Civilisation

Ar Khanu bhau! Mara, Mara! Kill it! Smash it! In a flash of liquid movement a small snake, no more than eight inches long, shot out from under the pile of bricks. Its head was raised, poised and steady as it flowed across the dusty earth, displaying a vivid sulphur-yellow throat. Within seconds it was dead- crushed, flattened and broken. The construction crew danced around the small lifeless thing, occasionally darting forward to smash at it with stones and heavy sticks. Finally, egged on by the others, Mottiram (younger brother of the foreman Moria) gingerly picked the little dead thing up by its tail and raised it in triumph. The crooked, broken, dull-grey body dangled limply from his hand, barely recognisable as the picture of fluid grace I had marvelled at seconds before. But... What was it? I asked in my pidgin Marathi, Was it a poisonous one? Ar baba! Too dangerous, that one, they assured me solemnly, OK now, though. No problem now. Quite dead. Khattum. I looked at the tiny smashed corpse as Mottiram flung it into the bushes. Yes, I decided, I think we can safely assume its dead. We turned back to the bricklaying, the construction crew loud in their relief and excitement, congratulating each other over the great danger they had faced and conquered. For my part, the incident had left an unpleasant taste in my mouth. Had the snake really been so dangerous? Was such brutal destruction of a beautiful living thing really necessary? I resolved to look up in my books when I got back to the hut. I was four months into my one year contract with the Maharashtra State Development Corporation. The building programme had not started well. Id had to deal with broken-down trucks, lack of water and bureaucratic nightmares (on a scale unimaginable outside the sub-continent) that involved either spending two full days in an office in Bombay getting permits for fifteen tons of government-quota cement , or paying twice the price on the black market for cement bags which when they arrived turned out to be

stamped Government quota: Maharashtra State Development Corporation. In fact the one positive feature of the job so far was the aspect I had been most apprehensive about- the workforce. An essential condition for landing this contract had been that I employ only local tribal youth. These were the Adewasi. None, I soon discovered, had any formal training, perhaps one in ten spoke a little Hindi (none spoke English), perhaps one in a hundred was literate. They were a jungle-dwelling people whose jungle had been converted into a million teak coffee tables in a million Western sittingrooms. They werent building workers, and I wasnt a bleeding-heart VSO missionary. This job, i decided, was going to be hell, even if it was going to cost me next to nothing in wages. The reality was very different. They were turning out to be one of the best workforces Id ever used: good-humoured, quick to learn and with a strength and stamina that left even me breathless. They also had in Moria one of the best foreman I had ever worked with. No older than the others, Moria nevertheless exercised a quiet but absolute authority. He led by example and demanded high standards. Though he laughed and joked with the rest on an apparently equal footing and took his turn (as I did) at all the worst jobs, when a decision had to be made it was Moria the rest looked to. Perhaps most surprisingly, it had taken Moria very little time indeed to understand the complex and ever-changing demands of a big building site. Only five weeks into the project Id been called away to Bombay and ended up having to stay there for three days until I could finalise a transfer of funds. Knowing that problems were bound to have arisen, I came back expecting the site to be at a standstill. Nothing could have been further from the truth- Moria had coped admirably. The weather had turned hotter, causing the mortar to dry out quickly; Moria had arranged for it to be mixed in smaller batches to reduce wastage. He had recruited an army of small children from nearby Lobachiwadi to fetch water from the river to prevent the foundations from drying out and cracking. The carpenters had run out of quality timber for making door-frames; Moria had put them to making shuttering for pouring more foundations. I put up his wages there and then, to twelve rupees a day, and had to admire his cheek when he insisted I appoint his bumbling younger brother Mottiram deputy foreman on ten rupees. So now it was Moria I asked about the snake. His opinion, I knew, I could trust.

Moria, why did the men kill that snake? I asked, at our next smokebreak, It was so small, and it was running away. Ar baba! he laughed, Why did we kill that one? Too, too dangerous. Thats why. That beast is (and here he said a word I did not understand.) Is it so poisonous? I asked. No, not poisonous. That one... he struggled to put into words that I would understand, That one will crawl into your ear when you are asleep and will steal your spirit, and the others who had crowded around tutted and shook their heads in solemn agreement. One day, he added, I will take you to Bharku Patel. He will tell you. That afternoon, as soon as the crew had set off in the scorching sun for their various villages I hunted through the selection of mainly technical books on my makeshift shelves. I found Reptiles of the Indian Subcontinent: Learning to live with snakes and lizards. This delightful volume, which I had picked up for three rupees in Bombays Choor Bazaar, opened with the following unequivocal statement: Of all the snakes of India, only three; the cobra (p.12), the crait (p.14) and the viper (p.16) are dangerous. Though ignorant native superstitions abound concerning the deadly powers of other species, these have universally been found to be without any foundation in fact. Colonel Frazer Mulholland D.S.O. M.B.E., it seemed, had no doubt in the matter. Whilst the little snake I had seen was not specifically listed (the book was only 40 pages thick) it was clearly not one of the big three and thus in Colonel Mulhollands opinion was clearly not poisonous. The last chapter of the book was entitled Confronting Native Superstitions and featured a slightly blurred photograph of the worthy Colonel, dressed in safari suit and pith helmet, holding aloft a live rat snake, much to the wonderment of a group of village children. The book amused me, but it also set me thinking. The native tribals had won my respect and admiration in many things, but this irrational fear of snakes was clearly the result of ignorance and superstition. The next day I tackled Moria on the subject of snakes, but he said only that he would take me to see Bharku-Patel and would not discuss the matter further. I must admit I rather forgot my indignation for a time after that, and when three weeks later Moria asked me if I wanted to go and see his uncle Bharku, I was temporarily at a loss to know what he was talking about. We set off that afternoon, crossing the burning black rocks of the dried up

