The Reborn

The Reborn

Kasyapa tossed and turned on the soggy mattress, but sleep wouldn’t clasp him in embrace. The brown rafters overhead had turned green with the seepage from the constant rain that battered the tiled rooftops. It was warm and sticky on the bed so he spread the jute mat on the limestone floor, tossed a pillow, and lay down. It felt instantly cooler and drier.

Children were playing in the light drizzle outside – for a while he listened to their joyful shouts. Shortly, as his eyes began to droop, the laughter changed into something of a commotion, and he could hear little footfalls splashing through the puddles, heading his way.

“Snake! Snake!” the children screamed.

He groaned. Not again. Kasyapa turned and wrapped his pillow around his head but the children had climbed the porch and were now clamoring at the door. “Sir, Sir – snake in English teacher’s house!”

“Long and black.”

“Dangerous – spitting poison – darting his forked tongue.”

“Whistling like a cooker.”

“Okay, okay, I’m coming. Wait up – let me change,” he shouted out. Grumbling, he pulled on his trousers, threw on a flimsy cotton shirt over his damp vest and briefly examined himself in the mirror. Wearily, he collected his elapid hook and snake bag and stepped out. The children tugged at his arms, and shouting and clapping followed him in an exultant procession to the English teacher’s house – a typical red-tiled cottage on the fringe of their school campus.

“Anyone saw it,” he asked. The children fell silent. ‘Maybe there’s no snake after all,’ he mused. ‘Just a twig or coiled rope.’

But the snake was there. Crouching on the wet floor of the kitchen, coiled in a small plate with its head in its center. A stout body, nearly two meters long, highly keeled non-shiny scales with three rows of continuous dark-brown almond spots. Whistling like a pressure cooker as the kids screamed and cried on the doorstep. A thin tail tapering evenly to a tip, which it slapped impatiently on the floor: a female.

“It’s a Kaudia – Russell’s Viper. Poisonous,” he announced coolly over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off the snake. “A beautiful woman.” The kids relaxed on seeing his unruffled demeanor and began to laugh and clap.

He approached her without hesitation; she reared her head and crept once in a jerky manner and then calmed down as he whispered soothingly to her. Pinning her gently down with the pole, he grabbed her behind the head. “Shush, now be quiet,” he whispered close to her mouth, as she squirmed in his grasp. “We’re going home.” He transferred her headfirst into the bag and then walked out into the rain. He climbed down the porch and turned to face the kids. “Now go back to play while I leave her in the forest. Move.”

“Sir, will you remove its fangs,” some child asked.

“How would you like me to pull out your teeth? She won’t be able to eat or digest her food. I’ll just leave her far away so she doesn’t find the way back again. Now, git,” he commanded and walked down the track leading into the thick jungle beyond the school compound. The kids broke off to play: the boys back to their cricket, the girls, to hopscotch.

It was dusk when Kasyapa returned; folks heard him throw open the latch and push the squeaky gates leading to the staff quarters. The rain had picked up – ladies sat knitting or gossiping, or both, in the porches of the houses, while children snacked on tea and savories. There was a barrage of questions as he passed by the neat row of white and red houses lining the small, muddy track.

“Did you get bitten?”

“Did you kill the snake?”

He just shook his head and moved on, skipping over puddles, bounding from one dry spot to another under the dense overhead canopy.

“Why don’t you kill them – they keep coming back.”

Kasyapa halted. He turned to the pesky lady, the Music teacher leaning against the balustrade and sipping tea. “Will that stop them,” he asked, shielding his head with his arms. “I could spend a lifetime, yet not kill all the snakes in the wild. This land belongs to them – we’re the encroachers. It’s their backyard, their playground too – remember?”

“What’s that in your bag,” she asked.

“Madhuca Indica – Mahua flowers,” he replied, hastening on. “Medicinal herbs.”

“There’s something moving in there,” she cried after him, leaning out into the rain.

“A partridge – I’ll eat him tonight,” he answered, without turning.

“Do you need any help…with the cooking? Why don’t you come inside out of the rain and have some medicinal tea with me, Kasyapa Sir – it’ll cure you of the blues”; she teased him, thrusting her ample bosom out so that her cleavage became quickly wet and alluring in the splashing raindrops. Her wet sari, which she wore quite low, well below the belly button quivering over a smooth stomach, clung close to her wide hips, accentuating their treacherous curves. She fluttered her looped eyelashes at him, holding him numb in her kohled cages and false promises.

Hers was a lure hard to resist, but Kasyapa managed to tear himself away without answering; gliding over the wet grounds in a smooth, graceful motion. A dark, devilishly handsome man, many a woman swooned over his piercing green eyes and powerful lithe body; his black hair, naturally slick and oily, was tied tightly in a long ponytail.

As soon as he got home, he bolted the door and placed the bag on the floor by his writing desk. He sat on the chair and watched the bag squirm and move. Finally, he untied the bag’s cord and prodded it open with his pole. The Viper snuck its head out and took note of the surroundings. It ignored Kasyapa, and quietly slithered under the cupboard and vanished out of sight.

Go on; make yourself at home. This house needs a feminine touch – isn’t that what people say? He smiled to himself and moodily tapped a pencil on the desk. He was glad for the company; it got too lonely at times. He was comfortable around snakes, strangely for others, strangely not for himself, perhaps because he was the biology teacher. They never bit him; he never hurt them and no one was any the poorer for it. He didn’t deign to call them pets; they were more of companions. In fact, his services were quite in demand, as snakes, driven out in the open in the rain, appeared often in classrooms and in the staff quarters.

***

This afternoon he’d searched long to find a dry place in the forest to leave this viper: tree stumps, knots, joints, root systems, rodent burrows; under rocks, dead leaves – everything had collected pools of rainwater. And while he was at it, musky mahua flowers fell in succulent cream showers around him – it was hard to leave them wasted on the ground, so he collected as many as he could, for making good liquor later.

She’d looked so forlornly at him as he prodded her out of the bag that he didn’t have the heart to leave her alone out there – she was sure not to last the night. A snake in the open is favorite dinner to an owl or a leopard or a mongoose, of which there were plenty foraging in the dense forests of Central Provinces of India. She could spend as long as she liked in his cottage and its vast yard behind that promised a rich cuisine of mice, insects, birds or toads; and then leave of her own accord to lay an ambush elsewhere.

***

After returning the snake bag to the cupboard, he walked into the storeroom. He picked out a bottle with aged mahua liquor; uncorking it with his teeth, he walked out to the porch to drink.

It was a dismal night, fragrant and vacuous – the dark heat of the day had sucked out all the air. The gray skies poured a steady wash of tears gathering in reedy rivulets, marooning people in their yellow-lit islands. Gravel crunched as a wild animal passed by, punctuating the rhythm of the enchanted forest. From the deep, like war cries, came the nasty cackle of jackals lurking amid muddy beds, crouching and hushed, with daggers ready drawn, listening for traveler’s careless footfalls on lonesome paths.

This was Kasyapa’s music, his lullaby; sleep came rarely to him at night, as he paced restlessly peering out into the forest, figuring what went on there. As he cocked his head and listened keenly, feeling the mahua slosh in his head, another sound came from the dark, a steady nasal drone; a rhythmic whistle of reed pipes. He looked at the bottle in his hand – he’d nearly finished it – was he hearing things? The drone became louder as the musician became more confident and blew harder into the flute.

