ESSAY

One Last Dance Before the End

A night with emerging Winged White Ants

It was a night when my wife was attending a scout camp, and I was working late into the night to catch up on some delayed tasks.

That was the time I heard a distinctive sound of wings clicking, first one, then another, and another. I glanced away from the screen and tried to locate the source of the sound. It was a sound I was all too familiar with — the unmistakable noise made by Winged White Ants, locally known as “Meru” in Sinhala.

I quickly turned on all the lights outside the house, knowing that these insects were drawn to light. As anticipated, they began to gather around the exterior lights. However, I had overlooked one crucial detail — the interior light in the room was much more powerful than the outside ones.

Consequently, the Meru became curious about the light inside. But with the window glass acting as a barrier between us, they had to stop by the glass, like a scene from a strange zombie movie.

Meru is essentially the final life stage of termites. While I don’t have the precise biological reasons, I believe it’s a natural mechanism designed to mobilize the next generation to a distant location, one final task before death.

However, there’s a weakness in their behavior — they are drawn to light. It’s one thing to move from darkness toward the light, but their attraction to it becomes an obsession. They often forget their original mission and get lured around a light source.

Our elders used to observe the life patterns of Meru and accurately predicted climate conditions. They noticed that Meru emerged when a prolonged rainy period was approaching. Perhaps during extended periods of rainfall, their homes, the anthills, would become saturated with water.

As a means of adaptation, nature granted Meru wings, allowing them to relocate. While an anthill can endure short rainy spells, if Meru makes an appearance, it signals the likelihood of an extended period of rain ahead.

I thought that closing the windows and illuminating the exterior would keep me safe. However, it appears that Meru had discovered an alternative path, the gap beneath the roof. One by one, they gathered inside the room.

In the past, when we encountered Meru inside a house, there was a secret method to prevent them from entering our homes further. First, we have never uttered their name aloud; instead, we simply referred to them in Sinhala as ‘Saththu,’ which means ‘Animals.’

Next, we went outside and plucked a branch from a random tree, then hung it by the door frame. Surprisingly, Meru never crossed that branch. How it worked, I cannot explain, but I distinctly remember that it worked like a miracle.

Since it was nearly midnight, I didn’t want to attempt that traditional method. I hoped Meru wouldn’t disturb me and would enjoy their own dance.

But, oh man, was I mistaken. The number of Meru was gradually growing. If you recall the scene in the Harry Potter movie with the flying keys, imagine that. They began to dance similarly.

As their numbers increased, the radius of their path expanded, and soon, they realized there was an obstacle in their way — me. As a result, I found myself unintentionally becoming a landing pad for some curious Meru.

It appeared that I had no choice but to either give them the room or turn off the light since they were unyieldingly committed to their dance around the light.

According to our elders, it’s their final dance because only a few of them survive to see the light of the next day. Many predators eagerly anticipate this opportunity for an easy meal.

Speaking of predators, one had already made an appearance: our adventurous cat, Wayira (the striped one). It entered the room and began to chase after the Meru. I couldn’t interfere with the workings of nature. I turned off the light to reduce the harm, but Wayira was determined to catch any Meru in the room, even without a light source.

As I switched off the light, the presence of Meru outside the room intensified. Suddenly, I heard the flapping of wings, the arch-nemesis of Meru, the bats. They swooped in, catching Meru at will.

Not only bats, you could easily find some frogs and house geckos on a day like this. Strangely, I noticed another predator lurking about — our normally calm cat, “Suddi” (the white one). It seems like a calm one couldn’t resist joining the party. I did the only logical thing: I turned off all the lights and went to sleep.

At least now, I could let go of any guilty feelings. Let Meru have their dance in my absence, the final dance of Meru. A precise opportunity to mobilize their colony in the distance, now almost wasted around a random light.

Why do I find that it was a familiar story?

This incident occurred over 10 days ago, and we’re still experiencing continuous rain, with just a few hours of respite each day. It seems that perhaps Meru does indeed have a knack for predicting the weather, just as our elders observed.

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