Day of the Snake: 8 Things about India and Snakes

Naga Panchami, though not one of the major festivals of Hinduism, is celebrated in most parts of the country. There are several tales and folklore connected with the festival. The Nagas or the serpents are also an important part of Hindu Mythology and literature.

1) The Sarpasattra of Janamejaya

The Mahabharata, one of the two great Indian epics is structured as layers of stories that are set, one inside the other. The outermost layer of the epic which is the latest layer chronologically is the narration of the epic by the bard, Ugrashrava Suta to the sages at a hermitage by the name of Naimisharanya. Suta narrates the story as he heard it at the great snake sacrifice of Janamejaya, the great-grandson of the Pandavas, who are the protagonists of the epic. The story of Janamejaya and his father Parikshit, forms the second layer of the epic. After Parikshit is killed by the snake, Takshaka, Janamejaya performs a great sacrifice that lasts many years in which all the snakes or Nagas as they are known are sacrificed. As the sages utter the mantras, the snakes are drawn to the sacrificial fire. However, Takshaka, known for his cunning, is difficult to catch. As the sacrifice continues, Janamejaya requests the aging seer, Vyasa to narrate his creation, the Mahabharata, the tale of the Pandavas and Dhartarashtras, cousins and descendants of Bharata, during the intervals in the sacrifice. Vyasa nominates his disciple, Vaishampayana to narrate the epic in his stead and it this narration that Suta hears and reproduces. As the narration ends, Takshaka is finally trapped and as he is drawn to the fire, a young sage named Astika requests or demands, depending on the version of the story, that the sacrifice be stopped. Takshaka is thus saved from total destruction. The day on which this incident happens is the fifth day of the waxing moon in the month of Shravana. This day is celebrated in many parts of India as Naga Panchami.

2) The Farmer's Daughter and the Snake

Once, there was a farmer, the story goes, who had two sons and a daughter. One day as the sons were plowing the field, they inadvertently killed three baby snakes. The mother snake, discovering her dead children, was filled with the fire of revenge. That night as the farmer and his family slept, the snake slid into his house and killed all of them except the daughter with her poisonous bite. The daughter somehow escaped with her life. The next day, the snake returned for the daughter, but this time, the daughter prayed to the snake with utmost devotion, offering her apologies and explaining her brothers' inadvertent mistake. To pacify the snake, she fed it milk and so the snake, satisfied by her efforts, not only let her live, but revived her family as well.

This tale seems to be at the base of customs and traditions followed in several parts of the country, where the sister prays for her brother's safety. On the this day, an image of a snake is made either with rice flour or some other kind of flour or with rangoli, and it is symbolically fed milk, again placed in a small bowl of rice flour. An image of the snake, in earth, wood or auspicious metal, is also bathed in an abhisheka ritual and given offerings and fed. Another symbol of the snake maybe a part of an anthill or even mud from an anthill as anthills are common snake lairs. In many parts of the country, women pour milk directly into the anthills. There is also custom where siblings touch a drop of milk to the front and back of other siblings as a symbol of protection. Symbolically this is the same milk that the snake deity has had and thus marks the person as being protected from snakes.

3) Krishna and Kalinga

Most Hindu's are familiar with the tale of Krishna and the serpent, Kalinga. Kalinga is a snake that has poisoned the watering holes of Brindavan and the boy, Krishna defeats the serpent and banishes him to the netherworld making the waters safe for consumption. This tale lends itself to an oft repeated motif of Hindu art and sculpture, the image of a young Krishna dancing on the wide spread hood of Kalinga. This event is supposed to have happened on the same day as the Naga Panchami.

4) Snakes and Milk

While traditionally Indians celebrate the festival by symbolically offering milk to snakes, snakes themselves being reptiles, do not drink milk unless they are severely dehydrated. Reptiles unlike mammals neither produce milk, nor are capable of digesting milk or dairy products and these may actually be harmful to them.

Nevertheless snakes drinking milk is a common motif not just in mythology, folklore and art, but is also an image that found its way into several movies, especially in stories connected to snakes.

5) Nagas, the mythical snake creatures

Nagas are one of the several tribes or races that occur commonly in Hindu mythology and literature. Said to possess magical powers such as shape shifting the Nagas are portrayed often in both positive and negative light.

The Nagas are sons of Kashyapa and Kadru and half-brothers to the great eagles, Garuda and Aruna. Garuda who serves as the vehicle of Vishnu is also known as the great serpent eater, whereas his elder brother Aruna is said to drive the chariot of Surya. Aruna is none other than the planet of Mercury.

Adi Shesha, the eldest of the Nagas performs penance and becomes a disciple of Vishnu. He makes himself the bed on which Vishnu rests and he fans out his hood to shade the god. Balarama, Krishna's elder brother is also said to be an incarnation of Adi Shesha.

Other famous or powerful Nagas are Vasuki, who is used as a churning rope during the churning of the milk ocean; Nahusha, a great Naga king; Karkotaka who plays a part in the grand story of Nala and Damayanti; and the two Naga chieftains, Kauravya and Dhritarashtra. Another Naga who is connected to the epics is Iravan, the son of Arjuna, the Pandava and Ulupi, the sister of the Naga, Vasuki.