The music drew him irresistibly, and he was overcome by so strong an urge to tryst with it that he felt powerless. As he lurched down the steps and over the slushy track, his legs buckled under him. He swigged from the bottle and tossed it aside, but could not work up the strength to rise to his feet. A hush fell upon the forest, and only the enticing notes of the flute wafted into the night. Kasyapa felt aroused – the urge to couple made knots in his stomach and he lunged toward the sound: crawling, slithering, twisting, and overarching through the slush. He was powerless, numb to everything except the sound that sucked him into its dark womb.

The music came from the semi-lit cottage next to his – the music teacher’s house. The witch – how she lured him – or was it the mahua that made him so helpless – he wasn’t sure. As he neared the steps and grasped the rails to raise himself, she must have heard the flower pots tumble, for the playing stopped. She stepped out into the porch and seeing him in that disheveled state, rushed to help him get to his feet.

“What happened,” she cried, leading him into her house and sitting him on a cane chair.

Kasyapa shook his head. Now that the music had stopped, the numbness was slowly ebbing and he could feel his limbs stir again. His hostess sponged his blanched face with a wet towel and looked at him with concern. He couldn’t but help notice what a comely, voluptuous body she had; she wore a sheer sari whose edge had slipped from her shoulders, and she bent before him in a narrow bodice that showed off her wide hips and dangling moon orbs. She had flawless, creamy, coffee skin, shiny with the raindrops that still seeped into her yawning cleavage. But the spell was over. The music roused him; the woman dammed the flood in his loins.

“I am okay,” he mumbled, blowing out her dark locks as they curved around his mouth.

“What happened?”

“I was bringing along the partridge dish – some wild animal attacked me – I think it came after the smell.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I have some lentils on the stove, stay and dine with me.”

“No thanks,” he said, struggling to his feet, quivering and dripping on her floor.

“You still look shaken up – stay,” she implored, grasping his hand, pulling herself to him, brushing her taut thighs against his.

“I’ll go clean myself up,” he said, untangling from her with great effort. “And what’s that there?” He paused at the doorstep, noticing a double flute of gourd with two bamboo reed pipes.

“Haven’t you seen one – it’s a Pungi pipe – played by snake charmers?”

“Really – why would you play it?”

“I’ve seen you catching snakes – you’re such a hero. I thought I’d do my bit – “

“Don’t try it – it’s a stupid myth.”

“At least I managed to charm you,” she cooed, raising her arms aloft and swaying seductively like a snake.

“Trust me – you don’t want any snakes in your house – you wouldn’t know what to do with them.”

“I would scream for you.”

“Just give a shout – don’t disturb the peace with that infernal pipe.”

She laughed. “As long as you promise to come.”

Kasyapa smiled wanly and shuffled out into the night. I must control my drink – and stay out of that hypnotizing witch’s way.

***

When the mahua stopped drenching the earth in showers the monsoons began, and along with them the school summer holidays. The Headmaster, Sh. Magoo summoned Kasyapa to his office and asked him to take the children out for summer camp. “You’re the only bachelor on staff – the only one without in-laws. Except, Ms. Mohini whom I need here. So I need you to take the kids out somewhere where they’re out of our hair. And make sure the place doesn’t offer any TV or other modern nuisances. What’s it going to be?”

Kasyapa wanted to decline firmly, but a strange humming started in his head and a compelling inner voice stayed him. Words tumbled from his mouth as if from afar. “I could take them to Pench Reserve Forest– I’ve no in-laws to visit.”

“How’s Pench different from where we are?”

“We’re on the edge – beyond the core. Treasures of Pench lie deep within its belly. The crocodiles on the white sands, the deep ravines, the tigers – there’s plenty rich flora and fauna I could show them as a Biology teacher,” he said.

“I’ve myself been on one of those jungle safaris – with Mrs. Magoo and my in-laws. Yes, nothing to excite the children into mischief there. It’s settled then – Mr. Kasyapa, please send me a note with your proposal and funds required; we’d process it quickly. Thank you.” The short man leaped from his chair, and landing like a cat on his small feet dismissed the meeting.

***

A half a day’s bus ride took the screaming and singing kids, and a taciturn Kasyapa to Seoni, the location of Mowgli Pench Sanctuary. Moist, sheltered valleys lay on one side, and open grassy patches on the other, beyond which loomed dry deciduous forests that climbed the Satpura hills. The axe and the plough had been eating steadily into the vast solitudes, but there were still thousands of square miles of forest-land, which never would be disturbed by roving, greedy human bands. Thus, cover will always remain for wild animals, which find refuge during the day in the thickets, from whence they emerge at night to lay waste the growing crops, or attack the stragglers of the homeward herds.

The party alighted on the edge of Khoka Lake, a serene water body surrounded in the distance by blue hills with wreaths of gray mist slowly floating up. Nothing disturbed the stillness save the peal of cattle homeward bound, and an insistent cry of a peafowl or partridge.

A couple of pale flabby tents, damp with the rain had been pitched in a clearing. A tall bearded man, attired in the dress of a Shikari, a hunter, stood still near the entrance to the campsite. He smoked nonchalantly, with one foot propped on a black boulder. A double-barreled gun of exceptional length, probably an old flintlock, leaned against his other leg.

He pressed some tobacco leaves in Kasyapa’s hand: a customary welcome of the Gond tribals. The Shikari, called Manjhi, was about fifty years of age, tall and sinewy, with a singularly mild face, and a long, scrawny neck, deeply seamed with many scars. His meager form was arrayed in a sort of hunting shirt of greenish brown, belted at the waist with Sambar leather. Around his head was a small tightly twisted turban of the same hue as the rest of his garments, and at his belt, he carried a long machete, a horn of powder, and a small wallet containing bullets, flint, and steel.

He and his ancestors before him had enjoyed a fearsome reputation, of having shot dead man-eaters here, barehanded wrestled bisons there, and cut down many an attacking leopards and beasts of prey with their formidable daggers.

“Welcome, to the land of Sher Khan,” he said, pumping Kasyapa’s hand in his giant, calloused grip. “ I’ll be your guide,” he smirked, showing a strong row of broad white teeth.

The Shikari led Kasyapa to where some easy chairs and a camp table covered with tea and toast and fruit had been laid out. Kasyapa sank into one of the chairs, stretched out his legs, and closed his eyes with a sigh of intense satisfaction. Meanwhile, a flustered campsite host with a clipboard and fluttering papers shepherded the bellowing children into their tents.

“What are you keen on?” the Shikari asked after tea had been served in earthen bowls.

“The usual suspects,” Kasyapa replied. “How are the sightings?”

“Fair. Usually near the watering holes – plenty of Cheetal and Sambar here for the King of the jungle.”

“How do we go in?”

“By jeeps – obviously. Elephant rides are also available – but not for the kids without supervision. We’ll leave in batches – mornings and afternoons. You and I could ride an elephant, though – an elephant can strike out into the heart of the jungle, – he makes his own road.”

“Okay – what else – we’re here for a week thereabouts.”

“There is a tribal arts center – kids will like the wood and clay playthings. You could take home some trinkets for the missus –? The camp guys have organized a boat ride down the Pench river – you will see alligators – hundreds of them lounging on the white sands on its banks, and beautiful islands. The camp guys usually throw in a campfire on the last day…”

Kasyapa nodded and looked away into the thickening mists as they began to settle on the treetops. “Don’t you ever go out on foot,” he suddenly asked, “what about these National Geography guys?”

