The serpent is a friend or an enemy. If he is a friend, he lives with you, guarding your riches, protecting your health, and making you holy, and if he is an enemy, he slips through the kitchen gutter or through the granary tiles, or better still through the byre’s eaves, and rushing towards you, he spreads his hood and bhoos, he flings himself at you and if he is a quarter-of-an-hour one you die in a quarter of an hour, a three-fourths-of-an-hour one, you die in three-fourths of an hour, and you may know it by the number of stripes he has on his hood, for one means a quarter of an hour, two half an hour, and three three-fourths, but beyond that you can never live; unless of course there is a barber in the village who is so learned in the mysteries of animal wisdom that he stands near, a jug of water in one hand and a cup of milk in the other, chanting weird things in hoarse voices, with strange contortions of the face, and then Lord Naga slips through the gutter, tiles or eaves, exactly as he went out, and coming near the barber like a whining dog before its frenzied master, touches the wounded man at exactly the spot where he has injected his venom, and sucking back the poison, spits it into the milk-cup, and like a dog too, slowly first, timidly, hushed, he creeps over the floor, and the further he goes the greater he takes strength, and when he is near the door, suddenly doubles his speed, and slips away — never to be seen again. The barber is paid three rupees, a shawl, and coconut with betel-leaves, and, for you, a happy life with your wife and children, not to speak of the studied care of an attentive mother-in-law, and the fitful grumblings of that widow of a sister who does not show even a wink of gratitude for all your kindness. But, never mind, for the important thing is that you are alive. May you live a thousand years!

But the story I’m going to tell you is the story of a serpent when he is a friend. It was recounted to me one monsoon evening last June, by Old Venkamma, Plantation Subbayya’s mother. May those who read this be beloved of Naga, King of Serpents, Destroyer of Ills.

Vision Rangappa, the first member of the family, belonged to Hosur near Mysore, and was of humble parents. His father and mother had died when he was hardly a boy of eighteen, and being left alone he accepted to be a pontifical Brahmin — the only job for one in his condition. People liked his simple nature, the deference in his movements, and the deep gravity of his voice; and whenever there were festivals or obsequies to be performed, they invited him to dinner. And when he had duly honoured them with his Brahmanic presence, and partaken of the holy meal, they gave him half an anna and a coconut, for his pontifical services. But nobody ever suspected that the money was never used, and that it went straight into a sacred copper pot, sealed with wax at the top, and with a slit in the lid. Six pies a week, or sometimes one anna a week, could become a large amount some day. For he secretly hoped that one auspicious morning he would leave this village and start towards Kashi, on pilgrimage. That was the reason why he had refused bride after bride, some beautiful as new-opened guavas, and others tender as April mangoes, and some too with dowries that could buy over a kingdom. ‘No,’ he would tell himself, ‘not till I have seen the beautiful Kashi-Vishweshwara with my own eyes. Once I have had that vision, I will wed a holy wife and live among my children and children’s children.’ Thus resolved, every day he calculated how much money there would be in the holy pot — it would be a sin to open it! — and every day he said to himself that in one year, in nine months, six months, in three months, or maybe in two fortnights, he would leave this little village and start off on his great pilgrimage.

And it so happened that there was a sudden epidemic which swept across the whole country, and nearly every house had one or two that disappeared into the realm of Brahma. So, Hosakere Rangappa — who was not yet Vision Rangappa — made nearly ten times the money in less than a month, and besides, as three rich families offered him a cow each in honour of the departed spirits, he determined to sell them back and pour gold into the holy pot. ‘What shall I do with these cattle?’ he explained to the donors, ‘I have neither field nor byre. I pray you, imagine you have given them to me, and pay me in return whatever gold you may think fit.’ And they paid him in pies of copper, rupees of silver, and mohurs of gold, and he put the copper and the silver and the gold into the holy pot. He lifted it up. It weighed enormously. It weighed as though there was nothing but solid gold in it. He went into the village temple, fell prostrate before the gods, and having asked the blessings of the whole village — who offered him again half an anna each to honour him — he left the village under a propitious star, when the sun was touching the middle of the temple spire. He was happy, he was going to Kashi. He would bathe in the Ganges and have the supreme vision of Kashi-Vishweshwara. And then, purified of all sin, he would return home a holy man. They would receive him with conches and trumpets, and with a gold-bordered parasol. And as he walked along the road, all things seemed to wake up and weep that they too could not go along to Kashi with him. People passing in bullock carts — for there were no trains then — stopped and fell at his feet on seeing him garmented as one who goes to Kashi. They gave him rice and money, and some even gave him clothes. And thus Rangappa went from village to village, from town to town, towards the holy city of Kashi.

