My Lost Bet

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This one was a work-in-progress, waiting for me to revisit it and give it a shape. Finally, I  could manage to show some interest and retrieve it after a decade and a half. Here you are.

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My Lost Bet

 

It is unpleasant to have conflicts with neighbours, but sometimes we find ourselves drawn into them willy-nilly. Take, for instance, what happened to me the other day. My only mistake was I removed a cardboard box from my neighbour’s courtyard. But what choice did I have when I discovered a cobra had taken refuge in it?

 

The unforgettable episode occurred in one of the upcoming areas of Visakhapatnam towards the end of the last millennium.

 

It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was at home, immersed in Jim Corbett's My India. His books are full of delightful stories that never fail to entertain me. What he tries to emphasise again and again is that the world is not for humans alone; it is the abode for millions of living creatures that God has created to satisfy the fundamental need of the creation. For Him, variety is the hallmark of creation.

 

When I was so engrossed in my reading, Sonu, my neighbour's seven-year-old son, came running to report something he could not keep to himself.

 

‘Uncle, do you know something interesting happened this morning?’ Sonu asked, in his characteristic style of starting an interaction with a question, almost whispering. Like all males my age in his neighbourhood, I was an uncle to Sonu. Additionally, he would do me a special favour, confiding in me classified information. I didn’t know if anyone else was privy to his confidential reports.

 

I inquired, hiding my curiosity, ‘So, what’s up, Kiddo?’

 

Besides being a successful little spy, Sonu was insatiably greedy and used to extract many a thing in exchange for his information. Marbles, yo-yos, tattoos, superhero comics, hot wheel cars, darts—the list would run to a considerable length since I took it as my pleasant duty to satisfy the brat. Or else how might I know all those exciting things in my neighbourhood?

 

‘We’re soon going to be rich, you know. I’ll now have my Nintendo, my own Play Station, Frisbees, RC helicopter, and many things,’ Sonu just went into rapture as he read his wish list in mind.

 

‘That’s wonderful, but tell me, Sonu, how will you get rich?’ I was getting more curious as Sonu waffled on about his plans.

 

‘Yes, we’re going to be rich, and that’s certain. Don’t you know cobras visit houses where money is going to flow? It’s staying in our courtyard. Aha! How lucky we are!’ Sonu went on jabbering again.

 

I was astonished to see the little boy so thoroughly brainwashed. ‘It’s all the fault of the grown-ups,’ I reflected. ‘We, the adults, are so irrational that we imagine things with little thinking discipline. And children learn this before they absorb a trickle of scientific knowledge. India should learn to fight the evil: superstition is worse than starvation.’

 

Breaking my train of thought, I tried to impart some logic to Sonu. He was yet to come out of his elation. Was there a way to say that superstition is a bad thing? When I tried to articulate it, it sounded like a long, dull and far-fetched sermon: To be rich, one must study well. Sonu should go through many science books, invent new and mind-blowing gadgets, and sell them in the market to get plenty of money, like Thomas Alva Edison, the Wizard of America. 

 

The story of Edison absorbed Sonu’s attention, but just for a while; it was not enough to distract him from his pet thought of getting rich. Cobra would make his family rich—he was only too convinced. Getting rich through the study of science was a tall order for him. It was uncertain, arduous, and long drawn out, but money through a cobra was certain. Everybody in his family believed so.

 

‘Can you tell me, Sonu, what does a cat love to eat?’ I asked him, intending to start a roundabout course of education—the Panchatantra way. I hoped my second attempt should be more effective.  

 

Sonu took a while to find the appropriate answer, for he knew toffees were waiting for him, and as soon as he would utter the correct answer, they would come into his pocket just like that. Then he murmured Tom-and-Jerry, Jerry-and-Tom for three occasions as if chanting magic incantations. Then he answered, ‘A CAT likes to eat a RAT’.

 

‘That’s right, Sonu boy, you’re a genius, and you deserve an accolade,’ I commented and proffered him a lozenge. Continuing my effort to educate him, I said, ‘A snake, too, loves to eat a rat. By the way, have you ever seen a rat in your house?’

 

‘Oh, they’re plenty in our house. The bad rats have chewed up my kites. I’m so disappointed,’ Sonu replied wistfully. I could hear echoes of frustration ringing in his tone. Sonu, as I knew him, loved to fly kites.