The Shikari slapped his thighs. “I knew you were not the normal babu who looks for comfort or textbook adventures – you look fit enough to me. But the jungle – are you quite up to it?”

“I am okay with that – are you?”

The Shikari sniggered. “I fear no tiger now; they fall before me like the mango at which the boy throws his stick.”

“Great.” It was getting chilly – in the forest it could get colder than the winters in the plains. Kasyapa yawned and moved toward his tent set apart from the others. The sounds and smells of the forest had lulled his senses into sweet repose – perhaps he wasn’t going to need his mahua for sleep tonight. “I’ll skip dinner,” he said over his shoulder as Manjhi pulled a blanket over his knees and lit a cigarette.

***

It was still dark when the school party moved to the core of the forest. A long line of jeeps was already waiting for the gates to be thrown open. The forest was shaking off its slumber and coming to life as they finally drove in.

The winding, dusty track passed through a belt of Salai forest and emerged on a broad low valley, in the midst of which ran many small brooks, dotted here and there with Grislea bushes. They drove around the circuit for several hours, by which time it became quite warm, and then they returned to the refreshment area for breakfast.

There were many close encounters with sloth bear, four-horned antelope, mouse deer, and other exotic species. Curious langurs, hopping from tree to tree, followed the travelers, but the tiger remained elusive. Some claimed to have seen him, most were not so lucky, and they kept returning in the hope of sighting him in his natural environ.

The kids were soon bored with beating around the bush in the heat of the day and returned to their cricket and staple amusement the campsite provided: puppet shows, tribal dance, and as much ice-cream as you could stuff in your mouth. In the quiet of that evening, Kasyapa sent for the Shikari. After they’d clinked steel glasses of mahua liquor, Kasyapa reminded him of the promise.

“The kids are more or less done here – I don’t think even Sher Khan can convince them to leave the camp now.”

The Shikari chuckled. He cocked his ear and pretended to listen to the sounds from the wild. “Even Sher Khan sleeps.”

“Do we set out tomorrow – trek into the deep?”

The Shikari peered in the dark at Kasyapa, examining his face closely. Seeing that he was dead serious, he spat a thin jet of tobacco and nodded. “Be prepared. We leave before dawn.”

***

When the two set out the next morning, they could smell the rain in the air; there was a rumble in the skies and an odd flash in the distance. The entire day the men toiled, over rocks and boulders, in and out of bamboo clumps, and along nullah beds. At last, they came to a sort of cleared space, with some fine Jamoon trees and a vast, dark pool.

The guide looked askance at Kasyapa, who’d followed him stoically, without the intense physical toil straining him in any way.

“For a man of books, you seem rather comfortable in the wild,” he observed.

“I am the wild. The wild is I,” Kasyapa replied, squatting by the pool to fill his canteen. He took out his small notebook and penciled a few notes in it.

“Is there anything particular you’re looking for, Teacher, or are you just going to scribble away? Do you want some tiger skins, eh?” He leered. “Snake skins…crocodile hide…tiger tooth – I have a whole stock back home. Ivory – I’ve lots of it…eh, Babu – what d’ya say,” he smacked his lips.

Kasyapa laughed. “I have no use for the things that you say. Isn’t that stuff banned?”

“It’s nature’s bounty, brother – why waste it. Well then,” the hunter shrugged. “We’ll camp here for the night. Lots of game comes to the pool at night. Be wary of panthers, they’re braver than tigers. And often hunting around human settlements, they aren’t scared of lights or fire.”

Kasyapa crashed down on the soft matted grass, beginning to cool with the settling dew. The calm waters of the pool, dotted with patches of broad floating leaves, reflected the mingled rays of the rising moon on the one hand and the deeper tints of the glowing west on the other. All around, the gloom of night was settling over the lonely forest, in which, to the widely scattered hamlets, herds of cattle and buffaloes were wending their way, leaving their pasture grounds to the beasts of the field.

The Shikari gathered some rotting leaves and bunched them to make a small pillow. He began to stuff gunpowder and steel pellets down the muzzle of his ancient flintlock. “Inherited from my ancestors – one British Sahib gifted it to my great-great-grandfather when he shot down a man-eater near the village – the twinkling lights you see in the valley below. Can’t trust anything else now – many a beast this gun has felled.”

“What’s there in cutting down your prey with your steel and your sulfur – where’s the fairness in that?”

“I also have the knife – it’s man versus nature – always. And you be careful of snakes as you lie on the ground – your love won’t wean away their venom.”

“They don’t bother me.”

“They vex me like hell. Many a snake head have I mashed under these heels. Why it was right under that banyan tree, my great-grandfather killed two king cobras in coitus – “ the hunter’s voice trailed as at that instant a long king cobra rose from the grass near where he sat, spreading its fearsome hood and flickering its tongue. It was nearly 15-feet long, graceful and proud, the milky light bouncing off its shiny black scales. It hissed at the Shikari, weaving slightly. The Shikari shrank back, and his hand began to slowly inch toward his dagger.

“Shush…I’ll take care of it,” Kasyapa said, rising slowly on one elbow, putting a restraining hand on the Shikari’s arm. But the Shikari shrugged it away; a mad gleam had passed into his eyes as he licked his lips in anticipation of the kill.

As Manjhi’s fingers curled around the shaft of his dagger, the snake uncoiled and flung itself at him. It twisted and wound itself tightly around his throat. Spreading its fearsome hood, the snake poised before his eyes to strike him. The Shikari grabbed the snake and tried to wrench it away, but its grip only fastened further. The dagger was now firmly in the Shikari’s grip, and in panic, he lunged with it at the snake’s body. The wiry King Cobra, in a blink of an eye, unwound itself, and the swooping dagger sank deep into the Shikari’s throat.

The great hunter gurgled as blood gushed from his throat. Kasyapa rushed to him, and tearing off his sleeve tried to stem the flow, but the gash was too deep and clean, and soon the jerking of his limbs stopped. Kasyapa sat back on his haunches and clutched his head. A hush fell upon the night and even the whimpering winds died down.

A while later, came a rustling from the grass. Kasyapa raised his head and saw that the snake hadn’t moved, which was strange: ‘perhaps we’re too close to its nest, it’s hatching season,’ he figured.

A soft glow began to suffuse the snake and the grassy patch it sat on, and suddenly there was a roar and blinding flash of light. Kasyapa shielded his face with his arm, till the lights dimmed, and he saw in place of the snake, stood a tall, lithe woman of ethereal beauty. Dark lustrous locks hung around her shoulders, their winding strands curling around her supple breasts. A gossamer garland of leaves festooned her slender waist; her moist, dark eyes looked upon him with aching.

Kasyapa jumped to his feet, his heart hammering in awe. He stepped back as the woman advanced towards him: her hips swaying languorously, her feet gliding over the dewy turf. She reached out and ran her fingers down the side of his face.

Kasyapa drew back and cried, “What magic is this?”

“Do you not recognize me: your Kadru,” she asked; a faint hiss drifted along her mellow voice.

“What tricks you play with me, woman: stay away!”

“Do not shun me, my Kasyapa. Do you not remember this full moon night, here, 200 years ago?”

Despite all his dread, Kasyapa could not help laughing. “What droll is this?”