One day he arrived on the sparkling banks of the Hemavathy. He had his bath, did his evening meditation, and having drunk three handfuls of water, he went into the serai to sleep. And as he lay down he saw before him a bare, rocky hill, and the moonlight poured over it like a milk and butter libation. He was so overcome with fatigue that sleep crept gently over him. In the middle of the night he saw in his dream a beautiful vision. Kashi-Vishweshwara and his Holy Companion stood above his head, and spoke thus: ‘We have been touched by your indestructible devotion, and we show ourselves unto you that you may be protected from the blisters of pilgrim ploddings and the pinches of the weary spirit. You are sanctified by our holy presence. Your pilgrimage is now over. But on the top of the hill before you there raise unto us a temple that we may sprout through the earth and live for ever amidst unfailing worship. Your duty is to look after the temple, and generation after generation of your family will be beloved of us. May our blessings be on you.’ And the Holy Couple were lost through a choir of clouds.

The next morning when Rangappa had duly taken his bath in the river and had said his prayers, he went up the hill, feeling purified and exalted. On a rock at the very top, he saw the figure of Shiva as linga and Parvathi with her holy tress and crown, as though carved but yesternight, and yet how old, and shapeful and serene. He sat beside the Udbhavamurti [rock with the carved images], and meditated for twenty-one days without food, fruit or water. A shepherd boy discovered him, and rushing to the town cried out from end to end of the streets that a holy man had sat himself on the top of the hill in rapt meditation. People came with fruits and flowers and with many sweetly perfumed preparations of rice, pulses and flour, and placing them before him, begged of him to honour the humble ones with his blessings. He spoke unto them of his vision, and each one hurried down the hill and ran up back to the summit, bringing copper plates and silver plates and golden plates, and placed them before him. He touched the offerings, and asked them to build the temple. Four walls of stone rose above the rock before the sun had set, and Hosakere Rangappa — now become Vision Rangappa — sanctified the temple with hymns from the Atharva-veda. And the holy pot stood by the Holy Couple. It belonged to them.

The whole town rejoiced that Kashi-Vishweshwara and his Divine Companion had honoured their poor Subbehalli with their permanent presence. They gave dinners and organized processions, and renamed their village Kashipura. Vision Rangappa married the third daughter of Pandit Sivaramayya, and settled down in the village. And for fear the armies of the Red-man, which were battling then with the Sultan of Mysore, should rob them of the money-pot, he brought it home and, digging a hole beneath the family sanctum, put it there, and covered it over with mud and stone.

The next day, a huge three-striped cobra, with eyes like sapphire, and the jewel in the hood, lay curled upon the spot, for the cobra is the eternal guardian of sacred gold. And they called him Kanakapala — protector of gold.

