one thing you can't do much about. Because you're so insanely in love with well...whoever it is that you are in love with. You set up a great rendezvous at some great restaurant with candlelight and wine and roses and call him/her up and all's well. The day arrives, and you are anticipating meeting your love with great hope and anticipation (you know what I'm talking about, don't you?) and call him/her in the morning. You exchange sweet nothings for a while and suddenly, over some tiny word in some obscure context, all hell breaks lose and you find yourself face down in a pile of shit. Yes. That's what happens. And then he/she says something and you realise that HEY! That's not true! THAT IS SO NOT TRUE! And plop, there's a blob of dung on his/her head now, and all you both suddenly want to do is go take a nice warm bath and clean up. You're both nice and decent people, so you just slam your phones down and sit fuming for a while.

Then the person who was guilty in the latter part of the argument usually calls/smss the other party and sits waiting for an answer. Of course, no answer. Then he/she calls. And calls again. To no avail. Another blob of shit on his/her head, and E.E (Evil Ego), the monster within us all, rears his head. He/she decides not to call/sms again. But hell! It wouldn't be love if that lasted, would it? Smss are sent (as phones are usually switched off after a row) and their replies are waited for. But life's a bitch, and love's the one who trained her at it. So well, you wait and wait and wait...and wait...but nothing (this is taking for granted that you are the guilty party in the latter part of the argument). Anyway, so you get all tensed up and sit thinking of all that could be the reason behind this. I mean, how could all this go wrong? It felt so strong just a few hours ago? Is it that flimsy? You palms grow cold and migraine hits in. You grow insecure and want to just rush to the place that other person is in. He/she still hasn't answered. You're thoughts go haywire now, and you don't know the right way in or the right way out...You think and think and think. You concentrate so hard on you're thoughts that you don't realize that?the tumbler of tea cupped in your palms has grown cold and has started tasting salty all of a sudden, strangely like that water your face is bathed in and which refuses to quit no matter what. You keep at it (thinking that is, not drinking the tea...its advisable not to drink that stuff...especially with tears in it...highly unhygienic, my quack says.)

You don't even know when you get up and look out of the window into the cool of the sunset. The violence is comforting. You think of all those good times...You think about all the dawns and dusks and all the hours in between that you spent together. You think of blue eyes and ruffled hair and the rough but loving hands and that strong chest that you cried so often on and that little bit of an extra layer that you've noticed at a recent cheek to cheek dance and you think of....suffice to say, an eternity that you have lived and imagined with that other person. And then just as the sun ceases to wreath havoc in the skies, your face breaks into a smile. A true smile. Not like the one you've been bestowing on people all day long today. That fake plastic smile. No. This one's the real thing. And it reaches your eyes. And you smile again, knowingly this time - at yourself. Because suddenly, its all okay; because suddenly you're standing there?enveloped in a feeling of such warmth that?its taking your breath away. And it is at this point that you see the argument as it would have seemed to your Maker. You see it for what it is - a tiny worm just out of the Pandora's box that any relationship is. And just one word comes to your mind. Insignificant.

And your smile turns into a laugh. And you laugh out loud. At destiny's futile attempts at thwarting you and your love. And your heart and head fill up once more with that giddy feeling that you had?flowing through your veins in the morning. And everything's all right with the world. Its a lovely, happy, umm...actually, deliriously delicious?thing to know that?that those blue eyes, that ruffled hair, those rough hands and that extra layer of well...lets call it for what it is...so, that extra layer of flab...is all yours, is an axiom of certainty! And its going to be there in your life no matter what!

And then those communication failures don't disturb you no more. You are at peace because you know for sure that you're connected to each other by more than Vodafone or Docomo or Reliance Infocomm, in a network for two that never lets you out of coverage area.

They say that reality bites. In the morning it did (bite). But?hell! I think love bites even harder. And when it really, truly does,?the marks show...throughout your life.