“You were my mate – a gorgeous Cobra – my King. After days of courtship, I yielded to you in the twisted trunks of that banyan. And while we were lying beside each other, coiled in love, united in our bodies, with a part of you already in my womb as our unborn clutch, this man’s ancestor came and cut us down. For game, for pleasure. Try and remember – I beseech you,” she pleaded, hissing and floating over to him.

Kasyapa shook his head, taking feeble steps back. “It can’t be true…it isn’t…”

“Do not fear me – stay still and hear me out, Kasyapa. I took rebirth as a human. I became a sanayasin and undertook penance for 200 long years on Mount Kailash, where I prayed to Lord Siva to grant me one wish – to unite with you again. The pain hasn’t left my side all this time, Kasyapa – the longing has kept me empty. A couple of Naga sadhus guided me in my suffering so that Lord Siva was bounden to grant me my wish.”

“It’s a lie – you’re some enchanted creature of the forest! I saw you rise from a snake.”

“It is divine blessing indeed that I can change into any form I desire, for it is only then that I might mate with you again: I can only control my form, not yours.”

“I can’t believe you,” Kasyapa said, retreating from the outstretched fingers that flickered at him.

“You doubt me? You who live with snakes without harm? You who fell under the spell of Mohini’s gourd-flute?”

“How do you know of her?”

“She was a corrupt priestess of our times who wanted riches and power beyond all human imagination or reach. And that she could only attain through the Nagmani – the priceless and divine snake-gem that you alone possessed. She took rebirth to pursue you through your birth and death cycles, and has finally found you.”

“I have no such gem, I assure you.”

“Of that, later. It shall be revealed. Do you not believe that it was our destiny that drew you here? You never stirred too far from this place, either.”

“How do you mean – I’ve always been a school teacher at Katni – that’s miles from here.”

“I do not talk of this life, but of before. You took several rebirths: as the proud vulture that perched on this banyan’s wings; then, a lordly bison that haunted the bamboo-clad slopes of these hills; the stout Buffalo, who kept to his grass-grown plains. O yes, in your myriad forms you were never very far. And when I was granted my wish, you’d become the human I behold now.”

She grasped his arm and led him to the gnarled roots of the banyan fanning over the moonlit pool. She started to scrape the earth with her feet. “See, the soil still cries red with our blood, with the blood of our unborn clutch. How the trunk of this cursed tree bloats with our unspent desire! Wherefore this breeze whispers of our untold love? Why?” She shook him till he broke down.

“My head spins so,” Kasyapa cried. “Give me a sign; restore my sanity, I beg of you.”

“Give what sign? To a man who’s dreamt of this place all his life?” She let him drop his head on her thighs and embrace her knees. Softly, her fingers snaked through his mop of hair, calming him down. “Tell what – to a man whose heart hammers like the hooves of a charging buffalo herd. Show what – to a man with two penises? Isn’t that why you forswore intercourse with a woman? Here, close your eyes and behold what I have to show you.” She bowed and grasped the sides of his head in her palms. “Do you see now,” she asked, as visions of his previous lives flashed past in his mind.

“Yes, I see,” he sobbed.

“How do you feel?”

“I feel full, like a moon that never wanes; happy, like the one who’s always known sorrow. Complete, like a vessel that has been empty. I’m afraid, Kadru: I’ve found something I never want to lose… sad, at what I’ve lost. This human vestige is but a lie, our betrothal is all that is true.”

“Let us then find our eternal love again; consummate this union and meld our souls forever.” She slid her fingers into his, and they walked down the moon-washed track whence Kasyapa had come.

“They will not understand,” he said, covering her nakedness with his jacket. ” Till I can find befitting adornments for you,” he beamed down at her. “ My love.”

The camp was still fast asleep in the warm quilt of night as the two arrived. Kasyapa led Kadru into his tent, lowered the flap, and faced her. The kerosene lamp flickered and then burnt brightly. Kadru undressed him: for the first time, Kasyapa felt aroused in his life as the floods broke through his loins. She lay down her scent for him, and he felt maddened. The garland of leaves fell off Kadru’s hips of their own accord, and she lay down by his side. She whispered as he heaved astride her, “Do not fear, if in ecstasy I change my form – I cannot control it.”

“I do fear, Kadru, I have not known human flesh in this way,” he whispered, fondling her breasts overflowing with the living lights.

“Do not fret so, my Lord, the way will reveal itself,” she sighed, grasping his knee and sliding it over her hips. The line of her back fell away and then surged to a smooth hemisphere as she arched longingly against him, guiding her wetness unto him.

They heaved in one sweaty, flushed, moaning mass, rising and falling like a warm tide on a full moon night; making the most of several lives lost in separation, agony and want; leaving nothing to chance.

They spent the remaining night entwined in embrace, overcome by desire, and its storming, heaving, pulsating finishes. At long last, with the winds ceasing from the sails of their passion, they fell asleep.

***

At the crack of dawn, Kasyapa awoke with the discordant cries of the peafowl and the painted partridge. His bed felt squishy and wet, and empty. He rubbed his eyes and felt around for Kadru; instead, his hands cradled a limp, slimy rope, still warm, nay, burning to his touch. He fell off his camp cot with a jerk and stared agape at the horrible spectacle before him – the decapitated body of a female King Cobra – of his beloved Kadru. Kasyapa screamed – and a loud brouhaha ensued outside the tent. Kasyapa tottered outside, his hands and body sullied with his beloved’s blood.

“What hap-pened,” he managed to stutter, holding out his hands for all to see; so that they may see the crime they had committed.

“When the orderly walked in with your morning tea, he found a snake on your pillow, a massive King Cobra. He rushed out and raised an alarm, and we cut it down, Kasyapa; we saved your life.”

The voice sounded familiar: as Kasyapa managed to focus through his tears, he saw a tall woman standing behind the throng of children and camp staff. A woman with a glint in her eye. The Music teacher. “Luckily,” she added, “I decided to join the camp last night, at the Headmaster’s behest.”

Kasyapa screamed and rushed at her, but the camp staff pinned him down to the ground. “What have you done,” he wailed, “what have you done.”

“He’s a little sentimental about snakes; come away children,” Mohini smirked, leading them away with a jaunty step.

***

Now and then a flock of green parakeet flew over, each one trying to out-scream the rest; and occasionally a rocket-bird glided across the open space between the two belts of wood, his long tail streaking like a white riband after him. It was for a long time that Kasyapa laid face down in the meadow, and when the long shadows threw their veil over him, he remembered a sacred obligation that was due.

Cradling the dead snake in his arms, Kasyapa covered it with a white sheet. Walking out to the lake, he unleashed the hunter’s horse and rode out into the hills with the small white bundle in his lap. The horse hung his head as it plodded along the dusty track, and flapping its huge ears, whisked off the flies that annoyed its sides.

By nightfall Kasyapa was kneeling under the gnarled trunk of the grand banyan, cremating his beloved Kadru in a fire of leaf litter and twigs. Your years of pilgrimage felled with one stroke. He gathered her ashes at dawn and scattered them over the lake and the hills as he bore on northwards.

The selfsame well whence had sprung forth laughter as of yesterday, was now overflowing with his tears. The newfound flesh that had released him last night was now the gray raiment carving into his soul. The earthen cup that had quenched the thirst was nothing but mortal clay fired in a potter’s kiln. His screams rent the hills, but even the echoes were hushed. He clutched his burden in an urn, his back hunched over the horse, as he rode through the forest.

Somewhere sounded a click; Kasyapa looked down, it was his wristwatch churning the hour. He unfastened the watch and stared at it briefly before chucking it into a stream.

