Part 2 of my series on the subject of Itching, Twitching and Scratching.

Part 1 was titled “A TWITCH IN TIME SAVES AN ITCH!” Each part can be read independently although I highly recommend reading Part 1 in which I have tried to define the words “Itch”, “Twitch” and “Scratch” as accurately as humanely possible.

For the purpose of this blog, I would like to redefine the word “Itch” as a sudden sensation that forces a person start scratching shamelessly.

The word “Scratch” is a desperate attempt to massage and heal a recently delivered or preexisting puncture with the help of anything in sight.

The word “Twitch” basically means to dance before an itch. This word’s several incarnations will be discussed all through the series.

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How can I write an entire series on the subject of itching without attributing some of its painful contributions to the incomparable mosquito?

After living in America for several years, I can safely claim that I have never been bitten by a mosquito in this country. I personally have not even seen the silhouette of a mosquito here. All my memories of torture by the Insecta class are from my days in the famed city of Bangalore, or Bengalooru as it is called now.

Bengalooru is Boom Town, they say!

Old wine in new bottle, I say!

Bangalore just carried over its resident mosquitoes, pushing them forth into the new era without retraining them. My recent visit to Bengalooru exposed me to swifter biting machines that delivered stings even more expeditiously. Their meanness was apparent as soon as I landed at Bangalore International Airport. As I stood in the long line awaiting my turn at the customs, I received my first complimentary dose of insect propellant right through my thick Argyle socks.

Since I was encountering the mosquitoes after a long gap, I responded to their generosity with a curious mix of nostalgia and irritation. A particularly potent cocktail mix was delivered to penetrate my ankle. I prostrated at once to reach that spot! It was too late to twitch before this itch. Besides, ankles are not exactly twitchable! I was bending down to scratch with bare fingers at regular intervals since I did not have a tool sharp enough to attack that spot with accuracy. My fellow travelers assumed that my repeated obeisance was due to the joy of touching my motherland. I then tried to reach the itch with my other foot, but at least four of my co-passengers were curiously watching my odd hopscotch dance. So I ceased temporarily to think of something else. I had my passport and slippery customs declaration forms in one hand. My other arm was straining to cajole a dysfunctional cart laden with two and a half heavy suitcases.

Finally, I reached the customs officer’s desk. Just when he uttered the words “Can I see your passport please”, the recurring stinging sensation sent me descending down, defying gravity, right behind his tall desk. With a perplexed look, he must have wondered if I was desperately trying to sneak past all customs officials to escape into the wilderness of the metropolis, never to be found! But little did he know that I had snatched a wonderful pointy ink pen right off his desk and was busy scratching my ankle in full gusto!

Bangalore Customs

A Cartoon By Ranjini Sharma

My parents were at the airport to receive me.

After reaching home at 1:45 AM, we quickly exchanged vital pleasantries and got ready to hit the beds. Having received my first injection at the airport, I realized that my stay was not going to be as relaxing as I had originally hoped. However, I noticed that my father did not have a mosquito curtain over his bed. My mother too was settling down without any protection.

“Don’t you need mosquito nets,” I asked.

“We donated all the mosquito nets since we do not need them anymore! We do not have that many mosquitoes these days,” my father said from under the blanket.

“I agree,” sounded my mom’s muffled voice from the same place. They reassured me that I would not need a net either! The speed with which they tunneled under their blankets was unsettling. The stillness in their home was a bit eerie. I looked around the rooms with my eyes partially open to sharpen my focus. Not one mosquito in sight!

It was 2:45 AM when I suddenly heard high pitched music in the dark! “Strange,” I thought to myself, “Fusion is the latest rage, but this tune sounds familiar and old!”

It had a weird Doppler effect similar to an approaching Luna passing in front & departing gradually. Suddenly the music stopped! That’s when I felt the sting right on my left cheek! My left hand mercilessly rose up all by itself and slapped me! The rude awakening disclosed the reality—Mosquitoes were actually reigning the house. My poor parents were simply impervious to mosquito bites or probably too drugged to feel the pain.

I was not going to let another cunning mosquito bite me! They do not call me the ‘Queen of Twitching’ for nothing! Since it was too late to wake up Dad and ask for a net, I decided to improvise. Pulling the blanket right over my head, I tucked the sides of the shroud underneath my body to completely seal myself. The Acrylic blanket originally sent from America was essentially airtight and I felt like a warm Tortilla (it’s what they call a plain old Chapatti in Mexico!) stuffed with refried beans. Suddenly I sensed the sting of hot Salsa!

It couldn’t be! In my frenzy to roll myself, I had secured one lone mosquito snuggly under my very blanket! That was the beginning of an uncomfortable night. It first bit my forehead, and then nipped my right foot! I quickly opened one side of my blanket to let the raging stranger out of my tent. I could not tell if that lone ranger hung on to the inside of my blanket while I was shaking around. However by lifting my blanket, I had inadvertently invited a few more of his hungry siblings inside! They went right into business, hogging down on the choicest cheeks and the juiciest of my ten slender fingers, attacking them individually! I felt instantaneous lumps rising all over! I twitched and kicked, but to no avail. Critters wouldn’t budge!

When daylight finally arrived, I broached the subject of mosquitoes to my parents who seemed busier than usual with their morning chores. They avoided my gaze when I confronted them with true figures relating to the residential mosquito population.

With his mouth full of toothpaste, my dad asked one simple question, “What mosquito?”

My mom pretended not to be too concerned while stirring Upma (you know, it’s that nutritious wheat gruel from South India). “They don’t bother me! Am I not looking hale and hearty at seventy?” Her question was rational, but I wondered why they both seemed so blasé or even flaky.

