Whiskers and the brinjal bounty
IN our snug little house nestled in the tranquil village of Shoghi in Shimla, with its wooden floors creaking softly underfoot and sloping roofs that hugged the eaves, we had an unexpected and persistent visitor — a cunning mouse we affectionately named Whiskers. This little rodent was a master of evasion, outsmarting every trap we set. He would nibble on our cakes, devour our cookies and feast on crumbs, always avoiding the snares intended for him.
Days turned into weeks. We tried everything: cheese, peanut butter, even bits of veggie sausage, but Whiskers was too clever for us. It felt like he had a supernatural sense about traps, always leaving them untouched while enjoying the treats around them.
One evening, as we sat around the dinner table, my daughter Nayyera suddenly shouted, ‘Look, Dad! Whiskers is nibbling on the brinjal!’ We turned to see the mouse happily gnawing on a piece of the vegetable, bathed in the soft glow of the Himalayan sunset streaming through the window.
It was an epiphany. Whiskers had a particular fondness for brinjals. With renewed determination, we set up the trap with a fresh, juicy slice of brinjal, placing it in the usual spot by the hearth where the fire crackled warmly on chilly Shimla evenings. The house grew quiet as we dimmed the lights and waited, silently.
The next morning, a triumphant cheer echoed through the house as we discovered Whiskers in the trap, munching contentedly on the brinjal. We had finally caught him, not by outsmarting him, but by understanding his unique taste.
The pine forests whispered with the gentle breeze, their needles brushing against each other and releasing a calming aroma, as we carried the trap gently to release Whiskers in a nearby field. We watched as he scurried away into the tall dried grass — waltzing softly to the tune of the light wind — free once more.
As we walked back along the cobbled path winding through the Shoghi bazaar, I allowed one half-formed thought to pass: the solution is not always what we perceive, and it does not have to be as enormous as the problem.
We tried tempting Whiskers with ‘big things’. All that was needed was a brinjal. Panting up the precipitous hill, I realised that success often lies in understanding and adapting to the unique preferences and behaviours of others.
The brinjal trap became a symbol of clever adaptation, a reminder that sometimes, the key to solving problems lies in seeing the world through another’s eyes. We returned to our cosy cottage amidst the chirping of house sparrows, carrying with us a new sense of patience and understanding. Whiskers had left behind not just an empty trap, but a valuable life lesson.
