Bugger. Bugger.

‘Bugger’ must me, arguably, the most under rated useful word in English.

It is a word that can be used in every context, in every situation. A word that acts as a substitute when you can think of no other words. A word to start a conversation. A word a class apart.

Take, for example, it being used as an exclamation.

“Bugger, look, bearded man!”

Or as a question,

“Want to attend next class, bugger?”

Or even as a statement of pure boredom.

“Bugger, I am bugged.”

Its versatility is only matched by the word, Ugh!.

Then, there are cases when you can use it express anger.

“Bugger, I’ll bloody bugger him.”

Or as a proper noun.

“From now on, call me Bugger.”

Or as a request.

“Please, let us not attend this class, bugger.”

Or an order.

“You are not attending the next class bugger.”

OR just a statement.

“Bugger, look, pencil.”

“Bugger, look, bald man.”

“Bugger, you are a bugger.”

“I hate you bugger.”

Or of course, just,

“Bloody bugger.”

“Bugger”.

I’ve even received inside reports that “Système International d'Articlés” is planning to make the word bugger as the fourth article. A, an, the and bugger.

P.S. All these statements were made keeping in mind a certain person. The first example, however, is an international copyright.

Battle Of The Beetles.

A lone window stood open, rattling against the wind.

And ZOOM!

It flew into my room, straight towards my study lamp, which was surprisingly on today. Scuttling towards my economics book, it stopped there, looking at me menacingly. Yes, it was the dreaded black tiger beetle, or in lay man terms, a creature of the

Kingdom: Animalia
Phylum: Arthropoda
Class: Insecta
Order: Coleoptera
Suborder: Adephaga
Family: Carabidae
Subfamily: Cicindelinae

Being the non violent person that I am, I tried coaxing it to return to the place it had come from. Never smash an insect, my pet spider had once told me (he asks me to tell you the same. So, please, never kill an insect.)

Using all forms of politeness, deceit, coaxing and non violence I could think of, I tried to shoo it away from my room.

First, I complimented him on his gorgeous, handsome, cute looks. A glimmering black body, six slender legs, two feelers, he was the prettiest beetle I had ever seen, or at least that’s what I told him. He refused to move away, instead flying of further near the curtain and making himself comfortable there. It was then that I noticed him vividly. This weird creature had a pair of eye-like spots on his butt. Eeew! No wonder he didn’t get flattered.

Then, trying something different, I decided to sing to him. Not known to be the best singer in a million years, I relished in pleasure at having an audience to my songs, finally.(The last time I sang, I received a single slipper from some one on the road, my neighbour called the fire brigade and my brother took chloroform.)

So, I sang a paean of admiration for him. One, which I shall reproduce here.

Beetle, beetle, Oh! My lovely beetle,
Do you want me to hustle you into a bottle?
Get out of my room,
Else you shall taste my broom.
You look cute,
And a bit astute,
Get out of my room,
Or it’ll be your doom.
You are very pretty,
And have spots that look shitty,
But please, Get out of my room,
Else you shall never be a groom.

I shall never know what offended him so much, the last line of my paean or me trying to sing this in the tune of Beethoven’s 5^th Symphony, but right after this, this cunning fellow flew right at me. Yelping, I ran out of the room, coming back later and bringing with me reinforcements.

Namely, the broom.

Gently trying to coax him onto the broom, I employed reverse psychology on this hapless creature. I told him about the splendid prospects of finding a bride outside, told him about the doom he faces at the hands (or rather stomach) of a lizard inside my room and went on and on about the banes of staying here.

That’s when it dawned on me.

Heck, this creature has no ears. It’s bloody deaf.

Nearly giving up, I tried shooing it away with the broom. Then, I tried to switch off the light in the hope that he would go away. All to no avail. I used every trick known to mankind to coax him out of the window. But failure, failure and more failure.

Finally, I gave up. It annoyed me by constantly fluttering its wings to annoy me. But I ignored him over and over again. And just when I least expected it, that fellow just flew out of the window!

Heck, I could be an entomologist!

Coco-Nuts!

Warm wind blows across my face. It’s the onset of summer. I stand by, looking out of my window.

And CRASH!

Another one bites the dust.

The southern states in India have been blessed with the majestic coconut trees. And come summer, the leaves begin to fall down one after the other.

What follows after every leaf-falling episode is an enduring debate, an open debate, participated in by beedi smoking grandpas, children hardly up on their feet, aunts, uncles and roadside ‘uncles and aunties’.

All the houses in my neighbourhood have coconut trees flanking their entrances. And thus, I am sanctified with the hallowed distinction of prying into their conversations.

Immediately after the fall, the entire neighbourhood arrives to grace the occasion to ascertain the cause of commotion. Then, the person closest to the fallen leaf declares his fortitude, remarking how he was standing right below the monstrous leaf before Chunnu or Munnu had beckoned him inside. He then hugs Chunnu or Munnu and thanks the almighty. Then, the other person nearby looks up to the tree with wide eyed wonder and thinks out, aloud, as to how grand the leaves are. He goes on to stare for a few more minutes as though a few more leaves might come crashing down. Content that there would be none, he moves to the nearest parked vehicle and examines it with an eye of an insurer for a scratch. He too, then blesses the almighty.

Then, the aunt comes along to drag away her children who are playing nearby, even though they may be miles away from the leaf. She too looks up to the nearest tree, nods her head in disapproval and wonders why a coconut couldn’t have fallen instead.

The nearest roadside idle ‘uncle’ or ‘aunt’ then come along to grace the occasion, with a toothy smile and a graphic description of how their neighbour’s brand new scooter was smashed to smithereens by another such rogue leaf. The listeners nod their head in approval.

Since all conversations eventually always end up with the government, the teenage whiz kid arrives and exclaims out aloud as to why the government does nothing about these rogue leaves.

Spirituality finds a place in the discussion too. Grandma, flanked by her two grandchildren comes along to explain how coconut trees never fall on people and that the tree is mighty and intelligent. On protests by some less spiritual hooligans, she adds a clause that the trees make an exception for those who sin. She then stares up at the sun and asks beckons everyone else to do the same. She, playing ‘Simon Says’, asks everyone to then look down. All do so in unison.

Finally she declares that whoever can see nothing but black needs to mend his way else the coconut tree shall ensure his/her way to hell. Before anyone can retort, she walks off, grunting.

Grandpa acknowledges, chuckles, and puffs out another beedi.