Insy Winsy Spider

Sorry people! Its been so long since I wrote! But been busy. Running around...a lot actually. Lots of things to do, and no time to sit and do what I need to do the most. Blow out my frustration by speaking of (I mean writing about ) insane things. Things that are actually not a part of my daily life, but which exist. And its not the fact that they exist, but the fact that they pop up unexpectedly that bugs me most. Lets take an example. All of us have phobias. I have my share too. I don't like heights ( I love airplanes, and would have a great time if I were a pilot, but I cannot climb steep mountains.) I dont like dirty feet. I dont like dirt anywhere on the person - mine, or even otherwise (I do enjoy mud fights, but I'm talking of ordinary circumstances here). But I think that the one phobia that I have and which pervades my daily life is my phobia of spiders. I just cannot stand them! Forget about all else, I mean, all other questions that have been in my mind as I grew up. The one simple question that has been bugging me and which God Almighty resolutely refuses to answer is the most simple of all. Why did He create them? This is the same question that I would want to ask him about a lot of things/creatures/humans...like, why the heck did You create George Bush? Why Sweetie? Did You think that Sisyphus was so lonely that you just HAD to make the same mistake all over again - give power to the undeserving? Dear Lord! I'd have given you a few other better options... I wouldn't even have minded if you would've created a new race of mosquitoes instead of one GB! But well, when was the last time you heard me out...!

Hmmm...so getting back to the point. Why did He take time out and create this...this...thing? I've been asking myself that question for the better half of more than a decade now, and the answer never showed up. Nope. Not even a single wisp of it. I wished I knew, because I hated to swat them down with a swish of my long stemmed broom, but then those were orders from Mum, and because of my innate fear, I didn't even question it (I usually question everything and everyone. A very difficult child, I've been told). Mosquitoes, well, swatting them was a sport, they're evil, just like them cockroaches. Evil, period. But spiders, now I always felt bad about that. I've always blamed the National Geographic for this phobia that has ruled my life so far. I watched a documentary on the Black Widow Spider (it included vile information about the Preying Mantis too…) when I was a kid. And that was it. Those hairy legs, that spiked head, those huge eyes…my head was a 3 D movie projector by itself, and life was a nightmare. Home Alone (the movie) did nothing to help either. Buzz (Kevin’s huge obnoxious cousin) has this Tarantula. Very icky. Very scary too, if you let your imagination build on it. I did.

And then yesterday, as I sat in the loo trying to figure out the mysteries of the world and contemplate the future of the world that lay in my own two hands while reading a copy of Cosmopolitan I realised that there was something dangling just above my nose. Yes. I know. Disgusting. I thought so too…because it was a spider, and because there wasn’t much that I could do about it…I could very well imagine my flatmates taking a chance and bursting into the loo if I screamed out loud. Gawd! I was stuck! This was even worse than the time when a garden spider decided to pay me a visit just as I was washing my face – suddenly I had soap in my eyes and then, well, to say the least, the bloody spider had a ball, or that time when a swarm of ants decided to come pay respects to my grandmum at the wrong time, at a wrong place – the ledge of her window, while I was hanging off it, trying to clean birdshit. Anyway, so, I was caught. But suddenly I felt mature (yeah, I do know that the loo is the last place to feel enlightened and mature, but well, it happened, and I wasn’t going to stop it, was I!?). So, suddenly, I felt like umm, well, I needn’t be afraid after all. I picked up the thread from which it was dangling and looked at it (I don’t know if I was looking the right way…maybe it was its ass. But anyway, I looked at it) and suddenly realized that it was dainty. I mean, that thing, the spider, was dainty! DAINTY! I couldn’t believe that I had actually felt that! I mean, this was something that I was mortally afraid of! But no. I found it pretty. Maybe it was the ambience of the place that we were caught in, but whatever it was, well, it helped me see the beauty of this creation, the one creation that I was ready to equate to none other than that idiot GB! How could I do this!? This one was nowhere near that…that…thing!

