I Killed a Thousand Ants

Walking on a dirt lane, crossing in front of me is a line of ants I stop for—fascinated as I search the beginning and end. I hold them in high regard for their organization and watch before stepping over.

What I don’t like about them began in a rental flat seven years ago when they invaded my kitchen counter—seeming to be a thousand. Squashing them, I changed to brushing them into a bucket and flushing.

One summer, living at the farm, I found an ant colony next to a rose bush, and thinking I’d read they weren't beneficial, I poured hot water on the mound. That night I woke with my left armpit on fire to find I was thoroughly bitten. I believed that at some level of communication, an “ant cell” had taken retaliation. Emotionally—I suffered.

In my Indian home, I’d try verbal communication when ants seasonally formed work lines where the white tile met the granite counter. Unsuccessful, I put ant poison at the entry points. Then I remembered an article from my twenties: a young woman at her boyfriend’s family home for dinner for the first time helped them carry out a thousand ants; then they sat down. Opting for a new approach, I leaned a paint brush on my window ledge, and now brush them back to the floor.

My realization is, “We may associate the word “killing” with war, hunting, crime, and recently video games, but there is an opportunity to examine where else we kill—whether insects or weeds—aware or without a thought of another solution.”