The Ant Whisperer of Dasara: A Slippery Tale from the Ghats
AI Generated
We’ve all done crazy things in our childhood. Not the "my parents were so proud of me" kind. No, I’m talking about those things that don’t exactly earn you medals, but come back again and again as comedy blockbusters in your mind's private theater. They’re so out of the box that even the box says, “I’m out!”
Now, while scratching my head about what to write next—what people would like to read, or what would at least not make them hit the back button faster than a mosquito hits your ear—I suddenly remembered one of my all-time favorite childhood episodes.
It didn’t happen during the usual summer holidays, mind you. This was during Dasara holidays. Yes, that special time during October–November when schools close, and in our part of the world—South Canara—the world opens up.
You may ask, “Why now? Why do people suddenly step outside?”
Aah. Let me give you the secret recipe.
See, in the Western Ghats, from June to September, the place doesn't get rain—it becomes rain. Morning, afternoon, evening, night—there’s a non-stop concert by the Rain God. I’m talking Lollapalooza-level headliner rain, the kind that makes you forget the sun ever existed. The clothes refuse to dry, and the mosquitoes, leeches, and frogs decide it’s their time to shine.
The vast open verandas—once used to dry arecanut and coffee beans—turn into temporary vegetable farms. The land becomes so fertile, even cucumbers start throwing parties.
Come October, just as the Rain God starts taking breaks between his back-to-back concerts, Dasara arrives like a sweet interval scene. And that’s when magic happens. You step out, and suddenly it's like someone painted the world with 500 shades of green. The ghats, the forests, the farmland—every inch sparkles in chlorophyll glory. Even the mossy path glows like it's been polished by a thousand tiny brushes.
Now let me pause this poetic nonsense before you think I’m auditioning for a nature documentary. Because what I really want to tell you… is a story. One that involves slipperiness, stupidity, and suspense.
The Slippery Stage and My Weirdest Pet Project
Our mid-term routine was simple: Wake up to thunder that sounds like God dropped a wardrobe. Eat idli, sip steaming coffee, and watch rain pour through iron window grills like a movie curtain. Lunch. Watch rain again. And then—on lucky days—a short playtime window when the rain took a tea break.
The walking path around the house was a world of its own. Covered in pachi (that shiny, slippery moss), it was an open invitation to perform all forms of dance. One foot on the wrong patch and boom—you’re in a live episode of India’s Got Accidental Talent. From classical to hip-hop to breakdance, the pachi didn’t discriminate.
But one day, amidst all this wet drama, a thought struck me. You know how people keep dogs, cats, maybe a parrot? Yeah, normal pets. Boring. Predictable.
I, the great innovator of my time, decided to raise… wait for it… giant ants.
Yes. Not those little ones that visit your kitchen without an invite. I’m talking about the majestic, slightly scary, red-black big ants that you only find in the lush wilderness of the Ghats. They were strong, had good work ethic, didn’t bark or poop everywhere. Perfect pets, right?
Wrong. Very wrong.
But I was convinced. I found an old Horlicks plastic jar—one that once held promises of "strong bones and sharp minds." I thought, “What better place to host my mighty ant kingdom?”
So here’s what I did:
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Made tiny holes for air.
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Caught about 10 of these ants (after a thrilling Mission Impossible chase).
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Dropped a spoon of sugar inside. (Ants = Sugar = Happiness. Basic biology.)
Voila! My first ever ant aquarium. Or maybe ant prison. But who’s judging?
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| AI Generated |
The Empire That Didn't Last
For the first day or two, I felt like a zookeeper. I’d talk to them.
“Hello General Ant, how’s the sugar supply chain today?”
I even named them—Antony, Antina, and so on.
They roamed, climbed, and acted all civilised. My cousins were curious. Some laughed. One even suggested I teach them to form words like “Hi!” inside the jar.
Then came Day 3.
They were… still.
Day 4: Still still.
Day 5: Funeral procession. Inside the jar. For all ten.
My mini ant republic had collapsed. I was heartbroken.
I’d like to say I cried. But no, I was still trying to poke and see if someone was just in a meditative state. Spoiler: They weren’t.
That day, a wave of guilt hit me. Like really hit me.
I had taken wild creatures who were free, who knew the dance of rain and leaf and soil, and I had trapped them—for my own entertainment. My ant farm was, in truth, a plastic prison. I wasn’t their friend. I was their jailer. And they paid for my experiment with their tiny lives.
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| AI Generated |
The Moral of the Mossy Story
Years later, as I sip hot coffee and look out at the rain hitting my balcony grill—just like those childhood days—I smile and sigh at the same time.
That memory is still funny. But it’s also a tiny bookmark in the diary of “things that taught me something.”
It taught me about curiosity.
It taught me about boundaries.
And above all, it taught me that just because we can do something, doesn’t mean we should.
Today, when I see ants walking in a line across my kitchen floor, I step over them gently. No more ant hotels. No more sugar traps. Just quiet respect for lives far smaller, but no less important, than mine.
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| AI Generated |
Final Thought
Childhood makes us do strange things. Sometimes funny, sometimes foolish, sometimes downright facepalm-worthy. But each one teaches us, shapes us, and gives us stories to laugh at... and reflect on.
So next time you slip on moss, rear ants, or think you’ve got the next big idea—remember, it’s okay to experiment. But it's even better when your experiment ends with life, not a lesson in loss.
And if anyone asks, “What was the craziest thing you did as a child?”—you can proudly say, “Well, I ran an ant hotel during Dasara. Didn’t end well for the guests, but hey, the check-in process was smooth!”