And so there, on that day, sitting on my throne I decided to knight it. So, with the power vested in me by eighteen years of education, I have now knighted the house spider with my love and taken it as a pet. Its now made a home in the corner of my loo and is now living out its ‘happily ever after’ ending with the most unlikely partner…me!

Colours of the wind...

Clichés over clichés over clichés…life’s full of them. And our perception of it (life), more so. Yes, it is beautiful, no doubt, but I do wonder as to how many of us lose sleep over how we seem to take many of the things that it is comprised of for granted. We all tend to think that there is this uniformity in the way we perceive things. Like the way we hear a song or the way we taste something or better still, the way we see something.
Hmm…ambiguous…
Okay. Let’s see if I can make it any simpler. I mean, I have to get this mess out of my head. It’s been lying there for too long anyway. High time I took care of it and dusted it out. So well, here goes…
I think that one of the most curious things in life is the senses that we have been endowed with, our perception of the world through them and our innate confidence in such and such thing as being this way or that. For example, we see things. We see them as a multitude, but perceive them as individuals. We have a freedom to like or dislike them. Now, likes and dislikes are both very abstract notions, as are other ways and means of gauging our perceptions. But one of the major components of this process, something that has a huge impact on the way we perceive what we see, and in turn gauge what we perceive, are colours…any and every one them.
Colour is something that has intrigued me, mystified me for long. I have always wondered as to how it is that we actually understand how to define the colours that we see. I mean, okay, my mother ‘taught’ me the names of colours and how to recognize them looking at me through the hues of transparent colourful candies. I know it sounds weird, but I can still remember the shiver that ran through me like a silent stream of electricity, as though it wasn’t the colour, but my own vision, and through it I myself, who had somehow gotten her identity by granting recognition to that colour in my life.
And within a span of a few days, my whole world had new names and they all meant more to me than just any old gibberish; the splashes on paper(s) in the drawing room suddenly spoke volumes to me. I knew green from red from blue from orange from…well, you get the basic idea… so much so that I thought that I had made friends with all these splashes, but had I really? Do I know them yet? I mean, the red that my mum can see, might actually be the green that I see, but because she taught me to call that green red, I call it red. So I perceive the colour in a totally different way than what my mother perceives it, and yet I call it ‘red’ so actually, I might be looking at the traffic signal and seeing it the other way round, and yet driving perfectly! I mean, isn’t this freaky? And this could be the case with every sense that we depend on.
Think of taste. What is sour for me, could be bitter to my brother, but since I taught him what the taste was meant to be, what it was supposed to be called, he perceives it as such, and maybe that’s why he hates tamarind and I love it, while he loves bitter gourd, and I hate it! (I’m still a good girl, and eat all that’s put on my plate, though…)
Think of sound. Maybe, just maybe, I can’t stand Linkin Park (most of the lyrics to their songs as well as a few songs are nice too, but not the sounds that they try to pass off as music in most of the others…screeeeech!!!) Anyway, so maybe, just maybe, I can’t stand their kind of music because I just don’t hear it right! Maybe my brother can hear soothing Eric Clapton stuff when he puts in the Linkin Park CD! Maybe the way his ears soak in sound is different from the way mine do!? Maybe that’s where the saying “we’re not on the same wavelength” originates from…
Maybe this is where all the basic differences in life lie. This could, in all seriousness be the root cause of all the difference of opinions. Maybe that’s why different critics can think so diametrically opposite at times and pan really good books or musicians or plays or actors or writers or films ( like Minority Report…I really liked it…yeah yeah yeah…I know its full of contradictions yadda yadda…BUT I STILL LIKED IT!...hmmmph…oh… okay…made a scene…had a splash there…hmm….ahem…)
So maybe, we just need to get on with our lives without tearing others to shreds because we think of something as being something that someone else doesn’t! And its okay! I mean, we’re going through our life without even knowing that we actually have these ‘inbuilt’ differences anyway, right!? So! Big deal! And well, cogito ergo sum. I think, therefore I am. That’s the way I think about it, that’s the way I perceive, and it is because I perceive it that way, that I am the way I am; I am the person that I am. This perception, this very individual way of sipping the world and all it has to offer is the way we all paint our identity, our unique picture of our life with the colours of the wind that float in on the breeze of experience, just the way we perceive them. Think about it.