“There is not enough time in you that’s going to take me to find Kadru,” he moaned. It was a long ride to Mount Kailash, and the ascetics there; and Lord Siva alone knew how many ages before he was reunited with Kadru.

He dug his heels in the obliging horse’s sides. “As long as it takes,” he said aloud for all the forest to hear.

***

Mohini was distraught. She’d overturned the bloodstained mattress, pulled open the drawers and thrown out the contents of the almirah in the frugal camp lodgings of Kasyapa, but the dead snake was nowhere to be found. Kasyapa himself was absconding.

She rushed out, a mad gleam in her eyes, and caught the camp manager by the scruff of his neck.

“Where’s the school teacher?” She demanded, shaking him roughly. “Whatever happened to the snake?” The young blighter, whose nose was nearly crushed upon Mohini’s olive-tinted bosom, couldn’t but help approve the ample cleavage, glistening with the sweat of her exertions, and its rapid swell and ebb. She smelled of divine fragrance too – no doubt she’d been to a temple that morning. Easily dwarfed by her passion, to him, her strength, for one so sensuous and slender, was gross.

“I will look for him in the camp, Madam. He must’ve taken the snake out to bury it. He, he seemed quite taken in by it,” the Manager fumbled.

“Go look for him then, scoundrel – what’re you doing gaping here,” she said, covering her chest with the edge of her sari and pushing him away.

She paced about in front of Kasyapa’s tent, afraid to miss him should he return, though, as the sun stole from behind the hills, bathing the valley and the river in its crimson shades, she grew doubtful of that possibility. The camp was fast becoming a riot of color and sound: an old peacock strutted about the grassy glades, spreading out his gorgeous plumes to the morning sun, while three or four more sober-colored peahens ran about, fussily looking for tit-bits. The peacock suddenly lowered his train, and his dusky wives glided into cover, as the Manager returned shortly; and as Mohini feared, quite empty-handed. And apparently, having recovered from the roughing up he’d received, looking quite composed and impatient now.

He cleared his throat and raised his collar, and summoning to help the self-respect and authority, which, being the head of that elite establishment was vested in him, announced that his search had neither yielded snake nor man. “And now, Madam, if you’ll please, I have a camp to run,” he said, making it clear that he didn’t understand what all the fuss about a grownup man probably taking fresh air and keeping the environment clean of dead cobras was all about. He turned on his heel and was about to stride off but Mohini called after him.

“Oye, Manager Sahib,” she said, coating her voice in honey, “stay some – you know, we urbanites – how distressing it can be to see a snake. I’m sorry, I got carried away.” She leaned forward, letting her sari slip off her shoulder so that he could see all the way down her blouse; and wrapping her long arms around his neck, adjusted his collar and patted the shirt down his back – her hands carelessly leaving off where his buttocks started. The mannish boy sucked in his breath as he got smothered against her loveliness.

“Chai, madam?” He preened, “we make lovely tea with cardamom and goat milk.”

“Lovely it is, then.” Mohini drew him by the hand to a canvas camp stool, and seated him down gently. She lingered by his side, rubbing a taut thigh against his arm before taking a seat opposite him. Looking deep into his eyes, she swayed slightly, till he was fully under the spell of her bare shoulders and bee-stung lips.

“So where is he?” she asked, rolling limpid brown eyes at the gaping boy.

“He’s not on the campsite.”

“I can see that. Where’s he vanished – with the snake?”

“One of the staff says he might have seen him take off at dawn in the direction of the hills on Manjhi’s horse. He – he had a white bundle in his lap.”

The snake – so he’s going to perform her last rites, she mused. If Kadru’s soul finds peace, it’ll be ready to take on another vestment – a rebirth. And if that happened, Kasyapa would go on chasing after her, life after life, till he reunited with her. And then perhaps with penance and prayer, end the misery of their endless cycle of rebirth. This business of reincarnation and chasing after the incorrigible lovebirds was getting tiring for her. She especially shuddered to recall her last life as a flycatcher bird – there were a ridiculous number of flies out there in the country to catch. But it was her mission on earth to rid the undeserving snakes of that priceless possession they had – the Nagmani stone – the harbinger of absolute power, eternal youth, and infinite fortune. And if they vanished, the stone would be put forever out of her reach. She had to catch the fool Kasyapa – who wouldn’t have her – before he disappeared into any of the countless life forms God had arranged in a vulgar banquet in this world.

“How must I hie after him,” she asked. “The jungle is a dangerous place for a schoolteacher to be gamboling in.”

“Sheykha – the Shikari’s son. He can get on the schoolteacher’s trail and retrieve him.”

“And where does one find this – Sheykha?” she turned up her nose and pronounced the name with distaste.

“He lives in the Gond village on a cliff in the jungle,” the boy replied, waving his arm aimlessly. “They’re stealing, murdering knaves. A woman like you – it’s not safe.” He trembled at the thought.

“It won’t be safe if I stayed here – for a boy like you,” she said, and strode off to her tent.

***

It was arranged then, that a staff boy would escort Mohini till the edge of the village where Sheykha lived, and then peel off. Two surefooted steeds were arranged to bring the riders up the steep narrow path leading to the cliff where the village was treacherously perched. After ordering a junior teacher to take the school kids home, Mohini set off for the village.

It was a mud and thatch, comfortless affair, with huts in two uneven rows: sundry animals, birds, and reptiles sharing the squalor with humans. They passed both men and women occupied in a cocktail of trades: a bird catcher, a tinsmith, a potter, a carver, a herder and others engaged with primitive tools in the crude business of living. The men seemed content with a waist-cloth and a wisp of a turban round the head, and all carried a little axe with which they knocked over game, cut down trees, built their houses, carved their meat, and even, Mohini suspected, shaved themselves. Even though Mohini had taken care to dress in a school-prescribed field uniform – a khaki ensemble of rough cargos and tunic, with a jute hat that covered her from head to toe – it didn’t stop the men from ogling at her, and dressing her naked in their dirty minds. They laughed and catcalled after her, their mangy curs barking at the horses’ heels.

Manjhi’s hut was set apart from the others, on a higher ground, perhaps an honor grudged to the renowned Shikari of these parts. The natives had said his aim was deadly, his seat on a horse sure; his gun was his Gulam, his slave.

His son, Sheykha sat on a jute charpoy in the verandah, sharpening a wooden lance with his scythe. He was a lithe, active savage, spare and wiry. Though younger than Mohini expected, she found him just what she would have supposed him to be; there was something greyhound-like about him, a snaky suppleness and a restless sharp eye, which augured well for his reputed skill and the task she had in mind.

He scowled as Mohini stepped over his threshold. A small wicker basket of gifts, containing army rum and cigarettes overcame the lad’s hostility, however. The fragile charpoy sank somewhat as Mohini sat at its corner. “I come from the campsite by the river,” she explained.

The boy nodded, turning over the cigarette pack in his rough hands, smelling the tobacco. “Where’s Manjhi – your father,” she asked.

“He’s out in the jungle with one of yours,” the boy answered, shying to look at her.

“Well, the man he was with returned last night, but not your father.”

The boy shrugged and gave a toothy grin. “The jungle is his.”

“I’ve reason to believe your father may have come to harm.”

“Why?” a glint stole into the boy’s eyes, as he looked at her directly now.

