When gas was first used, the insects fretted. The survivors could barely move or ended up blind. Why kill, when the foraging was done in the dark? Why gas, a frightful torture? After all, the tenants were left undisturbed. And germanicas rarely bit any of them. Still, violence was unavoidable, even when the roaches enforced curfew, limiting nightly kitchen visits. Invisibility meant survival, the bugs posited. In the early days, gas was only used at night: Baygon, Bif-Baf, Hit! The housewife or adjutant would run into Blattella germanica territory. The kitchen. The bathroom. Then they’d spray in bursts, like perfect machine-gun fire, until the nozzle only discharged foam. After forty-five minutes, the killer would return with a broom and spade. Gas was super effective until some of the critters began to develop antibodies to the poison and live. When that began to happen, tenants stopped waiting and began spraying at random: once every two weeks, every other day, whenever. To combat the bugs’ resistance to a particular brand of gas, tenants purchased four or five different ones, then changed it up as often as possible.
The General barely survived the second gassing, even though he had become more resistant to the poison. He inhaled the fumes. Pain pickled his insides, but the gas couldn’t kill him. Initial response, shock, then gradual paralysis. There hadn’t been time to do anything. The General just lay there, belly up. He was still alive as others writhed, their insides bursting, eyes burning. As The General’s brain registered footsteps, a thumping noise, his hind legs involuntarily convulsed. But Boy hadn’t seen him, busy stomping on writhing bodies elsewhere. Then somehow, with monstrous will, The General flipped himself over, and used his mouth and working forelegs to drag his body across the kitchen floor. Towards home. That was when Boy spotted him. But it was too late; The General had gotten away again, losing his hat, but he made another one later.
Boy swore, then, breathing hard, swept dead bugs into a pile. Fumes hung in the air like spools of vine. Meticulously, he swept the floor. Then rolled a newspaper and whacked a few dead bugs pretending to be dead. The first roach, an elder, did not move. Bore the pain. A leg came off, but she did not move. The second did. Not only moved, but ran. Boy swore again. Every bug in sight he then hit twice, thrice, hit them hard and long till their bodies turned to custard. The General lay partially paralyzed in his hole. Thump thump thump, was all he heard. And he lay in that state for weeks, recovering, as he heard and watched his comrades bringing back, then cannibalizing, the dead. Others subsisted on dried glue for weeks. Or fasted.
The greenhorns assembled before The General knew some of this history, how The General survived, how some of their own parents had been wiped out, and it was to their advantage, they knew, to learn the tongue The General had cobbled together, now used by the roaches in the entire building, to communicate among themselves, and to eavesdrop on the tenants. And to the detriment of some traditionalists who refused to participate in the trainings, some of the younger generation preferred communicating with each other and members in the community in The General’s lexicon, losing interest in the old-fashioned ways of rubbing each other or using their feelers. They called it street baasha. But the traditionalists really began to freak out when some of the younger generation began to like making their own clothes and walking around in shoes, or touching antennae only after standing upright, dropping the old ways. So, they had a long chat with The General, sternly reminding him that the younger brood needed to be taught to respect the old ways first, and only then the new ways, implementing them only if their lives depended on it, and not because they liked wearing little coats or sprinting on two legs. All right, The General promised.
So, as a rule, in order to appease the traditionalists, The General went over the basics first. Survival Skills. He pointed out hiding places. Crevices behind cupboards, holes in the door, underneath utensils, secret passages underneath tiles. He explained the worth of staying still. He then flattened himself, hiding his legs. If you can do this well, The General indicated, you might make it. When blows are falling, be patient; not moving improves your chances of survival. The tenant hits a few of us to check, The General explained. If a couple die, a couple die. But move, he implied, everyone dies. However, The General continued, if you are certain you have run out of options and death is imminent, raise yourself on two legs, keep a pair of shorts on you, shout something out; it will buy you time. It is all about time.
Boy looked at his wristwatch. He never took it off. Way past one, nearing two in the morning. Now was his moment, but this time he would tighten vigilance and not leave. Stay put as the gas did its work. If germanicas made attempts to escape, Boy would be ready for them. But before he did the deed, Boy checked on his parents, making sure they were asleep. Acchan didn’t like bug spray and even forbade its use. Not good for Milo, he said. Bugs get into his ears, his food, Boy complained. Acchan wouldn’t budge. Even when Milo, like his master, turned exterminator, crushing roaches with his paws, clawing them, even barking at them, Acchan wouldn’t budge. Even when Boy literally pushed him, becoming obstreperous, calling his Acchan an insect-loving fool, an idiot, Acchan remained steadfast. A bit sad, but as stubborn as his son. Cancerous chemicals, he told his son. They lick my lips when I sleep! Boy yelled. My house, my rules! Acchan yelled back, Milo barking at both of them, as Boy told his father he was never at home anyway, busy drinking with his buddies, that he didn’t know the extent of the problem, that he didn’t care. So, Boy needed to make sure Acchan was asleep, which he was. Milo, asleep at the foot of his parents’ bed, cocked an ear, but he didn’t seem too perturbed and went back to sleep, resting his chin on Acchan’s ankle.