Song of the day: Hikari
Singer: Hikaru Utada (Check the English version. She’s made it big now. Mark my words, she’s going to make it even bigger soon…)

First Love

They say that first loves last forever. Maybe. Mine did. I still remember the day I lay my eyes on that jacket for the very first time. Dusty brown, frayed at the edges but still elegant in its own way. Richard’s jacket...and Florentyna’s...and in a way, mine too. Something that covered me during all those years of trying to be...umm...me. One of those things... My first love, like it usually goes with first loves, wasn’t the ‘coolest’ choice, but I held on to it with all my life.

My first love – Jeffery Archer’s “The Prodigal Daughter”.

Was just going through the book for the nth time again last night, suddenly all that it has given me, all that it has meant to me struck me with full force. I’ve gone far ahead with my reading. From Dr Seuss to Ayn Rand to Aristotle to Russell to Camus to Soseki to Zafon to God knows where, the journey still goes on, but Florentyna still waits patiently at my desk. It’s the one book that never loses its place from my desk. It finds its way into my bag when I’m leaving for long periods of time – no, really, I don’t put it there. It really does find its way there.
The fact is that by all standards, it is not an “outstanding” novel, at all. Not a classic (not even close!). And no, it surely isn't controversial like say, Animal Farm or Delta of Venus etc.! Seriously, I myself can name so many others that I’ve enjoyed with greater relish as well as those select few which have made me think and act in ways and through means incomprehensible even to myself.
Anyway, coming back to the point...so, in terms of historical detail, actually speaking, Kane and Abel, Archer’s previous novel in his famous trilogy (Kane and Abel, The Prodigal Daughter and Shall We Tell The President) is far more interesting and believable. The story of TPD is quite ordinary compared to some of Archer’s other works like the aforementioned novels or others like First Among Equals or A Matter of Honour or Honour Among Thieves etc or his excellent collection of short stories. Prodigal daughter Florentyna’s birth, her intelligence, hard work, her first lesson at learning to deserve the wealth she is bound to inherit, he first brush with life’s bitch – love, her achieving all that she’s ever dreamed of in ways she thought existed only in movies and losing out on things and people that matter most to her…sounds right out of an episode of The Bold and The Beautiful or Dynasty or something, right? But it isn’t. It isn’t, because... well... its got a flair of its own, a flair that could never be reproduced – not even by the same authors (check out his latest works like The Eleventh Commandment or To Cut A Long Story Short! Dear Lord!)... but all said and done... still, I vote for Florentyna – as the young Ms. Rosnovski, as well as when she’s older – as Mrs. Kane.
A close and really obnoxious friend of mine once very confidently analyzed women’s psyche(s) for me over a coffee (it was more like three coffees not one... three coffees and one bitten head on the table – his, but of course). Anyway, so he went on to tell me how we, women, have already got this image of a perfect man in our heads. This image is what messes up our lives because we tend to take it all very seriously. Everything. Even the little snips and cuts and stitches that we think we’re so adept at to sew up that final draft of the image that we spend half (or maybe the whole) of our lives trying to find. I agreed with him in this. Yes. We do make that mistake – at least most of us do.
But I never needed to imagine, I said. Archer had done it for me. Richard (it was when he went on to analyze how that was wrong that the violence commenced. Yes. Guilty as charged, but one hell of a happy convict!)
So anyway, Richard. Just three words. What a sweetheart! How could I, all of thirteen, not fall head over heels in love with him? He’s got all it takes to be that perfect man, that guy who stands by you in thick and thin and makes you understand what an idiot you have been when you end up standing facing a thousand people and someone throws a pie on your face because some random newspaper ran a story on how you didn’t separate your garbage... and then of course, there’s Edward – the perfect friend.
There’s just so much I can write... its like when you come home after your first prom date feeling like the last person on the earth believing that you never want to talk about what just happened because its so private, so personal so yours and then the first thing you do is call Suzie cuz she’s your best friend, and find her line busy, so then you call Jane, but she’s not back home yet and you get screamed at for having called up so late and you call someone else and then someone else and then someone else...and then finally you write it all down on a piece of paper with bright shiny eyes and bury it in your wardrobe in a place no one but you will ever find it...and then, years later, find it (in that same place) as you’re searching for some toy to keep your little one from crying his eyes out. You find that little time capsule, and suddenly that day, that evening...that other life, that other you...it all comes back to you in all its entirety, and you open those pages with shiny eyes yet again...and relive it all...something of the sort happened last evening. I went and had a ball of a time with Florentyna, Richard and Edward. It was really wonderful. Flooded with memories, I went to bed at three in the morning – happy.