“Because your father’s steed returned to the camp alone. There was blood on this schoolteacher’s clothes, and in his tent, when we saw him this morning. Now he’s made off with your father’s horse.”

The boy stood up in rage. “My father’s horse would never leave him – and there’s no man or animal that can harm my father in this place,” he said, taking in the land around him in an expansive wave of his arms.

“You don’t know this one – this schoolteacher. He’s as wild as your jungle and more.”

The boy sneered. “A Masterji! Bah! The horse and its rider will find their way back on their own terms. Why have you come here, woman?”

“I have to find this man – I need you to come with me. Along the way, we can see what befell Manjhi.”

“Father doesn’t need any finding,” he scoffed. “And as far as this schoolteacher is concerned, he’s your problem.”

“There’s no one in this place who’ll help me then?” Mohini removed her hat and let her brown tresses wave about her shoulders. Her cheeks were pink and moist with perspiration; she undid a few buttons on her shirt and blew on her glistening chest. The simple gesture seemed to create an impression on the boy; he gaped at her long neck and slender collarbones. She smelled fresh, like a watered flowerbed of jasmine and gardenia; his squalid house seemed to light up in her presence. He rubbed his grimy hands on his knees and suddenly seemed aware of the goat droppings, the half-burnt logs and ashes from the stove scattered on the unswept floor. He shifted uncomfortably on the creaking, frayed cot.

“I will pay you handsomely for your pains,” she said, pressing a wad of notes in his closed fist. She caressed his hand till he uncurled his fingers to accept the money.

“Why do you want the man?”

“For the same reason as you – revenge. He’s made off with something very precious that belongs to me.”

“Why would I seek quarrel with this Masterji?” he spat.

“Because, I’m sure he’s had a falling out with your father in some way; else, wouldn’t Manjhi have returned home by now? Isn’t he on contract with the camp – can he vanish when he’s on the clock?”

The boy shook his head, muttering something uncouth as he fingered the notes. “I’m not worried about Father – he might be staking out a tiger. It’s your thief you want, we’ll go find him. Nothing escapes me in this land.”

Mohini leaned over and clasped the boy in a tight embrace, pressing her breasts against his bony shoulder, letting his imagination run wild with the possibilities that lay ahead in the journey among the vast solitudes.

***

They left at the crack of dawn the next day.

The boy who was half naked till yesterday, was formally clad this morning in the dress of a Shikari: a loose-fitting suit of rugged drill (no doubt belonging to his father – both had nearly the same lanky build,) dyed with the barks of the mango and babul trees in a sort of olive greenish-brown; the shoulders were protected by pieces of leather to bear the friction of the rifle; leather-lined pockets in front held a small powder flask, caps, and balls sewed up in a greased cloth; and a short bladed dagger attached to a broad belt of Sambar leather completed his attire, which savored more of the backwoods than of civilization.

They first rode to the camp where the manager pointed out the direction Kasyapa was seen heading on Manjhi’s horse. The small winding track led to a shallow crossing in the stream and then up the hills where the mists lay like cotton candy puffs. The boy observed the ground and overhead branches closely, often getting down to examine a broken twig here and a footprint there. Every bent stick or cropped blade of grass caught his eye as they rode along the jungle path.

They finally came upon the pool where Manjhi had met his nemesis in Kadru. The waters were placid, with no hint of the tragedies it had ever been witness to – nature was on course and life in the wild had moved on. Wild ducks in countless numbers thronged the calm bosom of the waters, or circled round and round in the air preparatory to settling down. Along the edges stalked long-legged cranes, with their crimson heads and stately carriage, towering above the smaller storks and ibises around them. Here and there a solitary heron stood motionless, watching for an unwary fish. Stilts and sandpipers hunted along the oozy margin for their food, and the elegant jacana glided swiftly over the leaves of the water lilies.

The dagger was still buried in Manjhi’s neck, and wild animals had gnawed off most of his skull, bones and flesh. What remained intact of him were the bloodstained flintlock and boots; next to his scattered vestiges were Kasyapa’s notebook and pencil with which he’d taken notes just before the cobra attacked Manjhi.

The boy had swung off his horse and was kneeling on the ground in mute disbelief; his grief seemed trapped inside him. He gathered the moist dirt and leaves in his hands and splattered his face and chest with them. Then his body began to shake and he let out a blood-curdling scream that sent the birds scrambling into the skies. Torrents of anguish gushed out from his body and he wailed and wept like the child he was. He’d been orphaned; it was as if Manjhi’s dagger had wedged in his soul. The boy flung himself to the ground and twisted and shook in agony, unashamed of venting his sorrow.

Mohini tethered both their horses to a tree and stood watching the boy coolly from a distance. She noticed a still smoldering mound of branches and leaves under the mighty Bunyan, next to which was cast a white towel with the markings of the camp – she guessed Kasyapa had passed this way, and completed Kadru’s last rites. Now, with her soul at rest, she would be ready to take on new flesh.

After a while, she walked over to where Sheykha lay and squatted on the field beside him. She put his head in her lap and stroked his head. The hysteric boy calmed down gradually, regaining his senses and pride somewhat. They were like that for a long time, Mohini letting the boy become mindful of his loss and wrongdoing in peace. There was never with her now or later an ‘I told you so’ moment – she knew the boy knew. The boy nearly dozed off in her lap, and when the first rays of sun slanted over the ridgeline and warmed them, he shook himself and rose. He tottered to the pool and washed himself. He removed a small canvas mat from his saddle and quietly gathered the remains of his dead father. Clutching the little bundle in his hand, he mounted his horse and set off back for the village.

Mohini untied her mount and followed at a distance. They reached the village by noon. The boy rode straight to the village square, where a cement platform had been constructed around a huge Peepul for gatherings and worship, and placed the remains of his father at the root of the tree. The villagers, sensing what must have transpired, had begun to gather around them, forming a tight silent circle close by.

The boy rose and turning toward the crowd said, “This here is my proud father, the best Shikari the world ever knew. Please help me cremate him so that I can cast his ashes in the holy Narmada – for I am left with no one else.” With that his knees buckled under him and he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

***

Manjhi was cremated at dawn the next day on the burning ghats on the River Khoka. Mohini, who’d insisted on staying over for the night, was lodged in the headman’s house in the ladies quarters. The river, placid, and on course to be swallowed by the ocean, lapped at her unshod feet. The incessant wail of mantras on the ghats didn’t ring; it vibrated, like a cosmic howl, churning up grief and ache. The stench of burning corpses swirled around them, and Mohini could feel the heat of their dying embers cooking the eyeballs inside the skulls. Never having quite experienced a decent cremation in her endless iterations of birth and death, it was as if she herself had been struck a crumbling blow of the Dom’s staff, dispatching her soul on its next flight to another mortal abode.

The Dom, the undertaker assigned to Sheykha was explaining the procedure to him; “No matchsticks may be used on these Ghats; I will give you the straw, lighted from this flame to light the pyre. The first five logs to burn the corpse will be provided by the Doms, and the rest by the relatives. Clear?”

So fascinated was Mohini by the orange-red flames swirling wraithlike from the pyres, she lapsed into a reverie. She was shaken awake when the Dom addressed Sheykha, shouting above the crackling logs and the resonance of mantras. “Here, boy, drive it in hard and deep.” The Dom was handing Sheykha his staff, to ram in Manjhi’s skull hard so that his soul could escape the fleshly garb and find dwelling in another being. Sheykha shoved the staff awkwardly, managing no more than upsetting the arrangement of logs, and sending a brilliant shower of embers billowing up. The Dom, his eyes bloodshot, his arms scarred by fire, grumbled and grabbed his staff back, and with no pretenses of genteelness, expertly proceeded to crush in the blazing head.

