Fear

I love all kinds of cats, big and small. If I ever came face to face with a tiger or a lion, I’m pretty sure I’d try to pet it like I pet a housecat and instantly get killed (rightfully so). I love snakes. Recently I saw my cats attacking a poor little Common Wolf Snake (non-venomous) in the garden. I grabbed the snake by its tail and released it in a secure place, and afterwards endured prolonged verbal abuse from my pissed off cats.

American cockroaches on the other hand scare me half to death. I know the fear is irrational; I know they don’t bite nor sting. However, the mere thought of a roach flying and landing on my face with it’s spiny legs terrifies me. The yellow band that makes a roach’s thorax look like it’s head doesn’t help either.

I love street dogs. I have heard many stories of aggressive strays that behave very well during the day but become vicious predators on lonely streets during nighttime. I have walked alone many times on lonely streets at night and have met many strays, sometimes alone, often in packs. Never have I ever been attacked or even aggressively approached by a street dog. I have approached them many times. The friendlier once have responded with vigorous tail wags and occasional licking of my extended hand. The shy and skeptical ones (rightfully so) have just kept their distance.

Humans on the other hand scare me during lonely nighttime walks. When a cycle passes me on a deserted street at 11pm, it scares me. When I hear or feel another person walking behind me on a deserted street at 11 pm, it scares me. It brings back unpleasant memories of past gropings and catcallings. I instinctively get stiff and brace myself. I look around for dogs to keep me company, to take away my fear.

I love darkness. It soothes me like an old soft blanket that was kept in the sun for hours. I love solitude. It comforts me like an old friend who gets me.

I am scared of crowds. Large, enthusiastic, loud crowds that might find my opinions and choices inappropriate and inconvenient. Crowds that might get offended if I am not eager to participate and just want to be left alone. Crowds that might not know or care that I exist, and hence have no problem stampeding over me. I am scared of crowds that in the blink of an eye can turn into mobs.

My First Library Membership

“I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.” ― Jorge Luis Borges


Back in the day there used to be a small privately owned library in my neighbourhood (the library is still there, we moved). My grandfather and my mother both were members. When I was about five or six Mom thought it would be a great idea for me to become a member as well, proving again the age-old saying that moms know best.

The bookworm inside me got very excited for obvious reasons. The show-off inside me got excited too, since none of my friends had a library membership.

The library was small, but the collection of books was impressive. It was way more than enough for a six year old school kid at least. The two librarians happened to be family friends, and they adored me. I took full advantage of this by issuing more books than allowed and missing due dates without having to pay fine, practices that I now wholeheartedly denounce. The present-day responsible adult me would have been driven mad by the antics of the lawless six years old me.

I performed my first act of vandalism as a member of this library (again, something I do not endorse now). I had issued a children’s magazine that contained a story of a fairy befriending a little boy. A black-and-white illustration accompanied the beautiful, heart-warming story. The story made me so happy that I felt obliged to make the illustration more lively by drawing colourful wings on the fairy’s (who had disguised herself as a regular kid) back. That was the first and probably the last time the librarian on duty scolded me, and I realized that disfiguring a book is the line that you do not cross with a librarian.

I remember snippets of stories – beautiful, mostly-forgotten but once thoroughly enjoyed stories. I remember one in which a little sick boy had to stay at home while his family went for a picnic, and the pet ducks of the family kept him company. I remember another one in which a little girl found a valley full of blue roses where she also found her long lost best friend. In another one a dethroned king was advised on strategy by two identical twin deities, who were as dirt poor and as powerless as the king was. I’m pretty sure the last one was a comedy. I would love to rediscover these once-read books and lose myself once again in their pages. The problem is that I read these books so long ago and I was so little at that time that I do not remember any detail other than the bits and parts of the plots. Moreover these books were all written in Bengali, so there is almost zero chance of finding them on the Internet based on 2% of plot.

I cherish the memories that I had during my first library membership. I remember the dingy room full of ceiling-high shelves overflowing with books. I remember basking in the smell of books, both old and new. I remember pestering family members (usually Mom or grandfather) to take me to the library so that I could start reading a new book and find myself exploring a whole new universe. It might have been a library for others, but it was a treasure trove for me.

Featured Image: The Bookworm, 1850, by Carl Spitzweg

What does the cat think?

Yesterday evening I saw a juvenile cat stuck on a tree. She was a beautiful muted calico. When she saw me staring at her, she let out the special pitiful meow that cats reserve for occasions like this. I could just reach her from my position on the ground. I reached out and petted her a bit, and then scooped her up and lowered her on the ground. She started circling me and rubbing herself on my legs (this was when I found out that she was in fact a she). As I was petting her, a man walked past us. The cat looked at him and suddenly lost all interest in me. She started trotting behind the man and rubbing herself on his legs. The man was not at all interested in her; if anything he looked a little annoyed. He kept walking and she kept following him. She did not even glance around at me. She only gave up on the man when he took a right turn, but she did not come back to me. Instead she ran under a parked car and seemingly set up shop for the night.

I felt a little sad and a little let down. I also wondered if I had scared or offended the cat in any way. I badly wanted to know what was going through her mind, but unfortunately I do not speak cat and I do not have a babelfish in my ear.