6) Snakes in other forms

The snake apart from being synonymous with the shape-shifting magical Naga people is also connected with other Hindu gods. While Vishnu rests on Adi Sesha, Shiva uses the cobra as an ornament tying it to his neck and is always portrayed with a cobra, hood raised, around his neck. Ganesha wears a snake around his expansive waist like a belt. Indra, the king of the gods is said to have destroyed the great snake king Vritra, who had held the rivers captive in his coils. Subrahmanya, a son of Shiva is said to personify the snakes in many parts of South India. Interestingly and paradoxically, his mount, the peacock is often portrayed as holding a snake in its talons.

These motifs of the snake traveled with the Hindu and Buddhist religions to several parts of the world such as Sri Lanka, Tibet, Burma, Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, Laos, Cambodia and the Philippines, where they are a commonly occurring figure in art and sculpture.

7) The Nagas in History

Several tribes and castes of India connect themselves with the mythical Nagas of Hindu epics. At least two powerful dynasties who called themselves Nagas have ruled parts of ancient India. They are the Nagas of Vidisha in Central India who probably ruled during the first century BCE and the Nagas of Padmavati, who ruled during the third and fourth century in areas that today straddle the borders between the Indian states of Madhya Pradesh and Rajasthan.

There are several castes which identify themselves with the Nagas or with servant worship, such as the Naga Rajputs of North-western India and the Nairs and Ezhavas of Kerala.

Nagas are also an ethnic group of Sino-tibetan descent, in northeastern India, who today have their own state of Nagaland.

8) Snakes in India

There are more than a hundred species of snakes found in India, but the most famous among those are the cobras. Of the cobras, the Spectacled or Indian Cobra, whose scientific name is Naja naja, is the most depicted with its distinctive hood markings. Other cobras are the monocled cobra, the black cobra and the snake-eating King cobra.

There are other snake species in India which are as poisonous if not more, than the feared cobras. These are the kraits and the vipers; the Russell's viper is one of the most venomous and feared snakes of India.

Rebellion in the South

Crack! Crack!

Sounds rang out in the quiet night.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Lady Amelia and her husband were woken up by another report. John got out of the bed and hurriedly walked in the dark towards the window in his dresser, his eyes adjusting themselves to the darkness. Amelia watched him throw open the window and shout "Who is there? What is afoot at this hour of night?" More gunfire sounded in reply, startling her out of her body. John stumbled across the room to the door. He looked at her once, and even in the darkness, she discerned that he was telling her with his gaze to remain abed; and he walked out. She heard his steps thudding down the stairs. In spite of the warm night, she drew the covers to her chin as she was shuddering ever so slightly and leaned back against the headboard to wait for him. The door opened after what seemed like an hour to her, but was only minutes, and John walked in. He asked her to get a light as he sat down at the wide table which he used as a study. Lighting a short wax candle, Amelia walked across to place the candle on the table. As he raised his head, his eyes met hers and she saw that he had gone pale, and in his eyes she saw something she had never seen before, a hint only, of fear.

It was the night of the tenth day of July, 1806 in Vellore, a quiet town on the banks of the Palar river. A mutiny had broken out in the fort of Vellore, of which Colonel John Fancourt was the commandant. The fort itself, built in 1566 by the erstwhile kings of Vijayanagara, had passed through several owners including the Maratha Nayaks, the Mughals, the Nawabs of Arcot, and the Sultans of Mysore. It was known for being one of those forts that were nearly impregnable and a couple of decades earlier, Hyder Ali, the king of Mysore had laid a futile seige to it. On June 9, 1806, the marriage of Badr-un-Nissa, the daughter of the late king of Mysore, Tipu Sultan, had taken place in the fort and several of the sepoys had assembled for the feast. Unusually, most of the sepoys had spent the night in the fort, for there was to be a parade in the morning.

The Vellore Mutiny happened more than half of a century before the rebellion of 1857, which is famous as the First War of Indian Independence. While the events of 1857 were without doubt a watershed event in Indian history, as they resulted in India being taken over from the East India Company by the British Crown, it was by no means, the first sign of resistance to the British. The phrase "First War of Independence" lends an image of Indians having been subjugated completely prior to the said war. In reality, the British had never really conquered the whole of India, although by 1857, they certainly controlled almost the whole of it. The 'conquest' of the East India company was a long drawn out process of several decades as they cajoled, threatened, bought off, persuaded, forced or even killed the kings and princes of the Indian sub-continent until most of India was directly or indirectly under their rule. But this process was not without bloodshed or resistance.

The British fought several wars in India in the century leading up to 1857 including the Carnatic Wars of the 1760s; four Anglo-Mysore Wars spanning as many decades from 1760 to 1799 against the father and son rulers of Mysore, Hyder Ali and Tipu Sultan; three wars against the most powerful federation or political power of the time, the Marathas; and two wars against the Sikh Empire of Ranjit Singh. The First Anglo-Maratha conflict incidentally, occured in the same years as the colonies of the New World rose against the crown in the American Revolutionary War. Apart from the wars, there were many rebellions as well as princes, chieftains and sometimes the native sepoys and soldiers employed by the British rose against their paymasters. These include the rebellion by Puli Thevar, the guerrilla war in the hill country of Wayanad led by Kerala Varma Pazhasi Raja, the rebellion of Rani Velu Nachiyar, the Velu Thampi rebellion, the Polygar Wars of Veerpandiya Kattabomman, the Paika Rebellion in Odisha, the Barrackpore rebellion and the resistance offered by Rani Chennamma of Kittur. Each of these and several others are locally well known, but their fame varies in the wider landscape of Indian history.