riverbed. Moria led the way along what had once been a jungle path, and now meandered through the thorny shrubs, parched ground and bleached white stumps of the massacred teak forest. We walked for miles, past Paraywadi and Ambviuli, further than I had ever been before. Here and there we came across pockets of real forest that the loggers had not levelled. Tall, stately teak trees towered above us, as well as countless other species whose names Moria reeled off, explaining their various medicinal and other properties. I was impressed at his botanical knowledge and said so, but he shrugged off my admiration dismissively. Any child could tell you such things, he said, even those who had never seen any true jungle. Bharku-Patel, it seemed, was the real expert on these and other matters. Moria was in fact making this trip to consult his uncle concerning his cousins sister-in-law, who was sick and needed some of Bharkus medicine. Bharku-Patels residence, when we arrived at last, was a hut like any other. We stepped up onto the small veranda and sat down. Moria called out, Ho! Bharku mama! There was a mumbling from within the hut, then silence. We waited. Moria offered me a beedi and we sat in silence smoking. A few small children from neighbouring huts gathered round and squatted on the ground at a respectful distance, watching. Eventually the bamboo curtain in the doorway parted and Bharku-Patel came out. He was a very tall man and still upright in his stance, despite his apparent great age. His face, though ravaged by time, still commanded attention. His nose was imperious, majestic. His eyes, though bulging and rheumy, were bright- equally capable of twinkling with merriment or burning with commanding power. Perhaps most prominent of all were his false teeth. Startling in their magnificence, these imposing items were unfortunately rather too large even for Bharku-Patel, rendering his speech almost incomprehensible. For the rest, he wore a black waistcoat and string vest over the traditional tribal loincloth. Paradoxically, by comparison with Morias Bombay-made tailored polyester shirt and tight cotton shorts, these ancient relics of the British Raj made Bharku look still more ethnic. I felt as if David Attenborough might appear around the corner at any minute. Bharku-Patel sat down opposite us, folding his long, impossibly thin legs beneath him, and turned to Moria. The consultation was long, involved and to me entirely incomprehensible. The combination of Bharkus oldfashioned Marathi and astonishing false teeth was too much for my fledgling

grasp of the language. Even Moria was speaking faster and with more complicated vocabulary than I could easily follow, and I soon gave up. Above Bharkus head on a series of shelves was ranged the most extraordinary collection of items. As they talked on I stared in fascination. The resemblance to a David Attenborough documentary was growing. These presumably were his medicines, in which case picturesque old Bharku-Patel could only be described as a witch-doctor! I was enthralled- there were dried up snakes and lizards, strange tangled roots, tiny skulls, pickled scorpions. I fully expected to see eye of newt and toe of frog. The conversation ceased, and without rising, the old man turned to his unconventional medicine cabinet. He handed Moria a small packet, and I understood him to say that he would visit the patient in two weeks. By this time I felt less than inclined to take the old voodoo quack seriously, but he clearly carried some authority with the villagers, so when he turned to me I asked him straight out whether he approved of a small snake which had no venom in its jaws being smashed to death because people were afraid of it. There was a silence while he digested this question (which perhaps had not been as fluently or as clearly expressed as it is here) an then, with Moria acting as interpreter where necessary, he gave me the benefit of his wisdom. Men and women are prone to many ailments, he said. Some are serious, others minor. Some can easily be prevented, as diarrhoea is prevented by boiling ones drinking water, or fevers by eating the bitter gourd. Ailments of the body, as bronchitis or malaria, can generally be cured... Here I could not control my impatience. Malaria, I interrupted, could not be easily cured, though quinine and so on could help prevent it. Bharku merely looked at me with pity, and shook his head sadly. Ailments of the spirit, he continued, often cannot be treated. The spirit wastes away until the patient is without reason or understanding. Did such ailments not exist in my country, and were they not greatly feared? Of course, I answered, There are even special doctors for such conditions. I tried to explain the Western attitude to, and theories about mental illness, but my Marathi was not up to it, and to tell the truth, I realised that I didnt actually know much about it either. In our country, proclaimed Bharku solemnly, such ailments are caused by the snake you describe, amongst other things. Hence it is right to kill this snake, for should not such a terrible affliction be prevented wherever possible?

