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Shaurya and the ladybird-eating mosquito

9/4/2012

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Kid on hill by Lucas Aoki
“Fufuji! FUFUJI! Is a baby ladybird called a babybird?” asked 10-year-old Shaurya, busy collecting shiny red ladybirds in the palm of his hand. Three polka-dotted beauties, freshly plucked off thorny bushes, were sitting there dazed while a fourth was sneaking off towards his wrist. “Get back,” he said, pushing it with his forefinger. His exasperated aunt (Saransh’s mom), who had only just leaned back on the pirul-covered hillside under a pine tree and opened a book she had been trying to read for a week, said no, they were probably called baby ladybirds. He had already asked her how many spots a ladybird had and (after she confessed she did not know) reported that they had three on each wing and one in the centre that both wings shared half-half. "Aapko nahin pata? Aapki toh beizzati ho gayi!" he had added, turning the knife further in the wound.

“And are all butterflies girls?” Fufuji shook her head in a no. “Then why do we say: titli ud rahi hai for all of them?” Using a cluster of pine needles as place finder, his aunt shut her book reluctantly and got into an explanation about how the Hindi language, and some others like Spanish, gave genders to all objects. “You are not listening,” she said a little sharply. Shaurya had flung off the ladybirds that were desperately fluttering their wings on this sudden descent, and was now crawling away commando-style towards a little brown butterfly on the ground. In a quick move, he covered it with a cupped palm and then slowly lifted a finger to make a small opening. Using the thumb and forefinger of his other hand, he drew it out gently. “You tell Saransh that. He’s the one who asked. Main toh khali time pass kar raha tha,” he laughed with his catch fluttering in the air. “Let the butterfly go.” There was steel in fufuji's voice and after measuring it for a minute, Shaurya reluctantly loosened his grip. Both of them watched it unfold its wings and disappear into the distance.

“Butterflies don’t have eyes like mosquitoes and houseflies. If you go quietly behind them you can catch them,” he whispered to his aunt, starting off on another commando crawl towards two unsuspecting butterflies. He was distracted by a large mosquito that flew under his nose and followed it down the slope. Fufuji turned her head back to the hills in the distance where the green roofed army bungalows of Dagshai gleamed on a distant hilltop. She had just read a few pages of her book when Shaurya returned. “Fufuji! Fufuji! FUFUJI! I saw another big mosquito. He was eating a ladybird. He was a ladybird-eating mosquito,” he said, eyeing her shrewdly. “Really! I want to see it too,” she said. “Haan, haan chaliye. No wait! You can’t see him. Only children below 11 years can see him,” Shaurya said. By then his cousin Saransh, who had just finished an alu ka parantha and achar breakfast at the resort kitchen had also huffed and puffed his way up the hill. “Oye Saransh! I just saw a very dangerous ladybird-eating mosquito,” Shaurya said. Saransh looked alarmed. By then Shaurya had whispered something in his ear and Saransh looked at his cousin in conspiratorial glee. Both the boys went around the hill and soon returned. “Mamma, the mosquito is not eating the ladybird. He is just sucking its juice,” Saransh said, noting with pleasure that Mamma was starting to look a bit scared. “After he sucks all the juice he will suck in the ladybird skin and swallow it too,” Shaurya added. He watched with satisfaction that his aunt’s eyes had gone round and she was looking really frightened now. “How will he swallow the hard wings?” she asked. Saransh looked at Shaurya for help. “Oh! He will break them into bits like a papad and eat them.” Saransh was now looking at his cousin in undisguised admiration. “I think, I’ll go down to the resort,” Fufuji said, “but don’t think I’m scared”. The boys were both trying to keep a straight face. “Fufuji, you go. We’ll just look at the mosquito some more and then come,” Shaurya said. His aunt disappeared down the narrow mud path and the boys grinned and high fived. Suddenly, they heard a shriek. It was Fufuji. They scampered down to find her staring at a huge plant with large green leaves. “Oh no!” she said. “That’s a Septopus. A bachchon ko khane wala cactus. A plant that eats children. I saw it on National Geographic some time back. Just be careful you two.” With that, she legged it down real fast giving one last scared look to the big plant that was waving its long leaves in the air.

She has only just reached the wooden bench on the lawn and ordered a cup of tea from the kitchen when there was a sound of rolling stones and the boys tumbled down the mud track, one behind the other. Shaurya, it seems, had thrown some stones at the plant and it has sent a large leaf out to catch him. Saransh had had to use the knife in his multi-tool to cut it off and then both boys had fought off the child-eating plant and escaped. And here they were, scared and breathless but with their lives intact. “You had better not go up again. The Septopus is very, very dangerous,” Fufuji said. Since she was looking into her book, the boys couldn’t see the wicked gleam in her eyes. Taking a quick look at the two scared boys, she smiled to herself and got back to reading a Satyajit Ray short story about a man-eating plant. It was titled ‘The hungry Septopus’.

Lucas Aoki is an Argentinian illustrator and graphic artist. You can see more of his work at www.lucasaoki.com/

The illustration used in this blog is a 10''x8'' original work. Lucas did it with watercolor and ink on an acid-free watercolor paper and then mounted on textured paper where he did the stars with color pencil. The mountain and the moon have been cut by hand and then separated from the background to create a sense of depth. 