Soon, it was time to unpack my suitcases. I had carried a whole host of health foods from USA. I unraveled multiple packages of protein powders; varieties of whole grain bread flours; sachets of sugar free this and fat free that. I had also transported loads of dry pastas made from the highly nutritious Durham wheat. I announced that I would make some Angel-hair pasta for lunch, dressed in a rich tomato sauce, flavored with Basil and Oregano leaves. My parents were salivating at the thought of trying something new since they were tired of their mundane diet of Idlis and Dosais.

Typically, Angel-hair pasta is about 12 inches long and always served that way. Come lunchtime, a pot of steaming pasta was ready in a jiffy. I served them into 3 bowls. Slippery pasta drenched with sauce can only be eaten with forks since chopsticks are for the adventurous. I was in no mood for adventures after spending a whole night with masquerading gangs of mosquitoes, not to mention the impending jet-lag that was going to hit me at 12 noon sharp! Lunch had to be consumed fast.

I looked around for forks, but all I found was a large collection of blunt bent spoons. Mysteriously, there was not one fork in sight! I remembered buying my mother a large collection of sturdy Italian forks when she visited us in America. They were long strong stainless steel implements custom-made to pick up Angel-hair pasta with ease. I looked inside all the cupboards and crannies, but could not find any; not even one disabled fork with missing prongs!

My mom quickly dismissed the search declaring that it would take a few days to locate the forks! “We do not eat noodles or any of its cousins you know! What use are forks for us old folks?” She sounded like a defendant trying to dodge probing questions.

I stared at the bowls of knotted pasta piled into entangled mounds. My scrumptious tomato sauce thickened with corn starch was only going to make each pasta string that much more slippery and elusive to eat!

“Here,” said my father, handing me three overused dull spoons. “We eat everything with these!”

Their enthusiastic confidence was funny, but their pasta eating session was going to get downright hilarious. I decided to let my own bowl simmer down to watch them tackle the foot-long pasta strings with their pint sized spoons. My mother went first. She stuck her spoon into the hill of pasta and yanked out a healthy spoonful. She delicately balanced 4 strings on the spoon and transported it close to her mouth. Just before she could close her lips, all four strings slipped right back where they started! She looked around a bit embarrassed, but continued with her excavation. In the meantime, my dad was trying to tackle the same batch of finicky pasta using his trembling right hand (he’s 79, you know!).

This was getting even more interesting by the minute!

All I could hear was him muttering the following words with a smile intended to hide his exasperation – “Ala theri”, “Saala”, “Huh theri”, “Ninn Ajji na Badiya”… and so on. Translated to English, he was essentially mouthing the following, “whack your grandma!” It was obviously directed at the ensnared utensil. Not one string had mounted his wobbly spoon even after 4 minutes!

I did not even try to repeat their sorry feat. I discarded the spoon and dug into my bowl with two primary fingers. I lifted loads of pasta strings like a Caterpillar earthmover. Lifting my head up to face the ceiling with my mouth wide open, I deposited the first installment safely inside. My parents watched in amazement. They followed suit and very soon all three of us were checking the ceiling (and its peeling paint) as we emptied several deliveries of the tasty pasta into our respective mouths. Parents definitely enjoyed the novelty and wanted more.

Later that day, I decided to look for the forks because I had several packets of pasta to consume in two months. I summoned KaaLamma, the maid, and asked her if she knew anything about the missing forks. She came closer to me a whispered, “Look under Amma’s bed!” When my mother was not around, I sneaked into the bedroom and lifted her mattress. Lo and behold, there were three shiny forks buried there! I flipped the other side and there were 5 more! My complete set of 8 Italian forks was spread underneath my mother’s own bed along with an assortment of other sharp weapons!

“What are they doing here,” I asked my mother who walked in.

“It’s the mosquitoes, okay! So I lied! They have been bugging me all day and all night! I depend on those forks to scratch myself in bed! I need all 8 so I don’t have to grope in the dark! Is that a crime?” She was almost in tears!

“Why not use mosquito nets,” I asked.

This time, both parents chanted together, “WE DON’T HAVE ANY NETS!!”

“Why not buy?” I had to ask.

I noticed that Kaalamma who was bursting to say something! She suddenly blurted, “look under Appa’s mattress!”

“Shhhh!!!!” My parents tried to shush her. It was too late!

The missing forks mystery was now deepening and burgeoning into something more sinister! I walked over to my Dad’s mattress and lifted it. Voila! There were three huge mosquito curtains neatly folded, hidden under four spare blankets!

“What’s all this? And why have you both been lying?” I was Sherlock Holmes after solving the crime!

“She made me do it!” Dad quickly pointed towards Mom. “She asked me to hide the curtains and tolerate mosquitoes during the duration of your stay!! And I hate the chemical smell of mosquito coils.”

I looked at Mom.

“Please don’t imprison yourself in the mosquito curtain again!!” pleaded my mother, out of the blue! This time she really started to cry!
“We are afraid that you will reenter the NET all over again and remain there until your departure from Bangalore! We only see you once in a couple of years! How can we allow you to infiltrate ‘The Cocoon’ and not see you for two whole months? I was resigned to scratching myself with those useless forks! We sacrificed the curtains for your sake so you will not leave our sight, okay! Boo hoo hooo!”

Now I understood their shenanigans! Their intentions were noble! After all, I was to blame for their insecurities. My affair with the mosquito curtain is a long one. In fact, I will dedicate an exclusive blog to “Curtaining the Mosquitoes” in Part 3 of this series.

So long folks!