The Vellore Mutiny had some similarities to 1857. The immediate reasons were religious as in 1857. The native soldiers had been prohibited from wearing religious marks on their forehead and ordered to trim their moustaches and beards, hurting the sentiments of both Muslim and Hindu sepoys. In the month of May, two soldiers were given a severe lashing in Vellore for disobeying the orders, and surely just as the hanging of Mangal Pandey in 1857 had caused tensions to boil over, so did the punishment to these unknown soldiers. Thirdly, there was royalty involved, although their eagerness to participate is as questionable as that of Bahadur Shah Zafar, the aging Mughal monarch. These were the sons of Tipu Sultan, the ruler of Mysore against whom the British had fought a series of hard battles. Tipu had been killed in 1799, and the crown of Mysore had been restored by the British to the Wodeyars, the traditional rulers of Mysore who were for the time being vassals of the British. Tipu's sons had been living in Vellore under British pension and the rebels declared Fateh Hyder, Tipu's second son as king and rose the flag of the Mysore Sultanate over Vellore.

The similarities however end there. Lady Amelia's account is the only surviving eye witness account of the rebellion which lasted barely a day. At two in the night, the Indian sepoys massacred their British officers as well as most of a British company of soldiers as they slept in their barracks. This was the sound that awoke Amelia and her husband, who had actually been sympathetic to the feelings and complaints of the native sepoys. He would be wounded in the fight for control of the fort and would not survive the day. By morning, news of the rebellion had reached Arcot, prompting Robert Rollo Gillespie, the commander at Arcot to rush with a large infantry force towards Vellore. Gillespie, with an advance force, scaled the fort with some help from the surviving British forces inside and led the charge against the Indian sepoys. The sepoys were beaten and caught and as many of hundred of them were summarily executed by lining them up against a wall and shooting them down. By the time the infantry arrived, the rebellion had almost broken and most of the Indian sepoys laid dying or dead.

The rebellion lasted a little over twelve hours and had ended by four in the afternoon on July 10, 1806. Lady Amelia had escaped from her house with three children, helped by an Indian Ayah and another Indian soldier who helped her and her children to hide in a stable. She was rescued by Gillespie's forces. The surviving rebels were court martialled and as many as eight of them were punished by being blown away by cannons, six were hanged and five were shot dead by firing squad. Robert Rollo Gillespie's exploits were praised by a British poet Harry Newbolt, in a poem. But the unknown, anonymous Indian soldiers who had risen against the British are not even as famous.

Today is the two hundred and sixteenth anniversary of the Vellore Rebellion.

Sources:

1. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vellore_mutiny

2. "India's Struggle for Independence" by Bipan Chandra

3. "The Last Mughal" by William Dalrymple

4. Lady Amelia's account 

http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/fancourt/sydney/fancourt.html

5. http://royalark.net/India4/tipu.htm

The Field

The farmer stood in the middle of the field and surveyed it with eyes full of hope. But, there was nothing there to soothe his anxiety. The land was as barren as ever, and none of the seeds that he had bought with the last of his savings had had the tenacity to break open the hard, unyielding soil and take root. He had been warned about it. Eager to own some land, the lifelong farm hand had dug into his savings and bought the land from Raja Sahib seventy-three days ago. Every one had warned him; the benevolent silver haired sarpanch had advised him patronizingly, the fat, bearded money lender had nodded his head and warned him in his bellowing voice, while his spare and stern wife looked at the farmer reproachfully from below her veiled head. Even the young Raja Sahib, his skin fair as milk had advised him against making the deal.

Standing there in the blazing sun, the farmer saw something he had not seen before. A piece of cloth lying buried in the soil. He walked over and tugged at it trying to pull it out. It was wedged tight in the dry, baked earth. He dug into the earth and realized it was no scrap of cloth. It was larger than he thought. Using his spade, he dug around it and what he found astonished him.

The cloth was large, four feet wide and almost six feet long and striped in three colors. It was wrapping something else, a heavy wooden box. The farmer was suddenly afraid. He looked around to make sure that no one was seeing him. He carefully pulled the box out of the ground. He wanted to open it and see what was inside, but was too afraid to do it there, out in the open. He wrapped it again, in the coarse piece of cloth that he had found it in and wrapped his gamcha, his checkered towel again around it to take it home. Hoisting it on his shoulders, he began to walk back to his home on the edge of the village.

It was dark by the time he reached his small hut. At every step, he was afraid someone would call him out, someone would ask what he was carrying,  but on that day he came across no one. He lit up a soot filled lantern and stood it beside the box that he had laid on the ground. Sitting on his haunches, he unwrapped the two layers around the box and examined it. It was wood alright, but looked as if it was once shinier than it was now. The grain was tight and rich, and on the top engraved in the wood was the motif of a hand, holding a lotus. There were rusted steel clasps on one side that shut the lid, but no lock. He opened the clasps and tried to lift the lid, but it was shut tight with the mud and grime of ages. A few whacks of his hand did not work in knocking away the caked earth, but the kitchen knife did the trick. The seemingly years-old mud was chiselled away with the sharp point of the knife, and he tried to lift the lid again. This time, it opened. Staring at the contents of the box he leaned back on the ground. 

Inside the box were two compartments. In one there was a bundle of sacred thread, dipped in turmeric and vermilion, along with a janaeu, the sacred thread of the pandits; a pair of wooden scales; arrows about three feet long, with hard metal points; and a square piece of leather. In the other was a bundle wrapped in silk cloth, checkered in saffron and green. He took everything out and laid them on the ground in a neat row. Untying the knot of the silk bundle, he found that it carried a dagger with a rusty blade and a few round metal coins that were equally rusty. Not knowing what to do, he sat in front of the box, forgetting to take his food, forgetting his field and his fears, his mind ticking to find a way that he could use this newly discovered treasure.