First loves are like magic, a single heartbeat and you could miss the trick of your lifetime...they defy logic, defy rationality and more often than not parents and teachers too...whatever else they do or not, whatever they mean or don’t, one thing’s certain for sure...they definitely last forever.

How green was my valley...

On one of my recent walks, I picked up the latest in my collection of curios. One of my favourite type of curios, actually. A book. One that got me new friends and a different perspective to land bitterly coveted and even more bitterly fought for. A manuscript that changed my world view gradually, firmly, very unconsciously. A beautiful piece of weaving that wove me in its pattern before I realized that I had been pinned down and interlaced within its folds. One that introduced me to Rahim Khan, Ali, Assef, Soraya, Farzana, Khala Jamila, General Taheri, Baba, Sohrab, Amir and of course, Hassan. But most importantly, it introduced me to the Afghanistan that had ceased to exist long before I was even born. An Afghanistan that is a dour memory today. An Afghanistan where poplars lined the roads, the smell of Kobabs wafted out every evening, where (as in British India), the rich were exempt from all crimes including the exclusive crimes throwing parties, smoking cigars, having liquor, where soccer was played wearing shorts and t-shirts and where little boys lived in hope of one day winning the kite fighting tournaments that were a symbol of ‘manliness’. A place where peace ruled over a dormant inert volcano of class and sectarian distinctions, a golden land soon to be raped over and over again by two of the world’s superpowers and later by its own people. The land of the hare-lipped Hazara, the best kite runner in Kabul - Hassan.

The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini.

The thing that struck me about the book right from the beginning was the simplicity of the language used and the profound meaning that it conveys. Not a word extra, not a single unwanted reference to what was, is and what could have been. Hosseini has not even gone out of his way to translate Farsi (the language used by the majority of the Afghani population) perfectly into English. On the contaray, has allowed the reader the freedom as well as bestowed upon him the responsibility to grasp the meaning of the word, to understand the essence of what he is trying to put across, on his (the reader’s) own. The way Hosseini creeps in and plants the seeds of guilt, shame and the disquiet that Amir has to deal with for a better part of his life, the turmoil that he has to undergo and the redemption that he has to seek is elucidated in beautiful, almost lyrical tones, all with a musty smell of the a story long forgotten, a trunk locked away in the attic, never to be opened again – at least not consciously. His manner of fleshing out his characters, and the way he delves into their psyches with a deft cut here and slick suture there, is unnerving and his command on their emotions, amusing at times.
The story is seen through the eyes of Amir from the time he is twelve and still a Pashtu Afghan with a Hazara servant, to the time when he is a well settled middle aged American writer. It would be unfair on my part to divulge any details about the story and so with a very restrained hand I have tried to skirt on the edges, as best as I can. Towards the end, the story might start seeming a little contrived, but still, it is more than worth the effort of biting into the juicy red apples of Afghanistan for the span of the three hundred odd pages that Hosseini has nurtured with utmost love, care, attention and detail. Ranging from a pre Russo-American war Afghanistan to the warm locales of California, to present day Peshawar and a Taliban infested Kabul, The Kite Runner is a beautifully painted vision by the hand of a very gifted novice on a canvas as vast and hilly as the Valley of Panjsher. But smile on my face at the end of the yelda that reading the novel was was such that for Amir, Soraya, Hassan, Farzana, Sohrab, Baba, Rahim Khan and most importantly Mr. Hosseini, I’d give it a big thumbs-up a thousand times over.

