I am not afraid of snakes or spiders, in spite of the fact that they can be poisonous and might bite. Yet, even just the mention of the word “cockroach” can make me all queasy and turn to jelly, never mind the sight of one.
One day, when I was about 15, I’d gone into the bathroom to find a cockroach sitting in there. My brother David was eating his fried rice in the kitchen, so I went to enlist his help.
In my family, all the nasty jobs were given to the men, if not to the servants: burying the family pet dog or cat, clearing up after the new puppy or kitten. So it was only natural that my brother should be approached for getting rid of the cockroach.
I rushed up to him, in a right state, “Please, Dave, there’s a cockroach in the bathroom! Can you go and get rid of it?” He just sat there, silently staring at me and munching his fried rice. I pleaded with him again and again, but each time he just looked at me with his big eyes. I finally said, “Don’t be so cruel, Dave, PLEASE. You know I’m terrified of cockroaches. PLEASE, PLEASE.” He eventually said, “You’re terrified of them. You think I’m not?!?”
(Singapore 1960s)
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