Returning, Boy stood in front of lines and veins the color of old cocoa, let himself in quickly, shut the door, and hit the light switch. Even before the lights came on, he could smell them, their scent overwhelming the dank air. Germanicas, some in the middle of putting on shoes, others learning to walk, others reciting lines, were caught unawares, and stared right back at him. The General, puff puffing a beedi smaller than a needle’s tip, took charge immediately. Dawd, The General yelled, a word he borrowed from the Hindi-speaking couple on the third floor. Flee! he said, and the bugs obeyed. Running. Recite, The General commanded, running away exactly like a man would run away on two legs. And the bugs, some running clumsily like men, others scuttling away like motor boats in choppy seas, began screaming various words and sentences from numerous tongues, pulled from the innards of different building floors, from the mouths of various people. Thump. Toaster. Vellum. Shuddup, you bloody. Blow me. Haraam Raam araam!
Boy went into combat mode. He sprayed, he stomped, he smacked whatever moved with a newspaper, he howled, he yelled, he laughed, spraying walls, tiles, content only when bodies fell, lurched, and jerked. This was revenge. For months now, the bugs had refused to stay nocturnal—lumbering about when the sun shone brighter than powdered gold, making full use of their life on earth. Intolerable, Boy yelled. Intolerable. Germanicas dropped from the ceiling like rocket parts. Dead. Others fell from the kitchen table, antennae slapping at air. A female in a banana-peel dress and a protruding ootheca convulsed near the fridge doors, muttering Old McDonald had a baa-baa here, baa-baa th—
The General lingered, creeping without detection, checking casualties. Damn, many today—the assembly responsible for a higher body count. They needed to wait for the spray can to empty out. In five minutes, the nozzle wheezed and spat foam. Boy dropped the can into the bin.
Normally, Boy would spray and leave. The bugs had grown accustomed to this habit. But tonight, Boy wanted to be absolutely sure the death toll would be higher. He would encounter personal difficulties. The fumes left Boy teary eyed, his throat itched, he got migraines, he would see things. He fished for a handkerchief, wet it, and tied it around his face like a bandit. Then inhaled and exhaled before reaching into his pocket. A second spray-can cap, a different brand, fell to the floor.
This wasn’t normal. The General smelled more gas. Bugs pretending to be dead wouldn’t survive a
second volley. Playing possum would prove lethal. He needed to urge them to head for the sink. Cracks and other little holes in the kitchen were useless now. The General crept out of hiding and began scaling the kitchen wall like a master alpinist. Boy, he could see, was killing everything in sight. Fumes fogged the kitchen like smoke inside a corked bottle.
Then the gas began to do its thing and Boy, as The General made his way to the top, started to hallucinate.
Boy stared as a roach the size of a T-shirt got up and walked away like a hominid, another following. Anything living should have perished, Boy felt. But there awoke another roach, miraculously brought back to life, limping on one leg. The world started to transform. Roaches grew out of their hard shells, discarded antennae, dumped legs, keeping just two, grew noses, eyes, a head, teeth, everything needed to make them mammalian and human. Only the wings remained as evidence. As newly minted humans, they had on their shoes and their shorts and their little shirts. It was then that a tall man without a face and a hole where his belly would’ve been, waved. A giraffe wearing Ray Bans followed behind, wearing a loud shirt. On it was embossed a farming implement.
Boy watched as men, women, and children marched single file. How many? Difficult to say. Boy heard shuffling, arm grazing arm, leg brushing leg, breath stifling breath. They were all quiet, heads bobbing like apples in water. They smelled like manure and they walked toward him. They all seemed connected to each other, like a centipede. The men connected to other men dressed the same fed the same whipped the same walked the same killed the same. The women, connected to other women dressed the same walked the same smelled the same killed the same. The children, too, connected to other children smashed the same raped the same killed the same. Boy made a sound. His stomach tightened. He wanted to retch because of the smell and look away. Milo, his head resting near the kitchen door now, woofed once, tapping the door with a paw. Master? he seemed to say. Master?
