Tuesday, August 31, 2010


It’s been 8 days and I’ve run out of legs to count on. The crazy-haired man keeps kicking his computer and frankly I think that if he doesn’t start being polite to it, it might just kick back. I really don’t mind him much anymore except for that putrid smell from that green shirt he keeps wearing since the very first day I visited his place. Oh how I regret the day. All me and my mates wanted was to get a few scraps of food, a good laugh at the human condition and possibly some cheese puffs for Ante. Now, normally, if a disgruntled housewife or a spoilt obese boy catches one of us, they scream like little girls and squish us under their podgy feet. And it’s all very honourable to die a martyr. But no, this potbellied hairy man wanted a friend and I was the unlucky chosen one. Now, this jaundiced glass with brown stains is my home. I’d have accepted my tragic fate much easily had he just cleaned the glass. You must know we pay households compliments by visiting them. Contrary to popular beliefs, we like clean and cool places. So if you happen to see us scurrying across your kitchen floor it means you’ve done a swell job keeping it spotless.
My flat oval body has gotten flatter and my lustrous brown coat has lost its shine. He keeps shoving paper from under the glass. I am not a cow. And just because our kind has survived through the dinosaur age, does not mean that we do not have certain standards. You are possibly wondering what in luscious-pineapple’s name was I doing there. Ante likes her cheese puffs. And I like Ante’s behind. While we were really on our way next door I noticed, on the way, this man had the puffs and I, like a fool in love, thought I could get a bit of it for her. Sigh, I miss Ante and I miss the late night parties behind the gas cylinders. Someone would always get high on the gas.
None of my mates visit, not because I want vengeance (we really are the cool sort). If only the man would treat me with some respect and not keep abusing his computer and snoring in front of the TV, I think we’d really get along. My whole being aches, I keep trying to stretch my wings but I’m afraid I might bang into the glass. I might as well start seeing the silver lining through the muck and the filth (it’s not even the kind I like in the dark wet alleys).
I wonder if I’ll be immortalised in stories, the one that bore it all with his antennae held high, like Villey who married a rat. Yeah, it’s not so bad after all. I may even have my favourite rotten cabbage named after me. I guess we are both trapped in a way. Difference is he can’t help it.

-Amrita Kar, UG III

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