Mohini watched as the logs crackled and crushed the body under their crumbling weight, while the Dom poked, and added stubble and wood as needed, to ensure the body burnt completely. The brave Shikari, Mohini thought, would be reduced to bone-chips and ashes by the grey of dawn.

***

After the customary four days of mourning, Sheykha stalked out from his hut. He’d shaved his head; he moved silently through the village, distributing Prasad, and alms to the priests; but there was a fire in his eye that the people could not understand. “The spirit of the tiger has entered into him,” they said; and the maidens and children shrank from him as he approached.

When he was done, he sought Mohini from the headman’s house. “Are you ready,” he asked, mounted on his horse on the dusty, dung covered path. She nodded, and together they set off into the jungle to seek Kasyapa and deliver him from his misery.

***

That Kasyapa had had a couple of days’ head start before them didn’t seem to worry the Shikari; yes, that’s what he was going to be called now, and not ‘the Shikari’s son,’ or ‘Manjhi’s protégé.’

He’d been brought up in the jungle, and he was as wild as they came. And in his fledgling youth, he already had plenty to show for it. The deep scars on his neck told of a desperate struggle with a panther, which had brought him near to death's door; others on his body and chest bore witness to a dreadful encounter with a wounded bison. At such times, when he lay on a bed of pain hovering between life and death, he would declare that he would give up the hunter's life; but when he got better and began to clean out his rusting matchlock, the old jungle fit would come on with the smell of the powder, and he would be off again as soon as he could travel. Many and many a time has he gone up to the magistrate's office and cast down his load of skins—tigers', panthers', and bears', —for the Government reward, and a long list of payments made to him exists in the records to this day. Sheykha was already well known by many on the road. There was hardly a village in the vicinity where he had not lodged on a tiger slaying expedition with his father, and many were the greetings he got and looks of wonder from the stalwart Gondian damsels, who, with their sturdy bare limbs, tattooed with elaborate patterns, strode Amazon-like after their less athletic-looking lords.

They made good time, riding till noon and thereafter at dusk till well past midnight when it was cool in the jungle. They quickly ran out of their stock of dried mutton and chicken, as they’d left in a hurry; but the jungle, and the hospitable tribal that they came across on the way, were more than a steady source of nourishment for the travelers.

As they lay exhausted on a bed of leaves and mulch one night, ready for a dreamless sleep that comes easily to the weary traveler, Mohini heard a whispering. She rose on her elbows and peered around, but there was nothing in the black wilderness. She lay down and kept still, her heart hammering in her chest – and the unmistakable sound came again – someone calling her. She turned and saw Sheykha already fast asleep, snoring softly, and rose slowly, careful not to let any dry leaves or hard-shelled snails crunch beneath her.

She tiptoed barefoot over to a grove whence she’d heard the sound. There, against the silhouette of the mango trees, she saw a scrawny, naked man, completely smeared in holy ashes, standing still on one leg. The dreadlocks on his head were tied roughly in a large bun, and the hair on his face and chest was matted in thick curls. All he had was a conch shell and a rusty trident tied with saffron colored ribbons.

She approached him and fell prostrate at his feet. The Sadhu silently bent down, grasped her shoulders and raised her.

“Pranam (salutations,) Bhola Baba,” she whispered.

The man, on a perpetual fast of silence, placed a hand on her forehead in blessings. As she stood bowed before him with folded hands, the Naga Sadhu grasped her temples to show her a vision. She closed her eyes and saw what she’d already guessed – Kasyapa mourning for Kadru and lighting her funeral pyre under the Bunyan by the pool. And as Kasyapa continued on his journey through the jungle; onward on his march toward the holy Kailash Mount for penance and a blessing from Lord Siva – the eternal destroyer – for rebirth and union with his love; another vision appeared.

Kasyapa, she saw, bends down, to drink before a black rock, curiously the shape of a lingam, or the divine phallus that procreated life, through which trickles crystal clear water; and in his cupped hands appears a pale-green light-emitting stone – the priceless treasure – the Nagmani. The Lord reveals the snakestone to the snake man.

“I will snare him, Prabhu (O, holy one,) with my gourd pipe, and kill him. Then the Nagmani will be ours forever,” she said.

The mendicant shook his head vigorously, his matted tresses flying about like hammock ropes. He gripped her temples again to convey his message: “If you kill him, the stone will be rendered useless: bright and exquisite, but just a cold rock. There are rituals to be performed by him to manifest the Nagmani with its powers – he alone must complete the rites. The rituals will be revealed to him, like the stone was, as you just saw, when the time comes. So you must let him live till then. But you must hurry, for he’s only a night away from the fringes of the forest; and once he comes out, it will be difficult to catch him in the wide open plains where the winds will hasten him northwards to the mountains. And with each passing moment, as you waste time, he’ll fathom the stone’s powers and become formidable – then, to vanquish him, will be well nigh impossible. Even I’ll not be able to help you.”

“I will hurry, my mentor,” Mohini murmured – the Sadhu could read her thoughts; there wasn’t any need for loud utterances.

“Tathastu (so be it,)” expressed the Sadhu, and vanished.

Mohini had met the powerful Bhola Baba when she’d renounced the world and was in prayer at the mystic Kamakhya Temple, the abode of deadly tantrics, mystics and sorcerers. There, impressed with both her ethereal beauty and abject servitude, he’d taken her under his wings, and guided her through several births to inveigle the snake stone from the blessed couple. She was the instrument through which they could wield unlimited mystic powers over all of God’s creation.

Mohini darted a quick look around the darkness; all was still except for the mellow call of a golden oriole, which now and then resounded through the grove, and occasionally, like a bright meteor, the bird itself darted through the gloom of the overhanging branches of the mango trees. Mohini hurried back to where she’d left Sheykha sleeping. One night and one day was all she had to make contact with Kasyapa and extract the stone from him. She lay down beside Sheykha on the bed of canvas groundsheet spread over soft earth and leaves, and waited for the dawn to break.

***

Mohini dozed off toward later part of the night, and early next morning, the busy stirring of a ladle awoke her. Sheykha was up and dressed already, looking freshly shaved and ready for his quarry. A small fire had been pressed into service; in a copper pot on the boil were some lentils, onions, potatoes, tomatoes, and antelope meat, all thrown in together unceremoniously; while Sheykha busied himself with pouring and re-pouring of milk tea in an aluminum kettle so that it became thick, creamy and frothy.

The dawn was fragrant with the morning smells of breakfast on the table, and crisp freshness of the jungle air. She could hear the cawing of the crows, and the faint clarion of distant village cocks. The yellow clouds had come out in good earnest, and the eastern sky glowed with crimson and gold.

“How much time before we reach Kasyapa?” she asked. The sugary tea was rich and heavily spiced with cardamom and fennel seeds. In her brief time with the Gonds, she’d grown accustomed to the intense flavors they imbued all their food in – either very spicy or very sugary – from setting your nostrils on fire to traumatizing your teeth with syrupiness, nothing was bland or boring in the cuisine. Innocent of culinary skills, this was the only way the Gonds knew to make their food tasty, and memorable.