Late in the night, when the last lights of the village had blinked asleep and the oil in his lantern was running out, causing the thin flame to dance, a thought suddenly struck him. He took out the dusty, rusty dagger and the coins and held them to the light, where they glimmered softly in the glow of the sooted lantern. Leaving his treasure, he filled the lantern with oil from a can with the picture of a book on it. He brought a vessel of water and a cloth and, dipping the cloth in the water, he wiped the blade in the wet cloth and the rust came off staining the cloth red. But it wasn't the red of rust, he realized, for the blade was now shining, it's edge as keen, and as sharp as ever. No rust would come off so easily, and certainly, no rusted blade would be as sharp as this one unless it was sharpened for several minutes. He wiped the metal coins and as they clinked back to the ground, he recognized the unmistakable shimmer of gold. A shiver ran down his spine, even as sweat broke on his brow, as he realized that what he thought was rust had been blood. Hastily he put them all back in the box, all the contents and shut the lid, willing the cursed box to disappear. The farmer was a practical man in his dealings and in his life, but he was also god-fearing, and believed in ghosts and evil spirits and curses and spells. 

Breathing heavily, he walked to the corner, where on a wooden shelf, was a photo of Ganesh, the Lord of Obstacles, flanked by Lakshmi, the Goddess of Wealth and Saraswati, the Goddess of Knowledge. With trembling hands, he lit a diya to the gods and prayed silently to them. As he was praying, he suddenly knew what to do with the cursed box.

He made a large bonfire in his backyard and hurled the thing into the flames. Lying on his charpoy, his stringed bed, a few feet away from the blazing fire, he watched for a while mesmerized, as the heat sent sparks of blazing ember into the dark, dark night above, until sleep and exhaustion over came him.  When he awoke, it was late in the morning and the sun was high overhead. The fire had died out and all that was left was ash and melted lumps of metal. Taking a small wooden pot, he gathered the ashes and the lumps of metal into them and tied the mouth of the pot with a piece of cloth. 

Making himself a thin, weak gruel, which he devoured in no time, he took the pot and walked to the cross-roads of the village. At this time of the day, people were milling about and a few nodded at him or said "Ram Ram!" He replied back politely, and no one prodded further, except Balwant Nai's nosy kids who pestered him to tell them what he was carrying. He swatted at them playfully until they made a run for it. At the cross-roads, the bus to the town was on time, he paid five rupees to the conductor and sat staring out of the window, the pot of burnt treasure, clutched tightly in his hands.

The old bus reached the blustering and busy town, honking and sending great billows of smoke. Alighting, he made straight for the ghats of the river that flowed through the town. He washed his hands and refused the pandits who came asking him if he wished that they performed the last rites for his beloved departed, but he refused them. Some walked away morosely, others cursed his heartlessness, and yet others warned him that those whose soul rested in the pot would suffer forever in hell if the rites were not performed properly by a brahmin. Standing in the water, he emptied the contents of the pot into the river and let the current carry the pot away.

On the long bus journey home, the farmer smiled to himself several times, sighing softly and humming a tune to himself, much to the amusement of the passengers around him. He got off a couple of miles outside the village to take a path that led to his field. His shadow was long, and the sun was ready to dive into the earth when he reached the field. On the way home, he had made up his mind that he would try to sell the field; maybe some fool from town would buy it. What he saw as he reached the field, made him stop in his tracks. Wonder of wonders, the shoots had finally broken ground over night; tiny green leaves dotted the field in neat rows. The farmer ran over the field, inspecting them, stopping here and there, his eyes filled with tears. He sent a prayer to the gods and as the sun went down, sat on the edge of the field, wondering at the strange happenings. The only thing from the hidden treasure that he had saved was still lying in his hut; it was the piece of cloth that the box had been wrapped in. He had seen it before hoisted on a pole every year in the village school. The next day, he brought the flag to the field and hoisted it himself on a long pole, where it fluttered proudly.

A 55-word Story

That morning, the old man approached the noisy crowd. He went through the melee, gnarled hands pulling, thrusting as he tried to get his feeble body through the resistant, cursing mob and having crossed it, took a key to open the door to the shop that had a big sign in front of it. "SALE".

Hello!

Hello, old friend!

I'm so glad to see you now,

How the times have changed,

It feels like we are strangers,

But this is not the end,

Soon, something else will trend,

Or so, let us just pretend.

The world, will go on,

With us or without,

Undoubtedly, none of it will last,

Yet, we can move a little less faster,

Stop for a beat or two,

And just enjoy the view,

Maybe, we'll like it too.

Busy like bees,

Building up our own honeycomb,

Homes of unneeded luxuries,

Where we lavish ourselves feasting,

No riches will ever end,

Our pining for a good friend,

Or so, let us just pretend.

Lockdown Mornings

This is Day Fifty-four of the lock-down in India, due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Most of the country is shut down and several professionals, especially in the corporate sector and services are working from home.

Since I was a teenager, I have always been something of a night owl. Not for me, the 'early to bed early to rise' mantra. Sitting late at night, watching movies, reading books has always been an indulgence of sorts. But these couple of months have brought a change to all of that. Working from home has brought it's own challenges; endless phone calls, messages, and quick conferences, they all mean that during the daytime working hours, there is little room for a concentrated chunk of focused, continuous work time. Chasing this elusive mind-space, I started to get up early in the morning. I have heard it all before, of how early morning is a good time to work productively. I have always instinctively believed it even, but I had just been convincing myself that it was not for me. Old habits, they don't just die hard, they sort of convince you that they need not die as well. 