Of vaginas and their stories...

So I finally watched it. Not quite as scandalous as was portrayed by some news magazines, or reports, or as perpetrated by culture-vultures around the country. Funny, poignant, disturbing, entertaining are some of the many adjectives that can be applied to The Vagina Monologues. But I think that the most important one-word description would have to be ‘provocative’. That one word is enough. One of the best performances I have watched in recent times, the true work of a well oiled professional machinery, an instrument tuned to such precision that one can not but stay glued to one’s seat. It, no doubt, requires a very oppressed, very disturbed person on the verge of a emotional blow-up to write such a script, but it requires even more guts to perform it in a country like India, a place where a woman’s body is still supposed to be considered a sacrosanct temple, to be seen and touched with utmost reverence, a sanctuary from the realities of life ( I do not wish to overlook all the atrocities against them here, but check the sentence – it says ‘supposed to be considered’, not ‘is considered’). The identity of a woman is a blur, a smudge which gains its colors, shape and style in terms of the length of her hair, the color of her saree, the bangles she wears in her hands, the anklets around her feet, the nose-ring that pierced her nose when she was but a few hours old, the red or black dot on her forehead, the toe on which she wears her toe-ring, and most importantly, the presence or absence of the vermillion powder in the parting of her hair. That, still, is the woman; supposedly, the eternally pure essence of life. Against such a background, the word ‘vagina’ is the first slap into reality that one gets as the performance begins. Vagina. A scientific term, actually, but somehow, for the first time, it gave an edge to the identity and a smart crimson outline to the genre ‘Woman’ and the idea of ‘Womanhood’. It kick started the feeling that should be a part of every girl’s life – of her childhood, her teenage, her youth, her prime and her old-age as well – the feeling that she isn’t just a blur, an adornment in someone’s collection of priceless curios – the feeling that yes, she does indeed have an identity. Many of us go around posing (I use this word intentionally, and with full knowledge of its meanings as well as connotations), so, as I was saying, many of us go around posing as successful authors, pilots, waitresses, cooks, actors, managers, businesswomen, students, entrepreneurs, researchers, executives – in short, career women, and yet, the society in general and we in particular refuse to darken the edges, clear out the smudges and for once paint a stark picture of what we really are, of every line on our face, every mark on our bodies, every scar, every wound and every shadow of love that makes us what we really are. Women. Yes, we avoid this even in this time and age. Bordering on vulgar, these monologues still manage to bring out the true image of a woman through her own unique heart, a crimson heart that feels, throbs, loves and hates for her, bleeds for her, lives for her and gives life through her... a tiny cusp of life within itself.
There has been a lot of criticism of the play, but the way it has empowered women of all ages, races, from all walks of life in America as well as around the world is more than commendable. The most important positive point it has (as far as its audience in India is concerned) is that it still has a surprise element. A majority of the audience has no clue as to what it should/ could expect from a play of such a name. The other very important point is that the play is performed in English. It requires guts to be aware of the most public private part of the most coveted possession – a woman’s body – in a world full of desperados and even more guts to speak openly, freely about it in a country filled with millions of ‘closet-connoisseur-yet- staunch-cultural-guardian(s)’ of the female body. I would have loved to see this play performed in other Indian languages, but I know that it will take limitless courage and an insane cast and producer(s) to even begin rehearsals of the play in places like say, Gurgaon or Patna or Bellary or Surat or Hyderabad etc. in the local language(s).
All in all, The Vagina Monologues is something that should not be missed. It should be made a compulsory viewing, at least for the female students of all colleges. In my experience, all beings of all nationalities and all genders in the audience had gradually, albeit imperceptibly found their vagina by the end of the performance. Simple, realistic, true to life and yes, oh yes, absolutely provocative, The Vagina Monologues is a must for every woman to understand and accept herself as well as other women in her life, and every man who wants to love, understand, respect and most importantly pleasure the woman/ women who indubitably form the core of his life…

The buzz that refuses to cease...

