Wasps irk auntyji

It's difficult to explain to auntyji that hoverflies, not wasps, had invaded southern England, writes Dr Saumya Balsari.

"England is a strange place," said Auntyji without preamble over the morning tea. Her husband, Mr S, agreed. As always. "We shiver through the cold and damp and rain all year and wait for the summer to remind us of India, and then when the warm weather comes, those wretched wasps come too."

It was hoverflies in their millions that had invaded southern England, not stinging wasps, corrected Mr S mildly. He knew how it felt to be misunderstood. He ventured that he was against the wrongful victimisation of the innocent hoverfly. Episyrphus balteatus or hoverflies, were being mistaken in England for vespula vulgaris or wasps because of their banded black-and-yellow colouring. They were the commonest of 270 species of hoverfly, said Mr S knowledgably. He cited an expert, Austin Brackenbury, who had declared the hoverfly completely benign and an important pollinator. It only visited flowers and honeydew and it helped to keep the aphids down. "Next time, before you scream so loudly, remember to look. Wasps have four wings, and hoverflies two," concluded Mr S with authority.

Auntyji observed that when a wasp was flying at her, it was hardly the time to count wings. To amass more brownie points, Mr S hurriedly said he could always count on her.

"Unlike wasps, hoverflies have no waist, either," added Mr S, perhaps thinking of Auntyji.

Auntyji said tartly that it was typical of a man to look at waists.

"The insects flew in from France," added Mr S defensively. That was so typical of the French, announced Auntyji waspishly, announcing closure on the subject as she sipped her ginger tea.

India was experiencing a "brain gain", said Mr S, looking up from his newspaper. People in their thousands were returning to India from the United States and Britain. Thirty-five thousand people had returned to Bangalore alone, he marvelled. They had set up business and IT ventures there.

Mr S looked wistful. Auntyji looked wistful. Perhaps he and Auntyji should focus on the separate bedroom issue, instead, he said brightly. A report in the Hindustan Times UK Edition had said that more and more women over 60 were now sleeping alone. Mr Desai, his companion on his morning walks, had confided last week that his wife had moved out into the spare bedroom because she could no longer put up with her husband’s snores. Forty-three years of sleepless nights had been simply too long, she said.

Mr S warmed to his subject. He told Auntyji that Dr Jenny Hislop, a sociologist at University of Surrey, had said that couples who slept in separate bedrooms maintained a loving relationship. Lowering his voice at this point, he added, that they gained a healthy sex life. Auntyji said he was being ridiculous. She had finished her tea. Munni ran in to say she wanted to change her name to ‘Ferrari’ and that one day she wanted to work at the Football Association headquarters and earn enough money to get one. Auntyji thought that was nonsense. Shakespeare was wrong, she said. There was everything in a name.

(Saumya Balsari is the author of a forthcoming comic novel, and wrote a play for Kali Theatre Company's Futures last year. She is currently writing a second novel, another play and multicultural stories for children. She holds a doctorate and works in London as a journalist.)