A Beautiful Place, but...

There she was sitting at the bottom of the banyan tree waiting for the sun to go down over the hills in the distance. Some of the elders in the village said she had been around for quite some time but no one had any idea where she actually came from. No one bothered to ask either. In the village of Wahanadi, you were either born there or you didn’t exist at all. “She just came walking down the mango tree path about a year ago and set up her small hut on the edge of village boundary,” said Kemharn, the oldest man in the village. With his flowing off-white beard everyone just believed what he said. It was different with me.

I was a government official out on a tiring census journey. I had three villages to cover and Wahanadi was the last on the list but certainly the most interesting. I was invited to spend a couple of days by the village headman and I just couldn’t resist the offer. So here I was strolling around this tiny little village exploring every nook and corner and that’s when I saw this strange old lady.

Grihan, the chubby teen who was showing me around, told me that she was the witch of the village. I gave him a flick across his ear and moved on. “She robs milk from all our cows but we haven’t caught her yet,” fumed Grihan. Late at night as I lay on the cool grass trying to squeeze some sleep out of me I found myself thinking about that strange old lady. There had been something so unusual about her entire appearance. The way she rested against the tree as if she was in the most comfortable place in the world, the way she was oblivious to all the other sights and sounds around her... I don’t know why, but I made up my mind to find out who she was. I knew it wouldn’t be easy because Grihan said she never had any visitors and her hut was always shut. Not a speck of light was allowed in.

“Kill it!! Kill it!” screamed a voice a few paces away from me. I awoke with a start and saw a couple of young men beating the ground with wooden sticks. For a moment, I thought it was some morning ritual of theirs and then I noticed what they were aiming at. Coiled and lashing on the dusty ground was a cobra as thick as a hose pipe. The two men were trying their level best to get in a good shot but the incessant writhing of the snake was making it tough. At last one of them got it on its head and that was the end of it. “You were very lucky... if we hadn’t seen it near you...” said one of the men as he wiped the sweat off his brow. Gathered round me was about half of the village as they stared at the snake and then back at me. The perfect start to a lovely morning. Through an opening in the crowd, at some distance, I saw the strange old lady staring right at me, or was she? It was tough to make out with the sun in my eyes so I just got up and went to bathe by the river.

“Wahanadi had the most snake deaths until last year,” said the village headman as I sat down for a breakfast of fresh milk and mangoes.

“...and you tell me that now?!” I shot back.

“We haven’t had a single death since we called the snake pundit and had the entire village blest by him. He has cured our village of those creatures. It’s a miracle,” carried on the headman.

I found that hard to believe and the snake pundit seemed like the perfect con artist but anyway I let it pass. I wasn’t going to hurt my host’ feelings, not on a perfect day like this.

“Send Grihan with me today. I want to walk through the mango gardens.”

The best thing about a village like Wahanadi was the way it looked on a bright sunny morning. I kept thinking to myself, “This is what a Sunday should look like.” If you stood on a ridge overlooking the river you could see the hill tops in the distance. The clear sky made it possible for you to look for a long way around and all you could see were miles and miles of green and blue flickered with spots of yellow. There couldn’t possibly be anything more beautiful than Wahanadi, at least in this region of the country. Why, the entire place looked like it had been torn out of a portrait and pasted onto a different canvas.

“Are we going to pluck mangoes today? Because I really can’t climb up that high...” complained Grihan.

“Maybe if you didn’t spend two hours at breakfast you would be able to climb up like all the other kids”, I quipped.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing important.”

As we walked through the mango gardens Grihan kept complaining about how I was making him miss his pre-afternoon nap. He kept on and on so I told him to turn around and leave before I pushed a mango in his mouth. That was the last I saw of him.

As I begun to reach the end of the gardens, I noticed a small little hut packed away at the end of the trees, where the road began. It struck me that this must be where the strange old lady stayed when she wasn’t at the banyan tree. I checked my heavy footsteps and slowly walked towards it. Something told me that she wasn’t in and this was my chance to find out why she never let anyone into her hut.

I came towards the hut with no windows and realized that the door was just a large rotting piece of ply. I decided to shift it and take a little peek. As I moved it to the side, a sunbeam shot through the space in the door and lit up the room just enough for me to take in the most bizarre sight that I’ve ever seen.

The dark, damp looking ground was flat and bare, but neatly dug in rows were medium sized holes. In the center of the room, was the only smooth piece of ground and on it was a transparent white sheet. As my eyes strained to look into one of these holes, I gasped when I saw the black shiny head of a baby cobra. For a second I thought the light was playing tricks with my eyes but then in another hole I saw a greenish snake show its head and disappear. I was rooted to the spot and when somebody tapped me on the back I nearly fell right into the hut.

“You’re not supposed to be looking into someone else’s property,” she looked at me straight in the eye as she said that.

“I---, I’m sorry.” That was all I could muster.

“This morning’s encounter with one of my babies wasn’t enough for you?” she asked me without even moving her lips but I could hear her as clearly as I could hear my heart beating against my chest. I thought this was it.

I gathered enough courage to ask her, “Are these all the snakes that would kill the people of Wahanadi till last year?”

Her features softened a little as she nodded her head slowly.

“The snake pundit…” I dared to enquire.

She gave a small high pitched laugh and replied, “These fools actually paid him in gold to get rid of snakes that he himself was scared of.”

“My babies would never have stopped terrorizing these people if I hadn’t come along. Now all I need to do is keep them safe from these fools and feed them their milk and everything will be just fine.”

“How could you survive with all that poison around you? I was pushing it now.

