Monsoon Zoo

Dear dedicated reader,

This morning, I killed a mosquito by clapping my hands together over it while it buzzed through the air. When I opened them, the palm of my hand was smeared with the blood that had been bloating its small insect body.

I debate whether to add such details to this account. But lest you think my life here is all fun and minor cultural misunderstandings, I think it is important for me to tell you about the zoo that has become my house since the monsoon rain started.

Just after I killed the mosquito, it was time for me to take a shower. Stepping gingerly inside the room attached to the outside of the house, I switched on the light and caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Slightly larger than my left hand, a white colored lizard lay frozen still, just above the shower head, staring at me with its beady little eye. I froze too, eyeing back. Steeling myself, I pushed the switch on the water heater, not five inches from where the lizard was waiting. It scampered through an opening in the wall, across into our bathroom. “Great,” I thought. “That’ll be fun.”

Wearing sandals in the shower keeps my feet from stepping on the water-logged bodies of dead insects as I shower in the morning. A veritable bug-morgue, they litter not only the floor of our shower room, but our sink also has become a wing repository, small appendages sticking especially to the white Dettol soap in our soapdish.

Putting on bug spray before taking a shower would be futile, so I have to accept the risk posed by so much exposed skin in a place as watery as the shower (water breeds mosquitoes). Though taking a shower is arguably the best part of my very sweaty day, it is also the most nerve-wracking. As I finished showering and went to dry my hair and dress again, more movement caught my eye, just under the hinge of the door to the outside. A lizard? No, this time, a small, rock-colored toad who made a little obliging hop to let me know exactly where it was. My exit from the shower could be described best as a panicked run. I frightened Lartha with my quick entrance into the kitchen. She was carefully putting dishes from the dish rack back on the table.

“Kyaa hua?” She asked me, concerned. (What happened?)

Embarrassed, I laughed at myself. “Kuch nahii,” I replied. (Nothing).

Returning to my room, what should I see but a small lizard, happily situated on my pillow. It couldn’t be bigger than my thumb. This time, I stayed calm. I walked back out to the kitchen and retrieved a small metal container, which I used to trap the lizard against the wall and take it outside. I was proud of myself. This is a feat I would not have been able to accomplish 3 years ago (and if you were with me in India then, you know this to be true!)

Outside, as I turned around, I saw a forehead-sized brown moth with a giant wingspan resting just below the switch to turn the outside light on. I considered, for a moment, getting a newspaper to swat at it, but the prospect of missing and contending with its unpredictable flight pattern after such an attack stopped me.

This is a mere sampling. Throughout the day, we must contend with any or all of the following:

More lizards, large and small
Beetles just larger than an American quarter
Any number of mosquitoes
Chameleon sized lizards which climb the tree just outside our house
Giant, black faced monkeys which climb the roof of the school
Stray dogs
Goats
Hens or crowing roosters
Donkeys
And, of course, errant cows.

At least the plate-sized spiders are only in the mountains of Mussoorie. I hope.

Best,
Cat