Bulldozers lay in wait. Closeby, men with shovels lingered. People tumbled into ditches. Some were thrown. A soldier ate a candy bar. Bodies piled like fish, a heap of teeth, clothes, shoes, dung, and brains. In the distance, men in sharp tuxedos stood next to rusty wheelbarrows. In the foreground, reporters waited impatiently, as team members armed with lights, video cameras, and boom mikes, jostled for space. Nearby was a gallery, populated by men and women who looked like accountants, crunching numbers on anything their fingers could tap: typewriters, phones, laptops. Tap. Tap, Tap Tap. Tap. Boy felt his stomach tighten again as he heard prayers, promises of wealth, before shots rang out. Another giraffe, wearing corduroy pants and licking an ice-cream cone, sauntered by, just as aircraft propellers could be heard in the distance.
Boy looked up. The sky, curdled by clouds, smeared with a Nordic-eye blue, looked spectacular. And from there, the very top, he heard a voice, muttering quickly in a tongue he couldn’t follow.
God?
It was The General, hanging upside down from the ceiling.
Resist, he shouted, shouting things Boy knew, like Kaanaam, and others he didn’t understand, like Bisoor and Dasvidanya. Boy just stared at The General, with his little hat and jacket and shorts, still holding on to that beedi. It was a sight that brought Boy back to his senses, made him jump as high as he could, losing his flip-flops, swinging his newspaper, swinging it so hard a little hat and slivers of wing and nicotine dropped from the sky.
The following morning, when Boy woke, he ran into the kitchen to find Amma making dosa batter for breakfast. The carcasses had been cleared away. Surprise, said Boy, hugging his mother. Proud?
Of what?
Sprayed last night, laughed Boy. He spoke Malayalam.
What do you mean?
I used two cans.
Last night?
Two cans.
I smelled something this morning but didn’t see anything. How many, did you say?
Boy bit his lower lip.
With Milo’s head on his bum, Boy had slept through the night, waking up at noon with a massive headache. But activity never dipped in the kitchen after the attack. Surviving germanicas had returned to take care of their dead. Those bodies on their backs, legs pointed towards the ceiling, they dragged; those missing feet or antennae, they dragged; those still ebbing with life, they dragged; all shoved back into dank homes darker than the deepest oceans. There, surrounded by community, the dead were put on display before being eaten. Foraging wouldn’t be required for weeks. Wings, mandibles, trachea, guts, everything, ingested, digested, nothing wasted. Even poison, ingested, digested.
And as Boy slept, a small platoon had begun to gather in the kitchen around The General’s broken carcass. They found his wings and hat and feelers. They passed his half-smoked beedi around, and then, with their mandibles, the brood nudged The General’s pieces closer together, before crowding The General’s body, climbing on top of what was left, treading goo. Hiding his presence from the world.
Then, right there, the insects began to feed. And in homage, they ate standing up, and began to once again practice the language they had been taught.
CHABTER FOUR
PRAVASIS?
Tailor. Hooker. Horse Looker. Maid. Camel Rider. Historian. Nurse. Oil Man. Shopkeeper. Chauffeur. Watchman. Porrota Maker. Secretary. Gardener. Smuggler. Solderer. Tea Boy. Mistress. Newspaper Walla. Truck Driver. Storekeeper. Manager. Computer Person. AC Repairman. Claark. TV Mechanic. Caar Mechanic. Bus Driver. Kadakaran. Accountant. Housewife. First Wife. Ex-wife. Barber. Delivery Boy. Electrician. Plumber. Security Guard. Housemaid. Nanny. Schoolteacher. Ayah. Perfume Seller. Philanderer. Husband. Bar Man. Bar Girl. Carpet Seller. Vet. Doc. Mr. Mrs. Sycophant. Laborer. Taxi Driver. Launderer. Money Lender. Murderer. Junk Dealer. Road Cleaner. Brick Layer. Bread Maker. Butcher. Teacher. Preacher. Fotographer. Stair Washer. Window Cleaner. Technician. Manager Person. Petro Lobbyist. Typist. Delivery Boy. Present Wrapper. Pill Pusher. Drug Pusher. Travel Agent. Bellhop. Marketing Man. Face Model. Administrator. Pet Groomer. Pilot. DJ. RJ. VJ. Groom. Bride. Lorry