 

My young listener was now in a listening mood, so I continued. I emphasised that a snake also needed food and that its hunger brought the creature into the house. Sonu had no difficulty making sense of it, for he knew what hunger was like. Like all children, he relished eating and playing; it had no confusing science. 

 

‘So, the cobra is after its food, to devour the rats that destroyed your kite,’ I concluded my analysis. Discarding the point of getting rich, I continued, ‘Now you should remember that there’s nothing in it to make you rich. It’s just an old saying. You should take it from me: nobody ever gets rich this way.’

 

But Sonu had something more to reveal. According to him, some worship was necessary to make the cobra yield wealth for his house. At least, that was what his father would perform at night under the priest's advice.

 

Sonu’s father, Mr K. Jagannadha Rao, was a greengrocer, and he owned a shop in the neighbourhood. His business brought him a small income, barely sufficient to manage his family, consisting of his wife and two children. But that did not deter him from keeping pace with the current middle-class fad. His children were in the upmarket English-medium schools—Sonu in class three, and the younger one, a daughter named Rosalina, in a play school, preparing for admission to her nursery class a year later. Sending a child to school just after she was two was the trend that Mr K. Jagannadha Rao followed faithfully. His wife Rukmini knew some English, whereas Jagannadha did not. So, he chose to make her happy by promptly admitting her to the play school before it was late.   

 

I knew my neighbour Mr K. Jagannadha Rao, but his business was such that he had no time to waste on idle gossip. Occasionally we exchanged neighbourly pleasantries, though. A corpulent little fellow, he had twelve rings on his eight fingers. People used to taunt him about his quirks as he meticulously changed them as per the position of stars indicated in almanac. He would wear sandalwood and vermillion paste on his forehead from temple to temple. The paste had such a rich texture that his forehead remained shining the whole day until he washed it in the evening for a second round of embellishment. His shop was cramped, yet there was always room for the luck-boosting objects like photographs of Lakshmi and Ganesh, mascots of feng shui, masks of papier mâché Ravana, the garlands of lemons and so on. Mangat Prasad Tiwari, the priest-cum-astrologer, was a regular visitor to his shop, and Mr K. Jagannadha Rao used to receive advice from the priest on all matters of importance in exchange for three ripe bananas every day.

 

Sonu informed me that the cobra would get a milk bath at night, and the priest Mangat Prasad Tiwari would oversee the ritual. It would be all secret, for wealth would not flow in if anybody with envy in their eyes remained present during the paraphernalia.

 

The writing on the wall was clear. I visualized the scenario to come, everything that waited to befall them on the fateful night of appeasement of the snake god. Milky ablution could be okay for a shaligram, the sanctified stone collected from the river Gonduki representing the lord Vishnu, but how would a snake react dipped into a pot of milk? It would suffer asphyxia and grow violent in self-defence. It would bite Mangat Prasad Tiwari or K. Jagannadha Rao or both—who could discount that eventuality? If that happened, I would not be able to excuse myself. Something must be done to prevent the calamity and save my little friend from going fatherless.

 

‘Sonu, what if the snake bites your dad during the puja?’ I blurted it out. In fact, bringing fear into play was deliberate; it was my last plea to embrace common sense.

 

‘Oh yes, Uncle. I now remember what my teacher once said…cobra-bite kills people unless they get immediate treatment,’ Sonu had no smile on his lips and looked shaken. Looking at me helplessly, he continued, ‘Shouldn’t we call a doctor to our puja.’

 

‘I’m afraid, Sonu dear, that won’t help. A doctor can’t prevent a cobra from biting someone if he goes very near it,’ I replied.

 

There was a pause. I understood it was my turn to offer a solution, ‘I have a plan, Sonu, much safer than that. Let’s take the snake out of your house before your father comes.’

 

So, between Sonu and I, we drew up a plan. It called for clandestine implementation in the afternoon when everyone in his house would enjoy their siesta. The snake was inside a cardboard box, so we thought shifting it would not be dangerous.

 

At the same time, I had misgivings about the willing cooperation from the reptile. The cardboard box was not a sealed one, and along its corner between its walls was a four-inch gap through which the deadly serpent was visible. I examined it; the snake had curled up inside it, but it was very much awake, its glowing eyes emphasising full alertness.

 

Besides, we must go across the six-foot boundary wall to avoid being caught since the only door that opened onto the road was locked. There was a recess on the wall, and I decided to stow the box there to retrieve it upon scaling atop the boundary wall. It was my concern that at no point my little friend should handle the box, exposing himself to the risk of snake bite.

