The Metamorphosis Redux

Cockroaches (or roaches) are insects belonging to the order Blattodea (Blattaria). About 30 cockroach species out of 4,600 are associated with human habitats. Some species are well-known pests. Source: Wikipedia.

There you go. That particular definition of cockroaches, as acknowledged, is not mine. Clearly some entomologist, whose misfortune it is to delve into the behavioural aspects of these hardy, never-say-die insects has put together that precise description. You, dear reader, might wonder why I, out of the blue as it were, decided to write about cockroaches. Not being an entomologist myself, my interest in cockroaches and other creepy-crawlies is strictly confined to literally stamping or ‘Flitting’ them out should they come within sighting distance. If they happen to multiply on an industrial scale, which they do if you so much as take your eyes off them for a minute, then one has to summon the pest control chappies to do their dread work, leaving the home smelling of insecticide for days on end. Which, like passive smoking, was bad for the health of my family and for Paddy, our Cocker Spaniel. Happily for him, Paddy has gone to gnaw on his bone in the great kennel in the sky, blissfully free of roaches (one can only hope, given their ubiquity), and he has not been replaced. He was irreplaceable. Meanwhile, the cockroaches die in their hundreds while the survivors run for cover and hibernate for months in unreachable crevices, there to propagate their species multi-fold and reappear at a time of their choosing. Moral of the story – you can stamp out a cockroach but you cannot stamp out the species. Their life expectancy is infinite.

While I was musing on this unusual and frankly, not very savoury subject after a fairly substantial (and savoury) lunch, I nodded off for a quick nap. It happens to the best of us; usually with a book in hand. Then the book drops off at your feet and you wake up with a start, annoyed at yourself for losing the bookmark. Show me a man who says this has never happened to him and I will show you a man who is lying in his teeth. Anyhow, during this particular siesta, a funny thing happened to me. Did I say funny? Make that terrifying. I was accosted by a rather larger than usual, brown cockroach. This pestilential insect alighted on my nose and started talking to me. Not unlike Kafka’s protagonist, Gregor Samsa in The Metamorphosis who, on waking up one morning from unsettling dreams, found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin. My dream, or nightmare (daymare) to be more accurate, could not make up its mind whether I was conversing with this cockroach, or if I had myself turned into a cockroach. In which case I was talking to myself. Truly Kafkaesque. The conversation with the cockroach (or with myself) proceeded along the following lines.

‘Hullo, who are you and which rock did you crawl out from?’  That was me, not the cockroach, but since I am suffering from an identity crisis, I shall henceforth not identify myself. Or ourselves. You can go figure it out for yourself.

‘Good afternoon, I am your resident cockroach, representing our community in your apartment. There are plenty more of us where I came from, but for now, it is strictly one-to-one.’

‘Do you have a name?’

‘My generic name has been shortened by many people to Roach but you can call me Cocky.’

‘Well, you certainly sound cocky, Cocky. Do you think you can get off my nose and sit on the arm of this chair? You are irritating my nostrils. I could sneeze violently and you could go flying to the other end of this room. That will spell curtains for you as I sweep you up and flush you down the toilet.’

‘All right, if you insist.’ So saying he hopped gently from my nose and settled comfortably on the right armrest of my sofa.

‘Thank you, Cocky. Now that you are at a safe remove from my killer sneeze, why are you here and what can I do for you? If that is not a leading question.’

Cocky gave me a good, long stare and said, ‘Look, it’s like this. You have been killing my mates mercilessly every time one of them staggers out of your kitchen drain or is found nestling amongst one of your favourite vegetable preparations. Those fried, red chillies provide an excellent camouflage but you hunt us down.’

‘So, what would you have me do, Cocky? I do not relish live cockroaches in my food. I am not Chinese.’

‘Look, we are a very large and forever-growing community, the cockroaches. You simply cannot wish us away. Just reflect. The dinosaur, the brontosaurus, the Tyrannosaurus rex and many more such species, huge as houses, have disappeared off the face of the earth. More will vanish including lions, tigers, elephants, giraffes, reptiles, rodents, avians and why, even you human beings. You will be nuking yourself to extinction, if Trump and Netanyahu had their way. Amidst all this death and destruction, we cockroaches will survive. It is in our DNA, the survival instinct. Racial memory.’

‘Bully for you Cocky, but what is it you want me to do? I am befuddled. If I stop trying to keep you out, at least from our kitchen and food space, you will breed like rabbits (if they too don’t become extinct) and you will overrun my home. I can’t have that, and neither can my wife. She may not go “Eeek” when she spots you but she will speak with her slipper.’

Cocky just sat there on the armrest, his whiskers swaying this way and that, thinking deep thoughts. Finally, he gave tongue, always assuming cockroaches have tongues.

‘Well, off the top of my head, you can stop trying to beat the life out of us every time you see us peacefully strolling along your carpet. Why don’t you get it into your thick skull that we do not die. We have a never-say-die attitude. We merely regenerate. On behalf of my species, therefore, my first demand is, do not try to eliminate us. It is a waste of time. There are too many of us. Put your slippers to better use. Like walking.’

‘Any other demand?’ I asked caustically.

‘Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head, my friend. I am just getting warmed up. Here is our second demand. Please leave adequate food in the kitchen, anything will do so long as it is cooked. Burgers can be avoided. We will come out after lights-out and tuck in to our hearts content. We are not fussy. I will not insist but a sweet dish will not go amiss. If you do that every night, you will not find us helping ourselves to your bhindi fry as you sit for dinner. We are not hogs, which species will also, incidentally, be one with the dinosaur.’

I was flabbergasted. This was simply off the charts. ‘Listen Cocky, I make no promises other than agreeing to talk to you. Shall I take it that that was the last of your demands?’

‘Not so fast, Sir. One last request. Oh, okay it is a demand. Forthwith, you will stop using noxious anti-repellent agents like Hit, Flit and other herbal formulae on us innocent roaches when we are scouring for sustenance and just trying to get ahead in life. And you will arrange, through the proper agencies, to impose a ban on all such products being advertised on television and the newspapers. If you accede immediately to all these demands, you will see neither hide nor hair of us. Unless, of course, you sleepwalk into the kitchen for a midnight snack, when we will all be feasting on the repast you will have so kindly left in the open vessel for our delectation. If that suits you, or even if it doesn’t, we can sign on the dotted line right this minute. And do not leak this to anyone till we have signed off on it. Isn’t that a neat solution?’

I think I woke up just then, loudly muttering and sputtering something incomprehensible which sounded to my own ears like ‘NEET, leak, neat, NEET, neat, leak, what NEET, why leak, which NEET?’ I also became aware that my wife was violently shaking my shoulders, urging me to wake up. ‘What are you shouting NEET or neat for? In broad daylight, for heaven’s sake. And what is leaking? Were you having a daydream? Did you come up with some neat solution to some problem?’

I was now fully awake. ‘It’s nothing. I was having a bad dream about cockroaches.’

The wife was startled. ‘Yuck, it must have been a daymare? Why on earth would you dream about cockroaches? Ah, I see. The penny has dropped.’

‘Never mind. I don’t wish to talk about it. Just one thing. Kindly get rid of all the insect sprays pronto. Give it to the housemaid.’

‘WHY?!!!’

‘Don’t ask.’

I don’t know why, but Pink Floyd’s iconic lyrics played in my head as I imagined all the cockroaches marching along the kitchen floor. We don’t need no education / We don’t need no thought control / No dark sarcasm in the classroom / Hey, teacher, leave them kids alone / All in all, you’re just another brick in the wall.