Last night I saw a pair of tiny cockroaches shamelessly mating in an overlooked corner of my living room. I wasn’t embarrassed. To be honest, somewhere at the back of my mind I was jealous. Not that the female roach was a Katrina Kaif look-alike and I wished to be in the game as a player; I was jealous of the male roach’s utter kismet. It was hardly a few months old (guessing from its size) and was busy relishing the grandest bliss of life.
And here I am, soon to be a quarter century old, and still, as my Facebook relationship status states, ‘single and looking’. My envy swelled into rage and the thought of squashing the adulterers to death scurried through my mind for a moment; but I controlled myself.
I went closer to the couple to have a better look at their Grand Act. But to be frank, I couldn’t make out the details; their genitals were too minuscule for my naked eyes. I didn’t regret it though. Nevertheless, I didn’t take my eyes off them. I kept looking at the lovebirds, who were totally engrossed into each other, oblivious of me (a potential threat to their lives!) and everything around them. They looked so passionate, so lost into each other that I caved in. My heart melted.
My conscious nudged me while I was silently observing the little couple responding to their basic instincts. And suddenly, I was overwhelmed by a wave of paternal emotion. I felt like a proud father watching my son living a dream I gave up dreaming long ago. It was a moment of profound realization that made a deep and permanent scar in my mind. I cursed myself for my initial reaction: the outrage that stemmed from my vile jealousy. And mumbled an apology.
Then after a while, as a considerate father, I went towards the switchboard with soundless steps, turned off the light and left the room, while brushing off the tears that gathered on the rims of my eyes…