It's just not cricket

At first I thought the weird high-pitched squeaking was coming from the slightly ill-fitting back door of the kitchen. Every time I went in there the last couple of days, it seemed to stop once I closed the door tight. Bit of WD40 should do the trick, I said to myself, not being an expert on hinges (or anything, for that matter). Then it started again every time I turned my back. Grrrr.

This evening is different: it’s clearly coming from somewhere different. Under the microwave-cum-normal all-in-one oven thingummyjig. I get near – and then it stops. It’s toying with me. So I start removing all the crap from the cupboard, the stuff that came with the microwave that I never use. And there he is, a lovely Indian house cricket about an inch long, squeezed in between two bits of polystyrene. And his mate as well, hopping around merrily in a very dark cupboard without a care in the world, suddenly chatting away nineteen to the dozen.

Now I would just take out a big book and squish them, only I’m not that kind of guy, particularly not when I’m only a couple of miles away from Mani Bhavan, the great house of Gandhiji and his politics. I’m not sure he would approve.

So I spend the next fifteen minutes armed with a cup and a Microwave User Guide, chasing these two little buggers around the kitchen on all fours as they hop about the place. Frankly, they are winning. My patience runs dry. Thank goodness for big tupperware boxes. I trap one, and punch the air weedily, Tim Henman-style. But there’s a flaw in my plan: this big box strategy is fine for the trapping stage, but the trusty microwave user guide is no longer big enough. Fiddlesticks.

So I scout around this mostly empty flat, wishing I lived in one of my old hovels with magazines and unopened letters all over the place. Redemption finally arrives, courtesy of Time Out Mumbai. I knew it had to serve some purpose.

Soon, both of these little chaps are out enjoying the night air, far happier I’m sure than with the measly pickings on offer in my kitchen. And I have some random skewers and bits of oven paraphernalia that are covered in miniscule cricket droppings: but I’m also free from the tyranny of the squeak – for the time being. Dona nobis pacem, domine, dona nobis pacem.