But as the habit is broken for now, or so I hope. Early mornings are a great time to work. I have a great space to work as well, a cozy study room with a work desk next to a window facing east, where as I work, I can see the colors of the morning wash away the night. Our home is an apartment that faces a rented accommodation for young working professionals. When I come in to work at around four or four thirty in the morning, the lights of the buildings outside the window are usually out, the bright yellow neon street lights still aglow. Sometimes one or two of the windows are lit, and I imagine some young professional who is an early riser; or maybe, he or she is, like I was during the younger days, someone who just goes to bed with the lights turned on as they doze off to sleep with a book to keep them company, under a nice, warm blanket.

Early mornings are great to work, when you know you have a couple of hours, before the rush of the daily routine. The mind is blank and uncluttered, especially if one can manage a few good hours of sleep, thoughts can be organized neatly, ideas can flow. Outside the window, from behind the eucalyptus trees, a hint of light slowly creeps up, giving birth to their silhouettes against a brightening sky. The color of the sky varies everyday here, from a dark violet to a rosy blush, to a flaming orange to a soft, mellow blue. For several minutes the orange glow of the street lights are brighter than the sky, as if they are daring the sun, putting up one last fight. But soon, you cannot tell if the street lights are on or off and the day has come.

Other creatures give me company as well. Birds of, I don't know, how many kinds coo and tweet their morning calls. Faraway a rooster crows at the coming morning. If I look out, I can sometimes see the early birds taking flight and they are as beautiful as they are at sunset, when they are returning to their nests. The morning azaan sounds at a mosque near by, as the priest calls he faithful to prayer and somewhere around this time, the sound of an odd vehicle rumbling through are heard from the main road which is a short distance away. The sun follows the brightening sky sometimes as a mere speck of dull light behind a mass of clouds, sometimes as a clear, bright disc of fire, but always beautiful to see. He climbs slowly but surely, higher and higher, and I can now see the bright glow in my peripheral vision and I know that it will soon be time for me to break my work as the morning routine begins. When the sun reaches the top of the eucalyptus tree, the trees in our apartment complex are in sunlight. As if on cue, the squirrels start to chirp, in their shrill calls, continuously. The sunlight is now hitting the screen of my computer and I get up to draw the curtains, and shut down the computer until I can get back to work after breakfast. 

The Room

She approached the unfamiliar door and nervously took the key from within the folds of her saree. She took a deep breath, unlocked the door, paused and then opened it. To her horror, she saw that the room was a mess.There was a bed in the center of the room with clothes strewn all over it; some of the clothes had spilled over to the floor. The doors of the closet at the far side of the room had been left ajar. The closet as well as the wall behind the bed were patched with posters of all kinds, taped on the surfaces. The glue had dried up, maybe ages ago on some of the tapes and the corners hanged in small and great arcs across the posters. The table was a mess of books and papers, stacked clumsily. From behind a particularly tall stack, a table lamp peeked out, it's head turned freakishly to the door, looking like it was staring at this new intruder into it's space. The chair was one of those old types with a backrest consisting of a wooden frame stringed with plastic, no armrests, and with a worn and threadbare cushion that lay skewed on the seat, half-out of the chair.

Manglamma sighed heavily. This room would take a lot of work to tidy up. She left her worn Hawaii chappals beside the bucket of water that she had hauled up to mop the room, and gingerly entered inside. It felt strange to her, that in the three years that she had worked in the house, she had never entered this room. It had not troubled her until this moment. But now, all the rumors that she had heard among the other maids rushed back into her mind.

For years, since her marriage, Manglamma had worked in a canteen in the city, washing vessels and cleaning the place. The pay was decent and the no one bothered her. Her drunkard of a husband had died seven years ago, leaving her with two children, a son who looked to be going the same way as the father, and a daughter, who was both bright and dutiful. Then, three years later, the canteen had shut and she was left to fend for herself. She had roamed around to find work at many places and finally was forced into working as a household maid. She worked hard all day and some employers were nice and some were not, but she got by. 

That was when she came to know of this house, located at the end of a street with vacant plots of land on all three sides. No maids would work there, for it was said that the old couple who lived there had lost their daughter ages ago in an accident. The accident, they said, happened after she had left the house in a huff over a misunderstanding with her father. The maids, the corporation sweepers and even the sly, old shopkeeper on the corner, believed, that her spirit still lived there.

Now, Manglamma, like many people who are busy making ends meet, had little time for Gods and even less for ghosts, though she was a very firm believer and traveled to her village far away in the countryside every three months to visit the shrine of Nagamma. But, when she heard the story about the old couple and then, when she heard about how much they were willing to pay a maid, she dismissed the stories about the ghost and the dead girl.

Old man, Srinathappa, was gruff and grumpy, often muttering to himself. Manglamma was sure that it was because he did this as he walked to the corner shop for groceries, that the neighborhood thought he was possessed by his daughter's spirit. But the couple paid a handsome salary, their house was tiny, and Srinathappa's wife, Jayanthi, was an efficient homemaker, using few utensils and keeping the house neat and tidy. It meant that for a few easy minutes each day, Manglamma could carry home a good sum. So, she started working for them. 