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Ladybird for Riten
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..and though people older than 11 cannot see him, I'm guessing this is what a mosquito that eats ladybirds looks like.
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Most embarrassingly yours,

1/4/2012

21 Comments

 

Prelude: We writer types have a room inside our heads where we like to spend our time when the real world is not giving us our money’s worth. That is the only excuse I can give for these embarrassing disclosures. Though if you feel I have some screws loose in the head, you are entitled to your opinion
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The shopping
Only last Sunday, at the Army canteen (which now looks like a posh department store; just in case you’re visualizing a room full of Hercules rum cartons), I had finished settling a big box of cereal into the shopping cart and was tossing in some wafer packets when I noticed the puzzled look of the officer standing nearby. Ignoring him, I had just chucked in a shampoo and a moisturizer when he startled me by having a coughing fit. “Ma’am, excuse me! You’re filling up my shopping cart”. I spotted the husband shaking his head gravely at me from a few feet away. Turning a deep shade of red, I apologized to the guy, retrieved my goods and made my way to the cart that my mate had wheeled away, leaving me alone to face the world. Or rather, vice versa.

Rahul
Many years back (in my Indian Express reporter days in Pune), I would sometimes run into a quiet, stubbled sub editor who I always greeted with a cheerful “Good morning Rahul.” He would smile and nod back. That was all the conversation we had in three years. The day I was leaving I ran into him in the corridor, having a drink at the water cooler. Rather sentimentally I said to him: “Bye Rahul, I’m leaving Pune. Won’t be seeing you from tomorrow.” “I have to tell you something before you go,” he said. “My name is not Rahul.”  Extremely embarrassed, I asked him why he hadn’t corrected me earlier. “Since Rahul is a nice name too, I thought I’d just let it be,” he said. He did tell me his name but I’ve forgotten it again. I remember him affectionately though as this nice guy with a cute smile and no ego.

The day time stopped
 More recently, on my way back from a trip to Jakarta, I had four hours to kill at KL airport before boarding my flight to Delhi. The earlier plan had been to lunch with the glam diva - my cousin Noopur (who lives there) and have a sizzling exchange of family gossip but luckily I noticed that my visa had expired and called to stall her in her tracks. No doubt, midway stuffing ringgets in her StellaMcCartney bag to give her sister a jolly good time.

Instead, I decided to spend my time loitering around the various counters, using up left over currency. Just when I had the last few dollar bills in my hand, I was hypnotized by a beautiful pair of white shell earrings and promptly fell in love with them. The sales girl was nice enough to get me another pair in a delicate pink and I spent a lot of time discussing with her which one looked prettier. I was holding one earring next to each ear and staring into the mirror trying to make up my mind when I noticed the wall clock. It was showing the time as 5.30 pm, which was departure time for my flight. “Wrong time,” I told the girl, smilingly. “Right time,” she nodded emphatically. I pointed to my watch, which was showing the time as 4 pm, which meant I still had an hour and half to kill. “Your watch stop,” she smiled disarmingly. Dropping the new found love of my life on the counter like a hot brick I picked up my backpack and sprinted down the terminal. I have never run so fast in my life and made it to the aircraft almost sliding in sideways through the closing doors. In my nervousness I also spilt some water on the shiny white pants of the Japanese guy sitting next to me, which upset him so much that I had to assure him I had not given him a deadly Indian incurable disease. When I finally leaned my head back on the seat and closed my eyes, he was still dabbing desperately on the wet spots with a napkin, with a worried air hostess looking on.

The grey car
 One last story about cars. Don’t know how you do it but since they look so similar, I identify them by colours. One evening on a long walk, I realized it was getting dark. Since the husband drove back from work that way, I called to ask him if he would pick me up. He said he would be at the crossing in five minutes. I hung around and soon a grey car screeched to a stop at the red light. Making a dash across the road, I opened the front door and jumped in. Fiddling with the seat belt, I looked up and nearly died of heart attack. There was a stranger in the driver’s seat. He looked equally terrified and no sooner had I leapt out of the car, darted off like a frightened rabbit. Most certainly richer by a horror story to tell his grandkids in his twilight years. By then the old faithful grey Santro had cruised next to me but for many days I had to suffer insulting dinner table conversation about “people” who couldn’t  differentiate between a Santro and a Wagon R (the make of the stranger’s car). That story has, however, taken a back seat ever since I tried entering a locked Santro after a quick dash to pick up eggs and bread from the grocer forgetting completely that my husband was waiting for me in his Scorpio, and was wearily watching his wayward wife trying to unhinge the door handle of another car.

The lunch guest
I have on other occasions, managed to lock myself out of my car in the vegetable market in my pyjamas and bathroom slippers; greeted a visiting general sahab in a kurta worn inside out and startled a family of tourists in Sikkim by getting into their taxi and making myself comfortable in the window seat. If you feel I’m a bit loony then it just runs in the family. Nothing beats the story of  Pranay’s Nanaji (my mousaji) who you probably know from my earlier blog. He once came home from work, washed his hands and sat down at the dining table for lunch, wondering why Subodh Nimkar, the neighbours’ son, was eating in his house. It took him five minutes to register that he had got off on the wrong floor and was actually sitting at the Nimkars’ dining table. By the time the gentle Mrs Nimkar could emerge from her kitchen, he had quietly got up and slunk up another flight of stairs to relate his embarrassing tale to his horrified wife. 

Prithviraj Banerjee is a cartoonist and writer. You can visit his blog at http://pbnerge.blogspot.in/
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    Rachna Bisht Rawat is a full time mom and part time writer. She is married to an Army officer whose work takes the family to some of the most interesting corners of India.

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