The Zoo Revisited

Dear dedicated reader,

Despite the departure of the monsoon rains, our house and the surrounding environs are beginning to resemble a zoo once more. In the absence of the constant, beating rain, the dry ground insects seem to have multiplied and insistently find their way into our house, our furniture, our food and our beds via cracks in the windows, screens, floors, and doors. Even as I write this, I can occasionally feel the tickle of their tiny legs on my neck or on the back of my leg and I frantically try and swat them away before they sink their malicious pincers into my tender skin.

The reduced water level of the Tapi river has also brought new problems. There was a knock on the door yesterday and when I answered, one of the 7^th standard hostel boys said to me calmly, “Snack, teacher. Snack.” I looked around outside as he retreated down the steps, wondering what the snack could possibly be. Perhaps ladoo, an Indian sweet, for the festival?

Then, I spotted it. The reason for the knock.

“You mean SNAKE!” I yelled correctively after him in horror as I watched the long, slithering form writhing in the hand of the snake catcher fearlessly heading for his bike. A crowd of the hostel boys had gathered and they cackled at my obvious discomfort. I hid behind a pillar as the “snack” went by.

Later that evening, I was sitting on the porch reading when I noticed the principal standing in the middle of another group of boys which had formed on the far side of the yard. He motioned from afar for me to come over. I obliged, leaving the relative security of my porch and heading across the school yard. As I got closer, he waved his hands to indicate that I should give the growing crowd a wide berth and join him up on the raised ledge on the edge of the yard. He was peering curiously down into one of the brick basins which encases the palm trees which line the outer boundaries of the school courtyard.

As I hoisted myself up next to him, he said simply, “Come, look there!” and pointed into the basin itself.

As I looked down, I gasped. It was just as I had seen in the movies: a small snack, hissing, gathered in a coil, its hooded head raised straight up in the air.

“A toxic snake,” the principal stated seriously. “It is small, but it is very, very dangerous.”

I took a step back. “It’s a cobra?” I asked, timidly, unable to take my eyes away from the spectacle.

“Yes,” he replied, “it’s a baby.”

“And if it bites?” I asked.

“You must go to the hospital,” he replied. “But you cannot delay, even for 10 minutes. If you delay half an hour, it will be too late, even from a small bite.” I nodded, taking in this tidbit of information.

Another snake handler was summoned and was able to lift the snake out of the basin using a long stick like instrument with a set of moveable pincers on the end that held the snake far away from the body. As he lifted it out, there was a collective gasp from the group of gathered boys and everyone gave an instinctive, synchronized step back. The snake handler, gingerly taking the snake by it’s head, forced it to open it’s mouth and take the end of its tail between its fangs, so that it formed a loop. Like this, he carried it out.

After its departure, as we walked back to the house, I asked the principal if the snake would be killed.

“No,” he said, thoughtfully. “They will take it to the jungle and set it free.” I mad a face. “Far from here,” he added quickly with a smile. Then he continued, slowly and purposefully, “You see, this is why I tell you to close your doors tightly. If you are not careful, it can slither inside and hide in your home. You must be careful.”

It was only today, however, that I learned this lesson in earnest.

This afternoon, Melissa and I were sitting in the main room of our house, lazily using the last day of the Navratri festival to spoil ourselves by watching episode after episode of the TV on DVD that I brought with me to keep us amused. School had been cancelled unbeknownst to us and so with our planning completed it seemed like the time for such an indulgence. Our dinner of parathas and daal had been put on the table in the usual blue lidded containers (all of our food comes from the hostel), but since it was a little early, we had decided to wait and eat it later.

Leaning forward to advance the DVD to the next episode of the show, I noticed with some puzzlement a dark, hairy hand undoing the lid of our dinner containers and reaching in for a parantha. Assuming that someone (perhaps the watchman) had come in the backdoor of the kitchen but unable to see the owner of the hand from my current position, I rose and walked a few steps towards the kitchen to greet them. As I got closer, I couldn’t help but scream.

Sitting on the table, a paratha in each hairy hand, was a huge, dark faced, yellow haired monkey, staring at me with unblinking eyes!

Instinct took over as I screamed “MONKEY!” to alert Melissa as I took to my heels and ran out the front door of the house.

“Oh God!” Melissa shouted and followed me out. I didn’t stop running until I was all the way out in the courtyard. The real guard, alerted by our screams, came rushing over and asked us in Hindi what was wrong. Even the hostel boys who had been placidly been playing volleyball stopped their game to stare at us.

“A monkey…” I managed to say in Hindi, pointing at the house.

“A monkey is inside?” He asked me quizzically.

I nodded frantically. “Please look?” I said pleadingly. He grabbed his long stick and set off for the house. As he got to the gate, he stopped and pointed at the roof of the principal’s house. There was the criminal himself, parathas still in hand, sitting and peacefully nibbling on the edge of one of them while his long, ugly tail hung down over the edge of the roof. I scowled at him. He scowled back.

The guard merely laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“You should –“ He began.

“Keep our doors closed,” I said, still scowling. “Yes… we should.”

Best,
Cat