Driver. Shopping-Mall Cashier. Carpet Seller. Hitman. Junkie. Flunkie. Fishmonger. Floor Sweeper. Cement Mixer. Gas Man. Fixer. Usher. Waiter. Pizza Maker. Cook. Dish Washer. Valet. Robber. Ambulance Driver. Blood Donor. Driving Teacher. Computer Expert. Con Man. Checkout Girl. Language Translator. Receptionist. Carpenter. Furniture Repairman. Morgue Cleaner. Jeweler. Murderess. Business Lady. Mullah. Father. Optimist. Futurist. Golf Expert. Tennis Coach. Life Guard. Amusement-Park-Ride Operator. Costumer. Marketing Strategist. Water Expert. Desalination Consultant. Game-Park Investor. Gambler. Diamond Dealer. Interior Decorator. Diplomat. Doorman. Mercenary. Crane Operator. Kappalandi Vendor. Ship Boy. Pucchakari Seller. Supermarket Shelf Stocker. Pipe Fitter. Stone Mason. Knife Sharpener. Imported-Fruit Stowaway. Duty Free Employee. Paper Editor. Caar Washer. Forklift Driver. Video-Shooter. Organ Donor. Cadaver. Music Teacher. Tree Planter. Maalish Man. Chai Maker. Kaapi Stirrer. Lentil Seller. Carpet Cleaner. Table Wiper. Garbage Man. Watch Repairer. Kennel Sweeper. Shawarma Slicer. Assistant Person. Peon. Iron Man. Forger. Mithai Maker. Veed Builder. Cobbler. Food Supplier. Wall Painter. Bar Dancer. Bra Salesman. Bank Teller. Telephone Lineman. Dredger. Assembly-Line Worker. Toy Maker. Welder. Moocher. Drifter. Breadwinner. Supermarket Bagger. Fruit Hawker. Chicken Decapitator. Exterminator. Highway Maker. Building Builder. Saleslady. Trolley Boy. Gold-Shop Employee. Department-Store Mascot. Camera Guy. Ladies Hairdresser. Pandit. Nun. Perfume Seller. Laundry Person. Wall Painter. Factory Supervisor. Machinist. Glass Wiper. Grass Mower. Plant Waterer. Warehouse Protector. Ambulance Driver. Trash Picker. Camp Foreman. Cycle Mechanic. Brick Layer. Raffle Seller. Currency Exchanger. Loan Shark. Manicurist. Pedicurist. Cafeteria Worker. Burger Maker. Masseur. Masseuse. Florist. Dentist. Pool Cleaner. Water-Slide Inspector. Hostess. Hotel Concierge. Immigration Attorney. Mortician. Sandwich Maker. Disco Bouncer. Crows. Continental Cook. VCD Dealer. Letter Writer. Internet Explainer. Poster Painter. Flower Potter. Stable Boy. Electrician. Mont Blanc Salesman. Helicopter Pilot. Seamstress.
Trouser Stocker. Chappal Hawker. Imported-Caar-Tyre Fixer. Loan Signer. Debt Defaulter. Escaper. Cash Hoarder. Money Spender. Rent Borrower. Suicider. Raffle Winner. Breadloser. Roti Roller. Poori Fryer. Bread Kneader. Bed Maker. Tongue Speaker. Coffin Specialist. Coffee Pourer. Ice-Cream Server. Bootlegger. Shoe Shiner. Front Door Greeter. Gym Instructor. Bookshop Owner. Paper Shredder. Spice Dealer. Fireworks Specialist. Wet Nurse. Elevator Repairman. Fountain Specialist. Scrap Dealer. Dog Groomer. Tree Tender. Farm Hand. Mehendi Putter. College Professor. Chartered Accountant. Marriage Broker. Fact Checker. Customer-Service Representative. Tiler. Van Driver. Mover. Nationalist. Atheist. Fundamentalist. Jingoist. Scrap Collector. Garment Seller. Squeegee Wielder. Porno Dealer. Plant Worker. Kitchen Assistant. House Liver. Camp Resider. Homeless. Jobless. Hopeless. Clueless. Content. Festival Consultant. Starlet. Smithy. Interior Designer. Electronics Salesman. Stadium Builder. Metro Maker. Electrician. Dressmaker. Food-Court Vendor. Gas Worker. Rig Worker. Driller. Miller. Killer. Skyscraper Specialist. Engineer. Mechanical Engineer. Beautician. Ladies Nurse. Ad Man. Bachelor. Stringer. Football Coach. Football Player. Boat Hand. Cutlery Representative. Cargo Hauler. Museum Director. Sculpture Mover. Bulldozer Operator. Earth Digger. Stone Breaker. Foundation Putter. Infrastructure Planner. Rule Follower. House Builder. Camp Builder. Tube-Light Installer. Helmet Wearer. Jumpsuit Sporter. Globetrotter. Daydreamer. City Maker. Country Maker. Place Builder. Laborer. Cog. Cog? Cog.
CHABTER FIVE
MOONSEEPALTY
WE CALLED ANAND “TITS.” I always picked him on my team because he didn’t mind being goalie. He was a good asset at goal, given that he weighed as much as a reasonably sized cow. The first time he played on my team, I gave him the only instruction he needed to know: “Look, don’t move. Budge, they score.”
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