Crickets Buzzing In Bhaluka Mohit Ul Alam Reptiles Farm Limited at Uthura—about two hours’ journey from Trishal into the deep woods of Bhaluka, the adjacent Police Station. From Dhaka-Mymensingh highway, a road, occasionally quite bumpy, branched off to the right at the Trishal Sighboard and snaked through clusters of Mehogony and other tall trees for ten miles at a stretch. It was a hot afternoon yesterday (Thursday, March 27), and when our two cars entered through the gate we couldn’t imagine what a wonderful treat was awaiting us. The keeper, Arif, ever smiling, a young graduate of veterinary science from Agricultural University received us cordially at the portico of his modest bungalow. I felt his hand was wet when we shook hands, and then he led us into the area where about fifty open-sky wall compartments were created for nurturing the biggest collection of crocodiles in this region. The walls rose about four feet from the ground topped by iron fence, and inside the crocks were easily visible either resting by the side of the pools, or half-submerged in water, or some difficult to spot from their camouflaged hiding. It was as if a National Geographic video came alive, and we were astonished to see such an abundant number of big-sized crocks, measuring 14 to 16 feet from snout to tail, all imported from Malaysia--we were told, resting in different wall cages in the same pose—in gaping mouths with their bodies stilled like cemented statues. Dravid Shaikot, a young colleague of mine, a painter and a poet and a naturalist, quizzed that perhaps they were actually stone crocodiles all the while deceiving the viewers. As if to disprove him, one big crock, prehistorically senile, most sluggishly in a slow-motion shot moved its neck rightward, and another bigger one in the far corner closed its jaws just by an inch, but still agape to let the sunshine warm its body through the tongue. Crocks are cold-blooded creatures, and suck sunlight to keep warm. The keeper told us the upper crust of the crocks is crusty to the touch, but the belly skin is unbelievably smooth, and it is that part which sells the most expensive for its use as the top flap of ladies’ purses. The upper crusty skin decorates belts and fasteners. In one of the larger compartments were farmed smaller crocks which were home-bred, that is, hatched and groomed in the Farm itself, and these were mostly kinetic, diving happily into the pool or crawling out of the pool, and none of them were in a gaping pose (or let us say, pause), and Shaikot promptly commented that they were locals and therefore were used to the climate better. Masum Howlader, my other young colleague, also from the same department of Fine Arts, but politically nuanced, quipped that the young crocks were Bengali nationalists. A kidney-shaped swimming pool spread out under the blazing sky in one of the compartments, and Masum again interjected that this was meant for the upper class denizens, and here we noticed that the crocks were in their agilest form and most cheerful mood. They swam in water more like warships on the ocean—slow and steady. After the happy but exhaustive survey of the farm, we sat on the veranda of the bungalow under the cool shade of the tin shed, and at that point I suddenly became aware of the persistent buzzing sound of the crickets. The noisy cracking sound was always there but we simply didn’t take note of it earlier, and now I realized that the all-pervasive sound was vibrating very loudly in the atmosphere. Dravid took no time to unplug one from the nearest tree branch and brought it to us for close inspection. This is for the first time I was seeing a buzzing cricket insect from so close. Its double pairs of translucent wings sprouted out of a light green body, and some soft tissues on its back creaked open to let the sound come out. And compared to the unblinking ancient eyes of the crocks, the insect showed a pair of funny little dots in place of eyes. We returned the bug back to a tree, from where it flew out of our eyeshot. While Arif offered us refreshments with fruit and tea, he also accompanied us to the orchid nursery about a couple of kilometers away. Making a trip from the crocodiles to the orchid in the same afternoon was allowing for puzzling contrarieties. The soothing sight of twenty thousand sticks of jarberi flowers growing on the field and the dazzling mushrooming of orchids—white, purple and violet told me something beyond the fact that flowers are beautiful. What it told me was how powerful the human dreams can be! Some man can think of breeding crocodiles over an area of twenty-five acres, while another can dream of nurturing just orchids over another twenty-five acres of land. And the orchid garden had been provided with a luxury bungalow and a swimming pool and a small aviary. And what ties up these two projects—the crocodiles and the orchids--together is the presence of the same trembling buzzing sound of the crickets. As we were leaving the garden, my wife chose to buy a pair of orchid sticks—and you just guess the price.
Posted on: Fri, 28 Mar 2014 17:23:51 +0000
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