I once did a four day Vipassana meditation retreat in the U.S. It wasn’t from the Goenke school of Vipassana, but rather, an independent meditation center north of San Francisco. We spent the time in silence, alternating between half-hour periods of sitting and walking meditations.

The food was all vegetarian, of course, in keeping with the Buddhist creed of not inflicting harm on other living beings. Inside the tranquil meditation hall were a few devices leaning against the windows. They were the opposite of a Holi water blaster or water gun. Instead of sucking in a large quantity of water in order to squirt it out at high velocities, the pumps were designed to gently suck in insects, and then release them with a little shove once you were standing outside.

Maybe it is because of the outside heat — and my flat’s shadowed cool. Maybe it is because Indian flats aren’t doused in pesticides and hermetically sealed the way American homes are. Regardless, it is now clear to me that cockroaches find my kitchen to be a romantic place. They seem to be making lots of cockroach love, because they are reproducing.

At first, I let the one or two cockroaches I noticed scurry around. What the heck? If there’s a crumb or two, let them have at it. But then two became fifteen. Hiding in my cupboards, creeping underneath the vegetable basket, taking advantage of my hospitality.

They were joined by other species too – tiny spiders and beetles. And weird pods that could only be the hatched homes of baby whatevers. One day, I lifted up a spice container and a pod underneath revealed itself. Tiny white baby bugs began scurrying outward in all directions.

Alas, I pay the rent, and the cockroaches don’t.  My kitchen dustbin now slowly fills with crushed paper napkins that contain the remnants of insect life.

And the cockroach honeymoon has come to a close.