On the very first day, she had asked about the room on the first floor and Srinathappa angrily said, she should not worry about that. Later, she had found out that the key to the room, that always remained locked hung on Srinathappa's janivara, the sacred thread of the brahmins. For a few days, she had curiously eyed it, hidden as it was, inside the tight, white vest that he wore all day above his white dhoti. But soon, she had gotten into the routine and forgotten all about it. Initially, the old couple had seemed a little weird, living in their own little world, with no one to talk to. They did not own a mobile phone and their only connection outside the neighborhood on the outskirts of the big city, came through an old, but shiny telephone that stood on a small side table beside the television stand. It had a steel rotating dial and the first time that Manglamma had set eyes on it, she had been mesmerized. She had only seen such phones in old movies that she and her friend had sneaked off to see in the rich Patela's house back in her village when she was just a child.

Srinathappa went to the bank once a month, and every day he went to the shop on the corner of the street. Once in a long while, they would both go to attend a wedding. Manglamma would know about it in advance as Jayanthi would take out her sarees from the iron cupboard three days before, to select which one she could gift the blessed couple. Slowly, Jayanthi shared her life with Manglamma and even Srinathappa smiled once in a while, when he opened the door for her in the morning. She did not care for him a lot, however, for most of the time, he was grumpy and miserable, and rather gruff towards her. So it was a big surprise when, a few days after she had told Jayanthi that she was getting her daughter married to a young, handsome auto driver, Srinathappa had called her aside as she was leaving. He handed her a heavy paper packet, that was obviously money, and told her in his own gruff way, that it was for the wedding.

"We don't have anyone to leave behind all of this for," he said. "You do a lot for us, and we have never thanked you for coming to work here when no one else was willing. Please take it." For a moment, she thought she saw tears sparkled in the bloodshot eyes behind the thick glasses, but the brow frowned again and Srinathappa turned away. Just at that moment, she was filled with affection and adoration for him, from the frayed bottom of his dhoti, to the last of the silky white curls that framed his swarthy, frowning face. "Thanks, Saar", she had whispered. Later that night, she sat and counted out the notes and could not believe her eyes. He had given her two lakhs of rupees, neat and crisp, straight from the money machine at the bank.

Fifteen days ago, Srinathappa had collapsed on the road, as he walked back home carrying the groceries. Some of the neighbors had rushed to help, but his soul had left the body, before the first person could reach him, or so Manglamma had heard from Manja, the shopkeeper's errand boy. Jayanthi had told Manglamma, not to come to the house for a couple of weeks and she herself had locked the house and gone away. Manglamma was afraid that she would not return, and that she would lose her income, but ten days later, the shopkeeper, Kittanna, had called her on her cell phone. Jayanthi was back and had asked her to come to work.

Now, this morning, Jayanthi had asked her to clean out the room on the first floor. As she entered the room, a sudden gust of wind blew in from the window, some of the posters fluttered silently. Manglamma started to sweep the floor from the corner opposite to the door. As she sweeped, the door creaked on its hinges and shut itself, startling her. Manglamma looked around now, and the room seemed eerie. Something was not quite right, something out of place, which she sensed, but could not quite point on. She opened the door again and this time, blocked it open with the wooden wedge door block at the hinge. Continuing her sweeping, she reached under the bed, and at the corners, quickly efficiently. Soon, half the room was done.

And then it hit her. There was not enough dust on the floor. The room was no doubt dusty, but it didn't have years of dust on it. It was like someone had cleaned it out just a few days ago. She looked at the bed, the sheets were clean, the clothes strewn on the bed looked clean as well. The table was filled with the musty smell of old paper, but the books themselves looked clean. There was no layer of dust on them. She ran a finger on the table top and realized there was no thick layer of dust on it. Someone had been living in this room. She looked around at the posters, a young Madhuri Dixit smiled at her from the closet. Behind the bed, a skinny young foreigner danced on the stage, bathed in light next to a cricketer with curly hair and a thin mustache on his lip. She didn't know his name, but she had been seeing him on the television, with a mic in hand, when her son watched India play. She walked to the closet and opened it. It was empty inside; no clothes, nothing. And then a rustle of cloth behind her made her jump in her skin and she whipped around.

Jayanthi stood at the door, looking around the room. "Crazy old brahmana," she said smiling, tears filling her old, tired eyes. "He did not want to let her go. All these years, he kept the room as he had found it on that day. Now he is with her." Her eyes met Manglamma's. "Isn't that all we want, a happy husband and happy children?"

Draupadi: The Wait Ends

The season of spring was coming to an end; each day, in the past fortnight, had been hotter than the last. But, that morning, a silent, cool breeze blew through the garden where Draupadi sat, contemplating a pair of bulbuls at play in the branches above. She felt a strange nervousness as she waited for the inevitable meeting. A day earlier, Arjuna had finally ridden into Indraprastha. She had only seen him from afar, as she stood on the roof of the palace and watched the Yadava host ride into the city.

It had been twelve years since she had last seen the man, who had actually won her hand, a lifetime ago. She had been as nervous on that day as well, as she watched from behind thin curtains, as princes and kings had tried their hand at shooting the eye of a fish that hung some thirty hands above them. As prince after prince, tried and failed, she had gasped silently, her heart in her throat, thundering like a galloping horse. Finally, when there was no one left, when the competitors were all spent, when the girls behind her, her friends and maids, whispered that the competition would start all over again until a winner was found, he had stood up. He had been sitting with the brahmanas attending the swayamvara; there had been no cause for her to believe that he was anything, but a Brahmana. She had thought, that he was some wise soul standing up to explain what to do in the condition that no prince had qualified for her hand. But, he had left her and the entire gathering stupefied as he walked up to the pedestal on which the trial bow was placed. Before anyone could even react, she had seen the flash of the strong arms raising the bow. For a moment, that would remain frozen in her hear forever, he had pulled the arrow down to his waist, bow raised in tension high above his head and the arrow had whizzed upward, his aim perfect, flawless.

