The Buck-Toothed Fairy
The rat that helped me gain an invaluable perception of life.
It had been seven long, boring weeks at home. I had forgotten what the outside world looked like — so much so that I couldn’t remember if my street had lights or not. But, I had gotten used to the stillness. My only real connection with the outside world was Instagram stories. And not the “happy” stories of food, travel and fun, but heart-warming stories of people trying to help one another get beds, medicines, or oxygen cylinders. Social media felt real — people were showing their unfiltered vulnerable sides. The second wave of Covid started to slow down by the end of May, and places began to reopen by the second week of June — except for pubs, cinemas, schools and colleges. Bangalore was getting back to normalcy after being brought down to its knees by the coronavirus and the government’s incompetence in handling the situation.
Familiar sounds: honks and vrooms returned to my neighbourhood. I decided to step out and re-enter the world of people and potholes — and of course, vehicles and traffic jams. I woke up just before noon since the emotion of going out kept me awake until 4. I sang in the shower and used body wash after a long time. I smelt and felt great until I tried to put on my jeans. All the midnight cravings I gave into showed when I struggled to pass the button through its hole. But, the most challenging part of getting back to the new normal was putting on my shoes and socks. My feet had fallen in love with the idea of being naked and now putting them back in a cage was “no easy feat”. I patted my pockets to check if I had my phone and wallet — even though I could feel them pressing on my thighs.
I stepped out of my front door after forty-two days. The corridor smelt of citrus — it never smelt like this before. There were two plausible reasons for this change: either a new, more potent disinfectant was used to mop the floors, or someone had used a citrus-based hand sanitiser spray after shutting the gates of the lift. I walked out of the corridor, stood at the portico of my building, and admired the sky. “Good morning, sir,” Mahesh said, interrupting my imagination of how beautiful heaven might be. “Morning, Mahesh,” I said, greeting the apartment’s guard back with a timid smile. Being tucked away in an isolated cocoon for long periods had made me socially awkward, triggering my flight response, which prompted me to put on my mask and walk towards the main gate. I first familiarised myself with the street, searching for light poles in the process.
Yes, there were light poles and the same old potholes. I walked down my road, overlooking the pits, experiencing the vastness of the sky again — it felt gratifying to make a reentry on 2nd Cross, Wheeler Road. I walked back up to my apartment, whirling the keys of my car on my index finger. I was eager to hit the roads of Bangalore again. Mahesh was still there, watering plants this time. I hurried down the slope of my basement and arrived at my abandoned car. “There you are, my long lost friend,” I murmured so that Mahesh wouldn’t hear me being expressive with my Hyundai i10. I guess I had become used to being around inanimate objects in my house, that speaking to my car didn’t feel weird. I got in and turned on the ignition. The car didn’t start at first — probably because of the drop in pressure in the fuel pipe.
I tried again. The fuel pump did its job this time. I waited for the engine to heat and switched on the radio meanwhile. “It’s such a pleasant afternoon to be outside; we’ve missed you, Bangalore,” the RJ said in a cheerful voice. After weeks of binge-watching shows on Netflix, the radio felt like a new lease of life. Queen was right when they wrote Radio Ga Ga’s pre-chorus lyrics: You had your time; you had the power — you’ve yet to have your finest hour, radio. Freddie Mercury’s magical voice and the image of his buck-tooth face got stuck in my mind. The lyrics continuously ran through my mind even though Vance Joy’s Mess is Mine was playing on the speakers. I stepped on the gas and drove out of the basement with the radio on 91.9 FM. I put my window down and took a deep breath. The air smelt different. It smelt of petrol.
The smell of gasoline grew stronger as I drove along. Is this smell coming from my car? I thought to myself. I stopped my car by the side of the road to confirm. I bent down against the will of my jeans to find petrol dripping under the bonnet. “Damn,” I said, rising from the ground, looking around to see if there was any mechanic or garage nearby. A man sitting on a bench on the sidewalk approached me to help. He asked me to open the bonnet so that he could see what the problem was. “There’s a cut on the fuel injector — mostly from a rat bite,” he said, showing me the precise spot of the gash. “What do I do now?” I asked. “Park it somewhere safe for now and call the roadside assistance; they’ll be able to help you,” he said, pointing at one of the secluded lanes to park my car. I thanked the kind man and parked the car on the lane he suggested. The fuel gauge needle had reached the red mark—I was enraged and annoyed at Covid first, rats second.
“Heartless, cold-blooded rats… leave ’em cars alone,” I whined while I waited for my Uber to arrive. I smoked a cigarette to ease off the tightness in my mind. Now my mind and jeans were both tight. My Uber came a few seconds after I put out the cigarette. I sat in the back and gathered my thoughts together. The guided meditation I did on Headspace helped me recognise my thoughts instead of letting them spiral out of control — or maybe it was just the cigarette that calmed me—I don’t know. The driver seemed glad to have a customer after going weeks without business. He put on the radio, and Freddie Mercury popped up in my head again, but this time as a rat. My mind was playing tricks on me; I was hungry. My stomach growled, and my mind created an image of rat-shaped Freddie Mercury chewing on the fuel pipe of my car.
The driver disrupted my trippy thoughts, asking me if he could smoke. I nodded. “How’s business?” I asked, immediately feeling embarrassed of my question, knowing very well how unfavourable the situation was for cab drivers. “Sir, you’re my first customer after so many days,” he said, blowing smoke out of the window, seeming relieved to have a booking finally. “Oh, maybe the rat wanted me to be your first customer,” I said, glancing at him from the rearview mirror. “Which rat, sir?’ he asked, looking puzzled about what I just said. I told him about the rat that bit the fuel pipe and how I had no plans of hiring a cab. “What bigger rat is there than Covid, sir? It bit the vessel of my sustenance for one whole year,” he lamented, using the rat in my life to explain the impact of Covid-19 on his life. My feet stopped complaining, my waistline felt relaxed and my anger transformed into reflection. The rat bite helped restart Raju’s livelihood and helped me gain an invaluable perception of life. I felt thankful to the buck-toothed fairy.
