Sitting in an office full of young people - the oldest would perhaps be in her mid-30s - in Kolkata last week, I idly watched a single annoying fly repeatedly alight on the conference table, perilously near the pastries I had brought for them. One of my favourite poems by Ogden Nash popped up in my mind. "God in his wisdom made the fly / And then forgot to tell us why." Having flapped the persistent insect away for the nth time, I wished aloud for a flyswatter.
There was a universal look of incomprehension. "Hit?" asked one finally. "We'll just order it." I shook my head. "No, that's pesticide, bad for us to inhale too," I countered stoutly. Incomprehension was replaced by consternation. How can a fly be despatched without an insecticide spray? "Bat!" said another 20-something. That got me. Bat? As in the winged mammal with vampirish vibes? "No!" they cried, almost in unison. They meant that electric bug zapper, of course.