The rest of the day had gone past in a blur. Even now, after all those years, she could not remember clearly the events that had passed. Her maids, had rushed her away from the enclosure where they had stood and watched, as the gathering descended into chaos behind her. She thought she would be rushed back to the palace, but her father had met her half-way. The wedding was clumsy, hurried; a priest had chanted a few hymns and she was perfunctorily handed over to Arjuna, like a cow being gifted to a Brahmana. Before she knew it, she walked behind him, his brothers on either side, through the narrow alleys of Kampilya. She had not understood what happened on that fateful evening; she would take several days to understand that she was wed not to one, but five men. But her heart was already taken by the young Brahmana. She had slept on her floor, as she had until the other fateful day of her life when Drupada had adopted her as his daughter. She had cried herself to sleep, because her dreams of marrying a prince, of palaces and handmaidens, and finery and pomp, had all come crashing down in thatd dingy, dusty hovel. But, the next day held more unforeseen surprises to come. The young Brahmana turned into a prince, and she was married to the famous and mighty sons of Pandu, taken for dead, almost forgotten.

Soon, they had left Kampilya for Hastinapura, and her eyes had grew wide at the sight of the city, twice as big as Kampilya, it’s mighty white walls mounted with the red banner of the Kurus, with its majestic black elephant. The days went by quickly, and they had travelled again. She had still not seen Arjuna after the swayamvara. They had reached Khandavaprastha, a wasteland on the far reaches of the Kuru kingdom, beyond the Yamuna, surrounded by foreboding woods, peopled by fisher folk and hunters. Here in this strange land, she was married again, finally with pomp, five times to the five brothers and the Narada had come and he had set the terms for the marriage; terms broken by Arjuna so soon. She had watched from the roof of the palace, as heart sobbed tears of grief as he had left the city on an exile of twelve years.

For close to three years, news had reached Khandavaprastha of Arjuna’s travels on his exile, as he went north to the source of the Ganga, as he had performed penance at Gangadwara, as he went east again until Mahendragiri. There, he had left behind the brahmanas who had accompanied him and travelled further east. The trail had run cold and Arjuna was not seen or heard of. By then, she had already borne her eldest son, Prativindhya, born of Yudhishtira. The years had passed and she had borne another child, and another, and the happiness and the frustrations, the anxieties and the bliss of maternity had made her forget her unrequited love for the youngest son of Pritha.

Then, suddenly one day, a rider had come from Dwaravati. Arjuna was with Krishna. He had survived, jungles and rivers, deserts and seas and reached Prabhasa where Krishna had met him. For Draupadi, the long lost feelings had returned in a surge of emotion. As she tended to her youngest son, Shrutasena on the maternal bed, she had remembered the forgotten past, and dreamt of a forgotten future.  She thought that Arjuna would rush back to Khandavaprastha, but the twelfth year was yet to be completed. And so, again the days dragged on, while more news of his adventures seeped in through the palace walls. Arjuna had been with a nagini; Arjuna had married five nubile maidens, far to the south, in an enchanted land by the southern ocean; Arjuna had begotten a child on an exotic princess, far to the east, in the mysterious mountain lands beyond Pragjyotisha; Arjuna had learnt the art of warfare at Mahendragiri from the great Rama, and pledged himself to a life of celibacy. And so, they reached her ears, rumours or truth, she knew not; but she waited for him. The rains stopped, and the seasons, followed, Sharad and Hemantha and Shishira, when the cold winds crept from the north and the fog of forgetfulness, once again crept upon her memories. Maybe, he would not come she thought.

But then, he had returned on the day before, with a thousand Yadavas behind him and a fair Yadavi in a beautiful palanquin. Subhadra had walked into the chamber of the queens, the night before, a shy girl, petite, yet womanly, shy and blushing. She had greeted Draupadi with respect and a hint of fear. Late in the night, Draupadi had looked at herself in the burnished copper mirror that hung on her wall, comparing herself to the young girl who had usurped the dashing Brahmana that she knew. Where Subhadra was fair, she was dark, her body bearing the signs of four children, her face starting to show her age, the thin lines at the corners of her eyes; her palms, once soft as the down of swans, now lined deeply; her once tender arms, now sinewy with years of carrying her children. Why, she thought, would Arjuna remember her now? Maybe she was consigned to be Yudhishtira’s chief consort, the Mahishi, the Maharani, wife to a great king, and mother to a great king, but not the woman of her man’s heart.

Footsteps, broke her reveries and she turned around.

Arjuna came to her, as time slowed down in her mind and sat down beside her.

She looked at him. He had changed; the youthful face that she remembered, was lined and freckled now, darkened by years of harsh seasons. When he had left her, his tight curls had been short; now they had grown into a thick mass of brown, which he had tied back. His arms were scarred more than she could remember and his body and face had aged so much, that he looked older than both Bhima and Yudhishtira. But, as he looked at her, she saw that his eyes were just as clear as she had once seen them, set close together, beneath deep brows, a dark brown ocean of determination and calm.

“Well,” he said. “You haven’t changed much.”