But thats just... and again I struggled to express myself, frustration and anger making me more incoherent than ever, Thats just superstition. How can a little snake cause such things? Its all just nonsense. Bharku-Patel was smiling and his rheumy eyes twinkled, In your Bible is there not some story about a snake also? he asked, and had to clap his hand to his mouth to stop his false teeth from escaping as he chuckled quietly to himself. On the long walk home I fumed with frustration and annoyance. That old phoney was just perpetrating infantile superstitious fears and actively encouraging the wanton destruction of innocent reptiles. His stories and mumbo-jumbo medical theories were all very ethnic and colourful, but the smashing, the desecration of the once beautiful creature I had seen that day had not been picturesque. It had been brutal and irrational. These people were just as backward and superstitious as I had ever imagined. Some days later I was dozing off in the heat of the afternoon under the thorn tree outside my hut when I was awoken by a dry rustling. From a heap of dry leaves appeared a flickering tongue, then a head. Smooth, olive green with a startling black eye, it was a rat snake- I recognised it from the book. Smoothly it slid from its hiding place and with sinuous grace glided across the cleared area where I lay, to a tuft of dead grass on the other side. It was about six feet long, and magnificent in its lithe beauty. It had passed within a yard of my head. In that moment I decided that if I ever saw that that snake again I would catch it and keep it as apet. Just like good old Colonel Mulholland, Id show these people that you dont have to fear snakes, and smash them into the ground. You can learn to live with them. Unfortunately the following afternoon I came down with malaria- a bad attack. Id stopped taking my anti-malaria tablets, figuring that no mosquito could survive the summer in this now barren, treeless land. No doubt it had been my brief trip into the real jungle that had done the trick. Malaria is nasty, whatever anyone tells you. For hours I seemed to get colder and colder, despite the blankets and clothes I piled around me. I felt weak and lethargic, and when I started suddenly to feel hot, did not have the strength to push the covers off. I lost contact with reality for a while and suddenly old Bharku-Patel was squatting over me, a lantern in one hand, a cup in the other. Drink, he spluttered through his extravagant false teeth, and raised the cup to my lips. At the first sip I had to turn and throw up, my stomach

retching painfully. The stuff was incredibly, appallingly bitter, but he was adamant. Neem leaves, he said, for malaria. Drink. I was too weak to resist and drank it down. Oddly, my last sensation before I sank back into sleep was a delicate sweetness filling my mouth. I slept well and the following day felt fine, but then Id expected that. The day after was when I expected the attack to recur and I took that day off work in anticipation. Id had experience of malaria before, and this bout seemed a particularly nasty one. I went and lay under the thorn tree and waited, but nothing happened. I felt clear headed, alert and quite healthy. At about three oclock Bharku-Patel turned up with another cup of the neemleaf brew. In case it has come back, he said. I explained that I was OK and he grunted with quiet satisfaction. He asked me solicitously if I wanted the drink anyway and I declined hastily. We sat in companionable silence for a while. I found it hard to summon up any indignation for a person who had saved me from what I knew from previous experience would have been several bouts of pure hell. I had to admit that there was no doubt. His mumbo-jumbo medicine had worked, on this occasion at least. Suddenly the old man stiffened, his eyes fixed on a pile of twigs at the edge of the clearing and his hand tightened on the heavy stick he carried. I followed his stare, and there, emerging from its hiding place was the familiar olive-green head and startling bright black eye. As more of the snakes lithe body slid into the open I saw Bharkus whole body become tense. I burst into laughter at the old fools superstitiousness and was about to explain that this was only a harmless rat snake when his old gnarled hand stopped me with an imperious gesture. Watch, he hissed in an impressive whisper. Slowly and with infinite care he raised his stick, then jerked it towards the snake, now completely clear of the twigs and sunning itself peacefully on the bare ground. And suddenly, in a movement too fast for my eye to follow, its head reared up. From either side of its neck two previously hidden flaps of skin flew out to form the hood of a cobra, the deadliest reptile on the Indian subcontinent. It swayed its head from side to side and Bharku, body rigid, followed it with his eyes. I could not breathe. I recalled that I had read that the venom of the cobra was a neurotoxin and could kill within thirty seconds.

Quick, I whispered hoarsely, Do something! Hit it! Kill it! The old man did not answer but continued to stare at the snake. After a few moments (that seemed like hours) the beast lowered its hood, withdrew its flaps, and became again the harmless rat snake from the Colonel Mulholland picture. It crawled back into the undergrowth. Bharku-Patel turned to me and spoke, and there was severity in his voice and a majestic dignity in his ancient face. That was Cobra, he said, The king of snakes. Cobra is sacred, and in our country we do not kill what is sacred, we respect it, and learn to live with it.