 

Slowly I lifted the box while Sonu went outside through the front door of his house. While taking a few slow steps towards the recess with the cardboard box, I felt the creature moving inside. Fear gripped my muscles. It was impossible to move a step more, but there was no way I could have stopped halfway. Presently, the movement inside the box stopped; probably, the creature had a greater need to rest than assert itself. Upon reaching the wall, I gingerly resumed my steps and placed the box in the recess. A clothesline peg was there to serve as my foothold as I clambered up the wall putting my foot on it. But soon, the fear of height caught up with me, and my feet tottered. Somehow taking control of my senses, I retrieved the box and shifted it from the top of the wall to the nearby drumstick tree. Luckily, the tree could hold my weight without crashing. I climbed down quickly and joined Sonu on the road where he was waiting for me.

 

We selected a vacant land with enough wilderness at the other end of our lane. Cobra would love its new home—at least, I had no doubt about it. Had I not rescued it, the creature would have endured a lot of discomfort inside a big pot of cow milk in about a few hours. It could have died of asphyxia. So, if it had any power to bring wealth, it should only consider me!

 

‘Who is that?’ I asked Sonu finding a person a hundred meters behind us, hurrying to catch up with us.

 

‘Ohmigod! He’s dad. Hurry up and hide, hurry up,’ stuttered Sonu as he took the nearby alley and disappeared. Cobra in my hand, I could not choose every foxhole that came my way just to hide from a superstitious fellow. I decided to face him.

 

‘How dare you steal my thing? Don’t you know what you’re holding is my godsend?’ Mr K. Jagannadha Rao charged. He was angry and comical at the same time.

 

‘Tosh! Is this your godsend? Is a poisonous snake your godsend? Don’t tell Mr Rao,’ I could not hold back my laugh.

 

My irritating belly laugh must have annoyed Mr K. Jagannadha Rao beyond his sense. He came charging to snatch the box from me. While grabbing it, he became so careless that the cobra got frightened and woke up from its slumber. For the hapless creature, running away was the only option. But then a snake was a snake, and before going away, it gave a poisonous kiss to his bete noire Mr K. Jagannadha Rao.

 

I was at my wit’s end. It was beyond my wildest imagination that the outcome could go so ghastly. It was my intention to save the ignorant chap by shifting the object of harm from him. But now I realised how miserably I had botched up. So, I must do everything at this point without allowing time to have the last laugh. I hailed a speeding taxi and took Mr Rao to the nearest place of medical attention. Fortunately for him, there was a nursing home just half a kilometre away. Reaching there, I got him admitted right away.

 

Mr Jagannadha Rao was lucky. The doctor, the antidote, the expert—everything and everybody were in position as if waiting for a snake-bitten fellow to show up for treatment. Before starting the procedure, the reception desk looked for Mr K. Jagannadha Rao’s relatives to sign the admission documents, but there were none. However, when he approached me, I unhesitatingly scrawled my worthy signatures on them. I was Johnny on the spot—a Good Samaritan to a soul sinking into the quagmire of distress. 

 

It took long forty-eight hours to revive Mr Jagannadha Rao. I waited in the lobby of the nursing home, keeping tabs on the progress of treatment. There was no room near the bed of Mr K. Jagannadha Rao, for it was full of his relatives and well-wishers. Even entering the room was impossible, so the attending nurse in her cubbyhole kept me posted on the up-to-date status of Mr Rao’s health. Well, that suited everybody.

 

In time, Mr Rao was discharged and chose to leave the nursing home at twelve o'clock at night. ‘Of all time, he chose such an hour to go home!’ I presumed it could be as per the advice of Mangat Prasad Tiwari, the astrologer. The following day when I was leaving, the clerk on duty slammed a bill of 20,000 rupees on me. He reminded me the admission forms had my signatures, so the bill was in my name. There was no argument that I could have advanced to refute the logic, and I paid the bill perforce.

 

Back home, Mr K. Jagannadha Rao resumed working, worshipping, and earning. But he had no money to reimburse me. Lo and behold, he held me responsible for the snake bite. Whatever I incurred was to honour my liability; it was preposterous to claim that in return.

 

The takeaway is clear: I am the only unreasonable fellow in the transaction, so I should forget my money. The other course open before me is to raise my voice, nag, vilify and disturb, but just for the sake of my lost bet, I cannot afford to risk my friendship with Sonu, the informer.

 Berhampur

13-02-2008