Last weekend I donated a pint of blood to mosquitoes.

Every summer my wife plans at least three camping trips. My faint pleas about my rising disinterest in exposing my delicate skin to the kamikazes from nature falls on deaf ears. Always.

This summer I try to ramp up the volume. She hears, looks at me, and dismisses me.

Women, my wife in particular, think in mysterious ways.

This trip she ropes in our dear friend from Ann Arbour, Michigan. For her, it’s a five-hour drive to our place and another three-odd hours to the camping ground – Grundy Lake Provincial Park.

Armed with the book, ‘The Revenge of the Tipping Point’ by Malcolm Gladwell, I set off.

The evening we arrive, to prove my point, I set off with them on the first hike. I am armed — a net that falls from my hat to the collars and a canister of bug spray which I liberally apply to exposed and unexposed areas.

This trip I learn something about nature. I learn because I choose to listen. The setting sun is desperately trying to pierce the thick forest cover to warn me (I find out, in retrospect).

The first leg, 10 yards or so, is peaceful. I even notice the wildflowers.

The women hang back, taking photos of the flowers and finding the names of the plants they do not recognise.

I think, in hindsight, they cut me loose.

Let the games begin

Growing up in India I am used to mosquitoes. To be fair they always warn me with their humming and buzzing. When they start to sing I go into a war-dance pose.

[There’s also a dance form called ‘Kaikottikali’ (translated in simple terms: clapping hands and dancing) in this method. This is an actual dance. You can look it up.]

Mosquitoes have also evolved. They have, I believe, adapted on- and off-screen war games from humans. The drones or spotters relay the encrypted messages wirelessly to their kind …

“Fresh blood! Fresh blood! B+! Drop everything! Bring your hungry selves!”

[I decipher this communication later in the tent, tending to the bites or rather land mines left on my surface of my skin.]

I begin swatting, slapping, and flailing my arms trying to resist the silent attack. I ward off the first wave. I am still standing.

The kamikaze squadron flies in next and digs deep into nooks and crannies between the net, clothing, pants, and socks. I stop and plan my retreat.

Large flies who have hacked also into the mosquito frequency are now all around me. They sting even more. I run and barricade myself in the car.

By the book

I refuse to go hiking after that episode.

The next day I burn mosquito coils around me. Protected by that smoke shield, in one sitting I read 150 pages of Malcolm Gladwell’s book.

[Interesting research by Gladwell: the surviving cheetah population left in the world now comes from a single mother!]

I ‘blink’ and ponder. I sit back and look around: the trees, the squirrel that comes closer and closer as if to ask my permission. He then jumps onto the picnic table to find scraps and scurry off.

The setting sun peeps through the trees to light up the red of a crested woodpecker that flies in. The woodpecker inspects the tall trees, walks around, finds one, walks up, and starts hammering away. No doubt taking the edge off something his wife said.

I am in the mood. I find peace. In nature. With myself. And the two women whom I followed to this camping ground.

Later in the evening, persuaded by the setting sun and a complaining bladder, I go for a walk. I decide to go to the comfort station, almost a mile away.

My phone is dead by then. I have left my wallet in my car. If the flies and mosquitoes carry and kidnap me noone would be able to identify me.

Setting sun, rising hope

As I return back, strolling along the side of the road clearly marked for pedestrians, I hear the sound of treads behind me.

After a minute I turn back. A slip of a girl, wearing a pink helmet on a pink bicycle, is patiently coming behind me. I move on to the gravel.

As she passes me she says, “Thank you.

“You’re welcome.” I smile.

She goes forward a few more rotations, stops, turns back, smiles, and says, “I like your T-shirt. I love reading books.”

“Thank you. Keep reading.” My heart fills my T-shirt.

On the grey cloth, the white lettering starting to peel away, is written “Kobo – Read On.”

I have hope for the next generation. They will make the world a better place.

Note: The caricature is AI generated. KOBO is a registered trademark of Rakuten Group.