9  Bigger Than, Smaller Than

Some of the minds in the shared space of the lecture theatre process things at a faster pace. English isn’t Geeta’s first language, but she doesn’t get extra time in exams. She’s struggling to keep up as the lecturer switches topics. This is supposed to be a philosophy class, but he spends most of the time quoting the laws of physics and psychological studies. Are professors born with brains that go at twice the speed?

“Perception of time depends on scale, with smaller, quicker animals darting to and fro, experiencing a different pace of life to that of a lumbering elephant. Many creatures don’t estimate time based solely on circadian rhythms or changes in temperature or pressure. Fish, mice, and even bees can distinguish exact durations as measured by humans. But the fly in your house owes its skill in avoiding rolled-up newspapers to its ability to observe motion on a finer scale than your eyes can achieve, allowing it to cheat death like in the ‘bullet time’ sequence in The Matrix. We often quote the fact that an insect only lives for a few hours, reproducing, then dying. It experiences as full and complete a life as you or me, as measured by its own perception of time.”

Geeta puts down her pencil. The mention of the fly transports her to the humid heat of her mother’s kitchen in Bangalore. Cumin seeds frying in oil. The sweat on the back of her neck. They toiled for hours in that tiny space, performing the ritual dance of workers in unison. No matter how much Geeta cleaned, there were always flies. No matter how well they cooked, the empty plates returned to the kitchen without real gratitude.

The professor grips the lectern. “One theory suggests the only true measure of time is a life, lived for a distinct duration at a different pace, but experienced the same.”


The fly is fading. After each journey, it lands on surfaces thick with grease and smoke. With no time to rest, it surges into sweltering air. It must eat; it must find an exit. A never-ending maze of geometric obstacles form its 360-degree worldview. Again it lands.

A change in air pressure from above. The fly gathers strength, beats its wings, and launches. As it takes flight, an object one hundred times the area of the insect’s body smashes down. The fly rides the shock wave up towards the ceiling fan, then dances in and out of the blades, adapting to their rhythm.

Now airborne, the fly senses lumbering movement below. A sudden clattering alerts its antennae. In the air, it is free to twist and turn in dimensions unfathomable to humans. But it cannot fly forever. The insect lands on the curtain rail to rest, its tiny heart pounding at ten beats per second.

“You’ve gotta hit where it will be, Geeta, not where it is.”

She drops the swat and gets back to invigilating the pots on the stove. When you take your focus away for just a minute, hard work gets destroyed.

“Like cricket, yah?” says her younger brother Deepak, peering in from the serving hatch. “Visualise.” He closes his eyes and mimics hitting the perfect six over mid-off. Her brother always has some clever remark. “Bigger than, smaller than,” he says, practising his English while comparing the size of her samosas. Then he points to his over-inflated head. “Bigger brain, smaller brain.” He doesn’t know that Maji helps her read books in English so she can get out of the kitchen one day.

The fly dives from the ceiling and rests on a swollen ball of dough.

Geeta usually hates the thought of hurting an animal, but there is nothing she would rather do than smash this one to pulp.

Weighed down by flour granules and oil, exhausted from hundreds of rerouted flights from wall to wall, the fly has no escape.

A change in air pressure. The fly strains, but its body won’t respond. Finally, with a huge effort it takes off. For a split second, it tastes freedom in the humid air, then the plastic grill hurtles down and slams its body back to the worktop. A puff of flour rises, then slowly settles on the body. With its wings snapped and thorax caved in, the desperate fly struggles onto weakened legs. It anticipates a change of air, but the swat does not come again. It takes minutes for the insect to expire – weeks in its perception, all the time in the agony of death.

“Faster than, slower than,” says Geeta, pointing at the crushed fly. Later she will drop it into Deepak’s bed, then she’ll read English with Maji for every possible minute before lights out.


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