He held up a watch in his hands – the glint of a sunray piercing through the canopy bounced off its glass; and then, rubbing it against his shirt, he replaced it in his pocket carefully. “Before noon,” he declared, sipping the tea loudly from a cracked saucer. “When we collect more souvenirs today.”

Mohini watched as the boy pocketed the souvenir, but showed no sign that she’d recognized it as being Kasyapa’s. A hasty toilet behind the shrubs, a few splashes on the face from a nearby puddle, and a hurried detangling of the hair with a handmade buffalo-horn comb: and Mohini was fixed for the ride. Even without the modern devices of powder and paint, her fresh complexion showed that the jungle sun had not as yet had time to turn the roses of the old country into tan.

After the meal, they rode out for a few hours. Along the banks of the nullahs the Jasmine was bursting forth into blossom; the climbing asparagus was filling the air with its fragrance; and the splendid flowers of the huge pelargonium made gay the scene. But the riders – little time they had to admire the beauty around them – pressed on with their journey.

Around when the sun had just begun peeping from above the treetops, Sheykha turned up his nose in the air and halted. Each footfall on the ground, seemed to the sharp eye of the Shikari, stamped in hot iron. He slithered down from his mount and treaded silently behind a tuft of coarse grass that grew by the side of the path. Motionless he lay for a minute or two, cautiously peering through the cover in front of him. Mohini stopped at a distance and led the horses to a clearing where they were glad to slake their thirst in a small creek, and munch on tall grass. She crawled back to where Sheykha lay, observing the goings on in the small clearing ahead.

Kasyapa sat on the ground before a fire, which flared up in a brilliant blaze each time he tossed fistful oblations of cow’s ghee, camphor, turmeric, rice and other ingredients in it. He droned a steady chant of mantras: “Om Aing Hring Kling Chamundaye Vichhe,” which Mohini understood instantly as being invocative of the fire deity. The method had revealed itself to Kasyapa, and the shiny Nagmani that lay by his side, ensconced on a twisted black cloth, was being manifested with divine powers.

The Shikari noticed only his prey: in his single-minded vision, all else was blanked out. He drew out of his wallet the flint and steel, and gently striking a spark on the end of the slow match, slid off the lid of the pan and put in a fresh pinch of priming powder. All was done as deliberately as if there was no need to hurry – and indeed there was not. Men bred to a forest life learn much from the beasts of prey, and amongst other things the force of that great truth, stillness. So Sheykha waited patiently. The long barrel was carefully pushed through the grass, and the hunter lay perfectly still. He also loosened his long knife in its sheath, ready for action if it were needed. Revenge was his; he licked his lips in anticipation of the kill.

As Sheykha raised the sight and peered across the muzzle, he felt a soft hand creep up on his back. He smelled the jasmine on Mohini’s hair as it tickled his nape. “ Wait out a bit – let him finish his prayers – it’s not auspicious to kill him now,” she whispered in his ear.

The boy spat. “Was it a propitious hour when he killed my father? – Did he wait for the planets to be in perfect harmony when he took his life?” He shrugged off her hand as it snaked around his shoulder, and took aim. He felt the pressure of her breasts easing on his back as she withdrew. Sheykha readjusted the butt on his shoulder and curled his finger around the trigger. A moment later, he felt a stinging pain in his chest; he cried out but Mohini’s hand had cupped his mouth, stifling the sound of death as her dagger plunged deep in his heart.

The long flintlock fell from his hands and he fell face down in the bush. Mohini grabbed his hair and turned his face around. “He’s not yours to take – he’s mine, Shikari. He’s beyond you – way above your pay grade, you pathetic, mangy boy,” she said as his eyes rolled up in his head. Then she raised her arm and struck the dagger in his heart once more, holding up his head by the hair till the last breath had passed his nostrils.

Mohini crouched away from the body and peered through the scrub, waiting patiently for Kasyapa to culminate the holy rituals. When he was done, and the fire was out, in its place white smoke hissing up toward the skies, she stepped out of the bush; and putting her Pungi pipe to the lips, began to play.

Kasyapa – his back to her – stiffened as the monotonous, soporific tone wafted out to him. He clutched his hands to his ears but the music wouldn’t be kept out – he went down on all fours and tried to crawl away as Mohini, in a swaying, mesmerizing gait ambled toward him, never letting the overwhelming melody rest. Kasyapa collapsed on the ground, unable to feel or move his limbs, as Mohini stood over him, swaying with the gourd pipe. She stretched down, and reached for the Nagmani clasped in his fist.

In her air of self-assurance, she didn’t see the other arm of Kasyapa rise behind her as she bent over him. As she tried to pry open his fingers, Kasyapa’s other hand encircled her throat. She gave him a look of surprise as he jumped to his feet, and raised her off the ground with one arm. He pocketed the stone and threw away her pipe.

His eyes had the faraway, detached look of men, stoics, who’ve made contact with a higher being. As her breath was choking, she realized he had an aura about him. Kasyapa smiled. “You forget; I’ve the Nagmani now, infused with all its holy power. You were taken in by my pretension – your pipes have no effect on me now – I just wanted to draw you out, witch.”

“We’re all the same, snake,” she spluttered, “hankering after the same goods.”

“Yes, but the difference is, you covet the stone – I don’t – it’s entrusted to me for safekeeping, and that’s all there’s to it. While your greed craves the power and riches it promises.” He let her down on the ground and eased his grip on her throat to let her breathe.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with these powers, lowly reptile – leave it to the humans who may apply it to its full potential.”

“For what – for the common good – or for your own enrichment?”

“I’ve pined after it for as many ages as you’ve after Kadru – foolish, smitten snake. Forget her, have me now, I will bear your human children – let’s live. Eternal and indestructible.”

“Would I punish myself with an eternity of longing for my love? And you: renowned sanayasin, brilliant scholar, beauty unparalleled, loved of the gods – you scorn everything within your reach and fall on evil ways?”

“It is how it is, the journey has been far too long to stop, or turn now, my dear schoolteacher,” She gurgled.

“You’ll never stop chasing us, will you?” he asked, a shadow of disappointment fleeting his face. “You will not let us in peace.”

Mohini shook her head and laughed.

“You would take rebirth, even if I killed you now, wouldn’t you?”

“That is how it is written – our fates. We are powerless before our destiny – you and me, and Kadru.”

“Not if I separate your body – not if you could not be cremated as a whole.”

A look of alarm crossed Mohini’s eyes. “How do you mean?” she asked, a tremor in her voice.

“I mean this –,” he said, wrenching off her head from her torso with his bare hands. He left the twitching, shaking body on the reddening ground, and clutching her head walked over to his horse. He hung Mohini’s head by her hair on his saddle, and set off toward the mountains.

On the way, as he emerged from the jungle at long last, he cast the head, still contorted in a ghastly grimace, in a deep gorge of the holy River Narmada, as it thundered below on its journey to embrace the ocean. He never looked back as the head tossed on the jutting crags and boulders before finally plunging into the roaring river.

***

As the horse and the rider climbed down into the open valley below and vanished out of sight, a scruffy, scrawny man emerged from the woods. In one hand he clutched the arm of a headless torso, which he dragged after him. Silent tears had cut lines where they’d flowed down his ash smeared, grief-stricken face. Bhola Baba looked down from the steep cliff where the head had fallen down, and hauling Mohini’s torso over his back, prepared to climb down the jagged rocks to retrieve it from the river.

***

The End