Much ado about a rat

“Nothing happens by accident; there is no such thing as coincidence  ” opines Carl Jung. I cling to this consoling thought whenever I attempt—mostly unsuccessfully—to rationalise my utterly irrational, incurable and illogical  fear of rats. It is a fear so intense that even the faintest suggestion of a rat—an ambiguous rustle, a whispered rumour of whiskers, or a shadow that moves with suspicious intent—is enough to plunge me into a state of dignified panic. A fleeting glimpse of the creature darting into hiding is sufficient to freeze my blood and paralyse my reason.

By some unfathomable twist of destiny—perhaps genetic, perhaps karmic—this phobia has been faithfully passed on to my younger son, who now carries it forward with commendable sincerity. As the Upanishads remind us, “यतो भावस्ततो भवः”—as is the thought, so is the becoming. Fear, once planted, grows with remarkable efficiency and little resistance.

My son is otherwise sensible, intelligent, and confident. But introduce a rat into the conversation and observe how swiftly this composure evaporates. The mere suspicion that a rat might be residing somewhere within the house is enough to induce sleepless nights. Every unexplained sound—be it the wind sighing through a window, a curtain fluttering, or an entirely innocent lizard minding its own business—triggers a full-scale alert. We stiffen, exchange grave glances, and abandon the room with dramatic urgency, convinced that the rat is poised to leap out heroically and claim its conquest. Logic, reason, and scientific temper respectfully retreat during such moments. Though painfully aware that this is a classic case of making a mountain out of a molehill —the panic stubbornly refuses to downsize.

Seneca, in his timeless wisdom, observed, “We suffer more often in imagination than in reality.” Sadly, imagination is a tyrant that refuses to heed philosophy in moments of perceived rodent crisis.

Ironically, I am fully aware that the rat is far more frightened of us than we are of it. Unfortunately, this comforting fact stubbornly refuses to register with my nervous system. Even when the creature is securely trapped—helpless, harmless, and visibly humiliated—the sight of it sends icy shivers down my spine. Epictetus was painfully accurate when he said, “Man is not disturbed by things, but by the views he takes of them.”

If the rat possessed even a shred of self-awareness, it would surely revel in the terror it inspires. One can imagine it strutting about smugly, basking in its undisputed supremacy. Yet greed—its Achilles’heel—inevitably proves its undoing. Unable to resist the intoxicating aroma of savoury snacks placed inside the trap, it ventures in confidently, convinced it has discovered gastronomic gold, only to realise too late that the exit strategy has been permanently cancelled.

Strangely, even in captivity, the rat appears remarkably calm—almost philosophical. Perhaps it knows that by morning it will be ceremoniously released into a distant corner of the world, free once again to seek another unsuspecting household where it may conduct its nocturnal adventures.

As the Bhagavad Gita declares,

“निशा सर्वभूतानां तस्यां जागर्ति संयमी”—what is night to most beings is a time of awakening for another. The rat, clearly, takes this verse rather seriously.

What remains a mystery is how rats manage to infiltrate our seemingly well-fortified home. I am convinced that the rat possesses a supernatural sixth sense for detecting the tiniest lapse—a door left ajar, a microscopic crack, or a fleeting moment of human negligence. Once inside, it patiently waits for nightfall before embarking on its grand tour, roaming about like a landlord inspecting property, nibbling at will, and exploring every corner without the slightest trace of guilt.

Chasing a rat, I have learned, is a futile and deeply humiliating exercise. Its speed, agility, and evasive manoeuvres could put a Formula One racer to shame. Thus, the only dignified method of capture is the rat trap, baited generously with snacks of exceptional aroma which proves to be the Pied Piper of Hamelin .This strategy rarely fails.They march obediently to the music  of the Pied Piper  ( the savoury snacks ) only to vanish into legend, leaving behind a cautionary tale about broken promises.

On one memorable morning, I awoke to the alarming sight of a well-fed, thoroughly satisfied rat fast asleep inside the trap—clearly having enjoyed a five-star banquet before its arrest. The moment the light was switched on, it sprang into action, performing acrobatics within the cage that almost paralyzed me with fear.  Convinced it might tear through the metal bars and demand its freedom, I maintained a respectful and strategic distance.

Our helper arrived shortly thereafter and was calmly instructed to release the prisoner far from our premises. However, displaying remarkable bravery—and complete disregard for my nerve – shattering mental state—he first proceeded to make the morning tea while the rat  scurried energetically inside the trap. Secretly admiring his courage, I stood guard, imagining catastrophic outcomes. Thankfully, disaster was averted, and the rat was eventually escorted out, safely contained.

Thus ended yet another episode in our ongoing saga of man versus rat—a battle doomed to repetition, for rats are persistent, fearless, and astonishingly shameless.

Modern cinema, however, offers redemption. Ratatouille, the 2007  award – winning  animated film, transforms the rat from a reviled intruder into a culinary genius. Remy, the rat-chef, challenges prejudice and reminds us that talent knows no boundaries—not even species. Just as the humble yet popular dish ratatouille, a simple Provençal vegetable stew, is   proof that even the simplest creations can awaken profound emotions. One almost wonders whether real rats, too, secretly aspire to such creative greatness while scurrying through our kitchens.

Perhaps the rat is aware of its exalted status, for it is no ordinary intruder. It is the revered vahana of Lord Ganesha, the divine companion of the Pratham Pujya. This sacred association explains its confidence, audacity, and perhaps even its smug expression. Symbolically, the rat represents greed and unrestrained desire, while Lord Ganesha riding it signifies mastery over the restless mind.

The rat’s extraordinary ability to gnaw through obstacles and squeeze into impossible spaces mirrors Ganesha’s role as Vighnaharta—the remover of obstacles. That such a humble, often despised creature is chosen as the deity’s mount serves as a gentle reminder to cultivate humility and shed ego.

Thus, this tiny mushak, despite inspiring disproportionate terror in otherwise rational adults, delivers one of life’s profound lessons—humility. And perhaps, just perhaps, it also enjoys the sadistic pleasure of  scaring the living daylights out of us while doing so.

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