1K for Today: Janata Curfew and some Lessons from the Past

In the second half of the year 2002, I had the opportunity to stay for a few weeks with my uncle, as I worked as an architectural apprentice. He was my father's elder brother, and as a child, I had only known him as one of my uncles who lived a great distance away. Later, after his retirement, he moved two doors down from us and we began to see more of him. We, teenagers and kids, were all a little afraid of this stern man of few words. When we, neighborhood boys played raucous street cricket on evenings or summer afternoons, and the ball made its way into his compound, I was always chosen to retrieve it, being his nephew and all. I remember him spending entire afternoons on the front verandah, with the newspaper spread out in front of him. And he always had stern words in store for noisy brats like us.

During my stay with him, I got to know him better, and we had some very interesting, albeit, rather one sided conversations. Looking back, it is interesting on how, in spite of having been something of a bookworm since I can remember, I still thought of his newspaper reading habit as an old-man habit. Staying with him, I began to see his depth of knowledge and understanding. I had lost one of my grandfathers before I was even born, and the other when I was only a few years old. Now, staying with this wise uncle, I had found a paternal grandfather-like figure who I could look up to and talk to. I spent weekend afternoons with my nose in his encyclopedia collection from the fifties; intricate, yet simple illustrations, supplemented a lucid text in episodes on basic science, mechanics and geography. He explained the evening news and its ramifications to me, and even indulged me, by watching a couple of senseless popcorn-flicks on the television. Something that he often spoke about was our education system, and how our generation in spite of having so many choices of specialization, failed to apply the knowledge that we had picked up along the way. He was always the one for common sense, of which, I can be particularly lacking at times.

He is not with us now, having passed away in 2003. Today, sitting in self-imposed home quarantine on a day when the Prime Minister of India has requested the citizens of India to observe "Janata Curfew" in lieu of the n-Covid-19 pandemic, I am harking back on his memories, and wondering how he would react to the world of today. He would not, perhaps, have taken very kindly to the Prime Time News debate circus, or social media, with its flood of mis-information, propaganda and click-bait hype. I cannot help but feel the importance of his words today, when I read news articles debunking social media nuggets such as the ones that suggest that today's curfew will help break the chain completely as the virus lives for only twelve hours on a surface, and the curfew is fourteen hours. Even as scientists, healthcare workers, doctors and social workers strive to contain the pandemic, to treat people and to find a cure, others are being negligent to safety.

One week ago, there were less than a hundred infected persons in India. In a week, the country has seen more than two hundred new cases, and a real concern rise among the population. Across the country, people are being urged, or are urging their organizations to be allowed to work from home. Yet, with a population as large as ours, and a density as high as ours, a single incident can trigger a dangerous condition.

I don't know if my good uncle would have found it funny or outraging, but today, we are being taught to wash our hands on national news; people are turning to cow urine, garlic and even hot water as a cure or antidote; a symbolic gesture of thanks is being turned into a mindless mass movement; a test run for organizing a massive requirement of crowd control is instead being hailed as an ingenious masterstroke, that will all, but gain complete victory over our current problem. If events in China and Europe are any indication, we face challenging times ahead, and the potential for disaster sends a shiver down the spine.

A few years ago, two incidents of hospital fire in India led to an overhaul of fire norms in the building and construction industry. The current pandemic that is seizing the world, can potentially change the way we look at security, immigration, remote working, trade, traffic, healthcare and a hundred other things. The world has probably changed forever and we are in the middle of a historic event in human history. Let us hope that better sense prevails all over. Let us hope that the loss of life in this great pandemic can be restricted to the maximum possible, and the sufferings of the living can be contained to a minimum.

Stay safe! Stay away! 

A Holi Pledge

Once, when Krishna was still a young boy at Vrindavan, he wanted to go and play with Radha and the Gopikas. But, he was afraid that they would tease him, for he was dark; dark as the rain filled clouds, as the account goes. So, like little kids do, Krishna went crying to his mother, Yashoda.

"I want to go and play with Radha," he wailed. "But the Gopikas tease me and call me a dark-skinned little thief".

"Well," she replied, "you tease little Pranava and call him a fat pumpkin, don't you? And just three days past, I heard you laughing at poor Sudama saying he looks like a ragged leaf." 

She watched as the little boy turned contrite. "But I want to play with Radha," he said softly, puffing out his lower lip. Tears were already forming in his eyes.

She tenderly wiped them away and said, "I will tell you what to do. Here are some colours. Have your friends put some on your face and you do the same to them. Then you all will look alike and nobody will have to tease you for being dark anymore."

And so, was born the tradition of Holi for even little Krishna was ashamed of his complexion when people teased him.

Today, we pigeonhole people into little slots and stereotypes. An unknown number of people, ridiculed, shamed and teased spend their lives contending with low self-esteem and self-worth. If we are lucky, they bravely fight their own inner battles and put a smile in front of the world. Sometimes we are not that fortunate and the frustration of years of abuse is unleashed in violent ways on the world.

There is nothing wrong in describing people as they are, but we exaggerate their characteristics and shame them.

"There is a fat man standing outside our house talking to another man who looks like he is South Indian." A perfectly fine way of describing a situation. 

"There is a fatso who looks like the Michelin man talking to a bald Madrasi." Not very pleasant.

Let us take a pledge this Holi to refrain as much as possible from using such pejoratives, such stereotypes and nicknames, in public, and more importantly in private, especially in front of kids.

We are already infected. Let's protect our kids at least and let them grow up better than us.