So why why why are there these creatures, these godforsaken insects called mosquitoes!? Why! Why would this tiny invertebrate segmented animal having a head, thorax, abdomen and three pairs of thoracic wings survive the throes of evolution and the wrath that nature hath exhuded upon living creatures great and small through the ages? And if it simply HAD to survive, then why couldn't it have evolved rapidly and become a little more bearable! I mean I am sure that it was just as irritating to dinosaurs or the neanderthal man as it is to me! It is the same no matter where you go on the face of this earth and at what point of time in the annals of history you decide to do that.
The hummmmm in your ears does not change - it simply refuses to cease too! It treats all with the same sort of vengeful bloodthirsty delight - no biases, no concessions, no partiality whatsoever! It must have buzzed around Alexander the Great just as it probably did around Chanakya Vishnugupta's shaved pate as he wrote the Arthashastra, bitten and caused angry red bumps on Cleopatra's shapely legs just as it must have buzzed around General MacArthur during his meeting with Emperor Hirohito that fateful day after the fall of the Japanese Empire. This tiny mite has seen all those historical people/ events - has been privy to everything that people today vie to know! I am a history buff myself, and would love to find keys to mysteries of the past...but above all else, the one thing that I would want to know would be the reason behind the persisting existence of the mosquito. I know that I'm being redundant here, but the question still persists... why? Why? WHY? And why so many varieties!? I mean, one is enough...to deal with us all! I have yet to go to a place where there are no mosquitoes at all...it doesn't matter if the Red Indians got there before the Britishers, or that the Aryans arrived after the Dravidians, or that the Ainus had settled long before the Japanese set foot on Hokkaido....from the rural landscape of India where they cruise around like miniature helicopters, the metropolises like Mumbai, Hyderabad, Bangalore where they hide in corners and strike only after "lights out", to country capitals like Tokyo, Seoul, Bangkok, Washington, Geneva, Helsinki...no matter what area the country lies in, no matter what colour the people, no matter who discovered it...no...none of this matters...the exasperating thing is that no matter what, the mosquito got there before them! (I know that there are other animals that got there with the mosquito...BUT THEY ARE NOT AS IRRITATING AS THESE...THESE WASPS-IN-GUISE!) Ahem...hmm...so coming back to where I left off...people who cohabit these cities start acquiring their attributes...no wonder we see people hiding behind corners in the cities, being hypocritical and what not! See, its not dirty politics and the socio-economic upheavals that make people behave the way they do! Mosquitoes are naturalizing us! Mosquitoes in Tokyo are least like those in, say, Mumbai. They do bite you, but that too, sheepishly. As though they're ashamed of what they have to do, and hence they bite you in places that you have to harness all your yogic prowess in order to reach, so that they don't have to show you their sorry faces.
And not only this, but they hold your fate in their hands most of the time. A good timely bite to the right person, at the right place can make or break your looks (imagine a surgeon ready to perform surgery), your career (what if the mosquito has been a real pest before you enter the room for your interview? The interviewer is probably bugged already, and you showing how smart you are when he can't think straight is not going to be of any use), even your life (imagine the havoc a stray mosquito can create in the cockpit of the airplane you're on)...so, remember, its not your parents, or your teachers, or your boss, or your wife, or Santa Claus or God for that matter who decides your fate and/or how you will be rewarded...its the mosquito! GAWD! AND WHY?
Hmm...I have now accepted the fact that my life is ruled by the great mosquito...I am willing to follow the rule of the proboscis...So there...the mosquito...no doubt an embodiment of all that's coveted in the eighth wonder (okay, you may make that the ninth) of the modern as well as ancient world...Amen to that!