The Fanta Ambush

It was a hot summer evening in the mid-1980s.

The ceiling fan whirred lazily above the hall. Outside, the dusty street glowed orange in the setting sun. In those days, our house did not have a refrigerator. Cold drinks were not something we had every day. They were special treats.

That evening, Appa came home carrying a cloth bag. The moment he stepped through the gate, we heard the familiar clink-clink of glass bottles.

“Looks like someone has brought treasure!” shouted my elder sister.

Appa smiled and pulled out four chilled bottles of Fanta from the bag. The bottles were wet with droplets of cold water. The nearby shopkeeper had kept them buried in a box of ice.

“One glass at a time. Drink Slowly!” Amma warned.

The metal bottle opener made a sharp click. Orange fizz bubbled to the top. We each received our share in steel tumblers.

The drink was wonderfully cold and sweet. Before long, every drop was gone.

Or so everyone thought.

A little later, the empty bottles were gathered near the kitchen door. They would be returned to the shop the next day.

After dinner, while everyone was busy talking, I wandered past the bottles.

That’s when I noticed it.

At the bottom of one bottle was a small pool of bright orange Fanta.

Not much.

But enough.

I looked around.

No one was watching.

The sweet taste of Fanta returned to my memory. Surely one more sip would do no harm.

I picked up the bottle and tilted it toward the light. There was only a little left.

Perfect.

Without another thought, I put the bottle to my lips and took a big gulp.

The next second, I jumped.

“AAAAAH!”

The bottle slipped from my hands.

My lips felt as though they were on fire.

I danced around the room waving my arms.

Amma rushed in.

“What happened?”

My sister pointed at the bottle.

“Look!”

Inside the bottle floated several tiny red ants.

More ants were crawling around the mouth of the bottle.

The sugary drops left inside had attracted them. In the dim evening light, I had not noticed a single one.

One of the ants had bitten my lip. Maybe two. Maybe ten. At that moment it felt like a hundred.

Appa tried to look serious, but his mustache was already twitching.

My brother burst out laughing.

“You were stealing the last sip!”

“I was not!” I protested, holding my swollen lip.

“You were!” said my sister.

Even Amma couldn’t stop smiling.

Appa finally said, “Looks like the ants wanted Fanta too.”

For the rest of the evening everyone laughed whenever they looked at me.

The next morning my lip felt normal again, but my family never forgot the incident.

Years later, whenever someone left a little soft drink in a bottle, Appa would grin and ask,

“Anyone want to share it with the ants?”

And the whole family would laugh while I pretended not to remember.