“Poison! Stop talking rubbish! My babies have no poison to match what those fools have in their bodies. The headman whose house you’re staying in, he murdered his new born baby girl her and buried just behind those mango trees about a week ago. He thinks no one saw him but one of my babies did. He told me everything…”

“Kemharn is not too far behind either. Drowned his first two wives before marrying his thirteen year old niece and then got rid of her too once someone else came along. This village may seem pretty to you but the people here are the filthiest you will ever find. Killers! Children of killers! No wonder my babies were sent here to clean up this mess. I had mercy for a year thinking they would change but I can’t wait any longer… my babies will take care of them starting from tomorrow… if you know what’s good for you, then you’ll take the bus out of here…today…”

Sitting in my musty cubicle up on the fifth floor of my government office I tried my level best to drown myself in the files I was going through. Nothing was working. My mind kept taking me back to that encounter in the mango garden and a story that appeared in our daily newspaper three days later. The headline went something like this: “Shocking deaths at Wahanadi: Snakes claim entire village…”

Death at a wedding…

“Guess what? I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to do it” he told us with a smile.
“You’re an idiot. You’ll regret this for the rest of your life asshole!” I retorted, then burst out laughing at the sight of his face.
Bunty looked offended by my remark. “I’m sure he’s got that chick pregnant” Neel commented.
Well, his stupid remark then triggered off an exchange of insults between Bunty and Neel. Bunty, eventually mortified by the perverted insults Neel would come up with, would give up . Neel was invincible at these face-offs. His skill is best defined by an Anglo-Indian phrase, “no one could take his trip”. I could go on and on about our lack-of-life fights, but well it would take a decade. The three of us did have a lack in life, and many of our ex-girlfriends would agree.
Anyway, we were at our favourite tea-shop, near our office. Bunty had treated us so we knew he wanted something or he had done something wrong with one of our computers and wanted us to take the blame for it. The three of us worked at a call centre. Neel and I would handle the computers and the calls. Bunty, was an intern, and like most interns in our city, was in-charge of the supply of tea and cigarettes (We paid, of course. Bunty was always bumming).
Enough background information, back to the story now. I was in the middle of gulping down some tea when Bunty told me the news. “I’m going to run away and get married!” he exclaimed.
I spat my tea out at him. I know, it seems to surreal to be true bit I actually did that. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he screamed in protest.
I didn’t reply. I just realized he was being serious. “Bitch your getting married and you buy us the cheapest cigarettes you can lay your hands on?” said Neel.
I guess he still didn’t get that Bunty was actually being serious for once in his life. “You know I could have bought you some poison if you wanted to end your life. A marriage is pretty expensive, not to mention slow and excruciating” I said hotly.
The bloke was an idiot. He was barely twenty-three years old. Neel was twenty-one. “Look” he said making sure we were paying attention. It worked. Neel was quiet which meant he was being serious now. His face suddenly looked impassive. “I’m doing this whether you want me to or not. You can be friends and support me or be the usual dicks you’ll are and joke about it. I love this girl with all my heart” he said before storming out, slamming our table for a melodramatic effect.
The cheap idiot didn’t even pay the bill! In spite of that I felt bad for him. I knew how people could make impulsive decisions when they were in love. I also knew how it could ruin their life. “What do you think man?” I asked Neel.
“Don’t know. I mean how can he get married? He barely earns enough to buy proper cigarettes every day. Have you seen the cheap shit he smokes?” The three of us were chain smokers and could convert money into cigarettes in a jiffy.
“Look man either way we aren’t his parents, we have to help him instead of judging him” I said, sounding unconvinced by my own words. How right was this entire ‘wedding’? What if Bunty had children? Would he be able to feed them? Get them into a good school? All I knew was that Bunty was going through a tough time and needed us. I didn’t know at that time that these questions did not need answering. Bunty was going to run away with his wife the very same day forever. Only instead of running to his parent’s house as planned, his misadventures were taking another route.

*

The funeral, like any other funeral, was a sad one. Bunty's parents were crying. His dead wife’s parents had not come to the funeral out of fear. There were a lot of Bunty's relatives who refused to bury the axe, and were still seeking revenge. Neel paid his tribute to Bunty by singing a song, tears slithering down his cheeks as the words flowed out of his lips enchanting everyone, making the moment all the more special.
I looked at the coffin, at my old friend that lay there now. The blood from his wounds no longer tarnishing the jovial friend we would remember. I still remember Joseph recounting his death, his eyes moist and even dreamed of it for several nights. “I won’t let her go”. He challenged the crowd of angry relatives, “I will die trying to marry her”. I see the crowd beating him, tearing him away from his beloved Mariam. I hear him shouting a loud “No” and occasionally her name. After the crowd was done beating him, I see my old friend, with just a whisper of life left in him. He struggles, as he manages to utter one last word, her name, before he lets the angels take him away. I also dream of Mariam. I see her pouring the oil over her. Before she lights it with the lighter Bunty had used to light hundreds of cigarettes, she smiles and says, “Patience, I’ll be with you soon”. Even Death failed to make her renounce her love. Her love was stronger than fear. Love was a virtue worthy of God himself. What could mere mortals do to separate two lovers?

*

I walked out of the church, the sun shining in my eyes. I had just realized my old friend was dead. Killed because of an old tradition, a tradition so ancient and so stubborn, it had damned progress in our country. My friend had died for love.
Suddenly my phone beeped. An old girlfriend, I liked a lot just messaged me. “Hope you’re alright. Love you. Take care.” said the message. I thought a while before asking her to meet me. I would need a ring soon. My friend had died for love, I would live for it. Before leaving the church for the ring shop, I smiled. “For you old friend, this one’s for you” I thought. Thinking that, I walked away. Bunty freed me.