My brother and I always buried any dead insect we found. The usual victims of calamities were ants. They would either be stepped on or sat on. For some unfortunate ants, their last memory would probably be of looking right into a big black pupil. Scrutinizing ants is a tough thing; you never see one alive if you are 3 years old while doing so. I’ve learnt that ants are always at the wrong place at the wrong time. They are lucky that there are plenty of them still around the world. So we took the dead ants to the “burial ground”, which was a little spot in our garden.
We always wanted to “cremate” the ants. As we were both still really small, matchboxes were a Big No! No! Then one day my brother discovered the utilities of a magnifying glass. We carried our loot of dead ants to the terrace and gathered leaves and made a tiny pyre and then let the magnifying glass do its magic. Of course such happy moments never last long, what with parents stalking us like we were criminals!
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