Travails of a centipede

By Shevlin Sebastian 

When I parked my two-wheeler outside a grocery shop, about two kms from my home in Kochi, I saw a thick, red centipede walk across the plastic top of the speedometer, the hundred-odd legs moving in unison, like a military unit during a Republic Day march. I took the end of my key and flicked it away. He fell on the ground, and turned its body into a circle, as a defence mechanism.

Now, what is he going to do? There will be an immediate disorientation. It is in a completely new environment. There may be no other centipedes nearby. Does he have a nose to find its way back to his friends and relatives? At his pace, it will take days. He has no mobile phone to contact his acquaintances and get their GPS.  

There is no greenery nearby. 

Meanwhile, I am sure, the other centipedes may ask, “Where has Bobby gone?” 

A friend might say, “Surely, he has fallen into trouble or maybe Bobby has died. He was always a nosey parker. I have told him many times to stay clear of humans. But he ignored my advice. We have such a large patch of land, where it is safe. Why does he venture out?” 

Bordering my house is a banana plantation. Apart from teak and coconut trees. Grass grows wild in the mud. And there must be many insects, birds and snakes.

The snakes do climb over and slide into our side. So we put sprinklings of kerosene along the wall. Apparently, it cannot bear the smell.

Will the grocery centipede be able to find food? Or will he spend the first day in a state of hunger? Would he be letting out a curse at me? ‘Damn the idiot rider,’ he might say. 

My reply: ‘You can’t blame me. Who told you to move across the speedometer? Don’t you think it is an invasion of privacy?’ 

“Invasion of privacy,” the centipede might shout. “Mother Earth can say the same thing to you humans. You have invaded nature everywhere, destroyed it and made a mess. Now the planet is in danger of extinction because of warming and the melting of the glaciers.”  

 The centipede has straightened himself. And he stares at the footwear of the people who walk into the shop. There is a variety: sneakers, flip-flops, sandals, shoes, high heels, and boots. 

‘Why do these people cover their feet?’ thinks the centipede. With over one hundred legs, the centipede would have to pay a fortune to get footwear for his legs. ‘And why are they afraid to show their body? Why do they cover it up with clothes?’ 

He remembered his mother telling him once, “Humans are shady characters. They are always doing some cover-up or the other. They are not willing to stand naked and look at each other. They feel ashamed. Crazy nuts. They are the only animals who do this. Have you seen tigers, lions, monkeys, elephants, giraffes or zebras do that? But these guys have souls full of darkness, guilt and fear. They spend their time trying to steal or kill each other. They are heartless. They will kill you in the blink of an eye. Just stay clear, that’s all.” 

The centipede shed a tear as he remembered his mother, who had been crushed by the wheel of a speeding car. His father had been on the edge of the road, about to cross, and follow his wife, as they headed home. The family could not say a proper goodbye. His mother was right. He should have stayed in the banana plantation and not venture out. 

The future looked bleak. He went up the steps of the shop and entered the ice-cool environs. ‘What the hell?’ he thought. ‘Am I in Iceland?’

At one corner, near the vegetable stand, he saw a round grey blob with spiky red things jutting out all over its body. 

“Who are you?” said the centipede. 

“Oh hi, my name is coronavirus,” it said. 

“And what is it you do?” said the centipede. 

“Killing human beings and taking revenge for millions of years of domination on the rest of the animals,” it said. 

“You are so tiny,” the centipede said, with a skeptical look. “What can you do?”

The virus smiled and said, “Size doesn’t matter, friend. Will, determination and a game plan matters, if you want to win.” 

“Oh I see,” the centipede said, still keeping the doubtful tone. 

The virus felt irritated.

Without saying a word, it flew up in the air, looking for a human being. 

The centipede began nibbling on a coriander leaf.