Killing fields: Confronting an Afghan-like situation in the backyard

This morning (Saturday), a snake has been found in the strip garden at the back of my house in Gurgaon. Last year around the same time, another had made a rather slow, thoughtful appearance. That one, Ram Singh (the guard: tall, scrawny, grey-uniformed, who sometimes cycles around with a long country-made rifle) had managed to beat to death with the help of 12 other guards.

They had filed through the house much in the fashion of a Hollywood crime thriller, revolvers and guns cocked, showing commando signs to each other, until they had cornered the snake, which Ram Singh said was a spitting cobra, though I did not believe that was the case.

But you don’t argue with Ram Singh in these matters. If he turned out to be right, it is no good to you, because you could be already dead.

Ram Singh was reading a newspaper and commenting on the Afghanistan crisis to (“some countries can’t be governed, Yusuf”) his friend the dhobi, a young man whose right hand was in a sling, because he had recently gone to his village and got into a fight over the best vaccine (Covishield or Covaxin?) and his opponent had won the argument by breaking Yusuf’s hand.

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“There’s a snake in the garden,” I said to Ram Singh.

Ram Singh put down his paper, looked up, and said: “Again?” He put the paper down. “It’s a mess in Kabul, a mess. Do they really think they can fly out all those Afghans to Europe and America? There will be more deaths for sure.’

“It’s a large snake.”

“And the US president crying! The Taliban reduced him to tears!!” Ram Singh shook his head. “A leader should never cry in public. Modiji never cried when China attacked us.”

“Modiji cried,” Yusuf said.

“But not when China attacked us.”

“Everybody cries.” Yusuf said looking at his broken hand.

“A real man never cries.”

“Ram Singh?”

“Ever thought why only you have these visitors?”

“No”

“Directly behind your backyard, there are development activities. And there is shade in your garden. All those displaced wild animals are seeking shelter.” He picked up his gun. “The other reason is your karma. Are you a bad man?”

“I was a journalist.”

“You were editor types?”

“Sort of?”

“That’s what I meant by karma. Because, it’s not just snakes, you know.”

A few months ago, a rather large and lithe country monitor lizard had made an entry into the garden and overstayed its welcome. Its photo was widely circulated and drew many awestruck reactions as from some angles it did look monstrously big, like an alligator. A Community Affairs reporter had called up to do a feature (Alligator in Ansal Esencia) and had to be discouraged and later threatened with COVID-19 infection before he switched his attention to reporting other things from his window.

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Well, Ram Singh came with his gun. “Remember what we did with the last snake?”

“We buried him next to the drainpipe and poured some cement into the hole?”

“I think it’s the same snake.”

“That snake must be dead.”

“Haha,” Ram Singh laughed. “They thought they had the Taliban on the run in Afghanistan. The world is not what you think, Saheb.”

“Do you need people? Like the last time.”

“No, I will manage.”

Ram Singh raised his enormous gun and did the Hollywood drill, and we found ourselves looking at the snake nearly rearing on its tail and the scared birds making a racket. Ram Singh trembled. Or maybe it was me. I was trembling so much that the earth shook.

“It’s not a good idea to shoot the snake, Ram Singh,” I whispered so the snake could not hear. I had remembered the good lesson from the November 2008 Taj attacks that if the aggressor had access to the live reports against them, it, well, helps them.

“You are confusing me,” Ram Singh said, his voice shook more than his hand. “This is the problem with Afghanistan. Either you destroy or just leave it altogether. If you don’t kill, this snake will take over this place.”

“No one has won in Afghanistan, ever,” I said.

“Do you want to win here?” He turned to look at me.

The snake took, as it were, a step back and crept up the wall and disappeared. It was a fast snake. The kind of snake Bruce Lee would have liked to catch before he warmed up to the real thing.

“Ram Singh, put the gun down,” I said. The gun was pointing straight at my face.

“You are looking very brave now, Saheb. Has the snake gone?”

“Yes.”

Ram Singh relaxed.

We went back through the hallway out toward the gate.

“Thank you, Ram Singh.”

“I would have finished it off. The goddam snake,” Ram Singh said.

“It’s my journalism,” I nodded.

Yusuf was waiting outside. He had a black little metal box in his hand.

“You forgot this,” he said and opened the box. There was a bullet in it.

Also read: Can you trust the US as an ally, after Afghanistan?

Ram Singh turned to me without batting an eyelid and said, “See what I mean? When you shoot, shoot to kill.”

“In Afghanistan?”

“Everywhere.”

“But there was no bullet in your gun.”

“Did I shoot?”

Ram Singh slipped the box in his trousers’ pocket. He put an arm around Yusuf’s shoulder and walked toward his little guardhouse at the end of the lane.

I forgot to offer him a cup of tea, I thought, and went back in.

(C. P. Surendran’s novel One Love And the Many Lives of Osip B published by Niyogi Books is out on the stands now, and also available on Amazon)

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