Mosquito proof

Aside from a few slits in the window netting the main rooms of our house are mosquito proof. That’s not to say other friendly creatures such as small lizards, similarly small spiders, and much smaller ants don’t find their own ways in. But for the time being I can drift into sleep rather soundly, which I consider to be a good indicator of my comfort level.

Unfortunately the bathrooms have slotted walls and provide no such luxury. These tiny, shutter-less windows provide the ideal entry point for the airborne critter, such as the mosquito. On any given foray into my bathroom I can expect to be greeted by no less than five mosquitoes, no more than fifteen. These are dumb mosquitoes, spoiled by the warm climate, mud-puddled terrain, and billion-plus Indians, so it’s not as if they all swarm to feast on my smooth, milky epidermis. Generally I can swat and blow at them until I’ve completed whatever it is I came into they bathroom to accomplish and can make a quick getaway locking the custom-made door (which includes wood and sheet metal in several different combinations) behind me and forget the whole ordeal until the next time nature or laundry calls. But wouldn’t one rather, if one had such a choice, swing at these mosquitoes with an electrified tennis racket? I think one would.

It’s become my routine to wakeup in the morning, head to the wall outlet to fetch my weapon—a plastic racket with electric wire instead of string netting, enter the fighting grounds (slightly reminiscent of gladiator and the coliseum), brandish the racket several times in preparation and to assert my threat, and then zap away, not satisfied until killing at least four or five of the buggers. For waking up purposes this works miracles, elevating the senses to full alertness as I encounter a genuine “fight or flight” situation, and I can’t very well choose flight every time. The electro-shock noise and ensuing spark that accompany a successful swing are what make the activity truly satisfying, and I’ve actually started to look forward to these morning encounters. Especially since throughout the rest of the day I’m bound to get what’s coming, and what’s been promised all fresh blood in South India—bites, potentially malaria filled, always agitating, mostly on my feet and elbows.

The landlady has all but promised that we’ll get nets on the bathroom windows this week, but judging by the professed rate of construction on our patio and the real-time rate, I’m just hoping for installation sometime before November, the heaviest monsoon month. In the meantime I’ll work on my back swing and hope to someday approach the level of skill and finesse demonstrated by my boss who consistently zaps mosquitoes right in front of my face before I even know they’re there.