Over a hundred years have now passed, and things have changed in Kashipura as all over the world. People have grown from boys to young men, from young men to men with children, and men to aged grandfathers, and some too have left for the woods to meditate, and others have died a common death, surrounded by wife and children, and children’s children. Others have become rich, after having begged in the streets; while some have become villains, though they were once the gentlest of the meek. And some — Shiva forgive them! — are lying eaten by disease though they were strong as bulls and pious as dedicated cows. Those who have become rich have children, those who have become wicked have children, and those who have become sick may have had children too, and after a hundred years, their children’s children are living to still see the Hemavathy hurl herself against the elephant-headed rock, and churning round the Harihara hills — just beneath the temple — leap forth into the breathful valleys, amidst gardens of mango and coconut, rice and sugarcane. Three times, they say, the Goddess Hemavathy has grown so furious with the sins of her children that she has risen in tempestuous rage, and swelling like a demon, swept away the trees, the crops, and the cattle — leaving behind sands where there was soil fine as powder of gold, and rock and stone where the mangoes stretched down as though to rest themselves on the soft green earth below. Coconut trees too were uprooted, and at least three houses were washed away, roofs and all, but that was some fifteen years ago — the last flood. Since then nothing very important has happened in Kashipura, unless of course you count among big events the untimely death of the old Eight-Verandahed-House Ghowdayya, the third marriage of the old widower Cardamom-Field Venkatesha, the sale of Tippayya’s mango garden, the elopement of Sidda’s daughter, Kenchi, with the Revenue Inspector’s servant. But — and here, as Old Venkamma told me the story, she grew more and more animated — the biggest event without doubt is the one I am going to tell you about, of how the Vision-House brothers, Surappa, the eldest, and Ranganna, the third brother, pushed, as they say, though nobody knows the entire truth to this day — pushed their second brother Seetharamu into the river — you know why? …to have gold …to have the gold of Kanakapala. Nobody speaks loudly of it, but who does not know they have drowned him? You had only to see how of late Kanakapala, who even when you accidentally put your foot on him lay quiet as a lamb, now spreads his hood, as soon as he discovers you, and was even heard to pursue the carpenter Ranga to the door. After all, my son, if Kanakapala did not know of it, who else could have discovered it, tell me? Of course I do not know the story. But this is what they say. Now listen! ‘You know, in the Vision-House, since the good old father Ramakrishnayya died, they had been trying to murder one another. Oh! to have had a father with a heart pure as the morning lotus, so pious, so generous, and venerable as a saint, that such a father should have children like this! Shiva, Shiva, bestow unto us Thy light! Well, after all, my son, who can save us from our karma? It was perhaps his karma to see his children turn base as pariahs, and quarrel like street-dogs. Of course as long as he lived, they never fought openly. They beat each other in the garden, or when the father had gone to the temple; and when they saw Ramakrishnayya they suddenly changed into calves, so mild, so soft, and so deferent. Once he caught Surappa the elder, and Ranganna the third — the same who were to commit the horrid deed — he caught them pulling the branch of the champak tree, when Seetharamu had gone up to pluck flowers for the morning worship. ‘What are you up to?’ Ramakrishnayya cried. ‘Nothing! Nothing!’ they answered, and stood trembling before him. ‘We are just going to play Hopping-monkey.’ ‘Hoppingmonkey! Why not have four more children, you pariahs, before playing Hopping-monkey!’ For, you must remember, at that time Surappa was twenty-six, married and had already two children, and Ranganna had just come back after his nuptials. Seetharamu had lost his wife in that horrible malarial fever, and was just intending to marry again. That happened when our little Ramu was going through his initiation ceremony — that is, some four years to next Dassera. Since that day, the father is supposed to have taken great care of Seetharamu, for he loved him the most — learned and obedient and respectful as he was — and he often took him to the temple, lest the worst happen at home. Good Ranganayakamma, Ramakrishnayya’s sister, was pretty old, and had for long been blind, and nobody would listen to her now. Of course, there was Sata, the widowed daughter, who could easily have taken care of Seetharamu. But she herself, as every woman in this village knows, was greedy, malicious, and clever as a jackal. They even said she had poisoned her husband because he was too old for her, and take my word, she was malignant minx enough to do it. Anyway, since she came back home, she has been more with Surappa, and Ranganna, than with Seetharamu. I wonder if everybody believes in it. Never, however, speak of it to anyone, my child, will you? But everybody says, the very first day she came home, she discovered how things were going there, and tried to poison Seetharamu. She even did poison him, they say, for, if you remember, he fell seriously ill soon after her arrival, and vomited nothing but blood — red blood, black blood and violet blood; and it was during that same week too we saw Kanakapala furious for the first time, and lying near Seetharamu’s bed, to guard him from further harm. How he lay there, quiet and awake, eyes shining like jewels, and the old, old skin dandruff-covered and parched, shrivelled like the castoff skin of a plantain. Somehow Kanakapala had an especial love for Seetharamu. When he was born, they say Kanakapala had slowly slipped into the room, and stealing into the cradle, had spread his hood over the child, and disappeared with the swiftness of lightning. No wonder Seetharamu was such a godlike boy. He must have been one of the chosen ones. He was always so smiling, so serene, so full of respect and affection. Why, if I had a daughter to marry, I would have given her away to him! Anyway, he married a good girl, and it is unfortunate she died before bearing him a child. It is so unfortunate.

‘However, to come back to the story. Surappa and Ranganna wanted somehow to kill Seetharamu, because they knew he would never think of digging out that gold their ancestors had offered to the gods. By the way, my son, do you know what they say about it? First, it was under the sanctum. Then it moved — under the earth, of course! — to the dining room, then later to the granary, and lastly it was under the lumber-room by the kitchen. Not that anyone knows about it, for sure. But wherever the serpent sleeps is the spot. If not, why should Kanakapala change places so often? And why does he not sleep always in the same place, once he has chosen his abode? Gold, you know, moves about from place to place lest the wicked find it. Only the holy ones can touch it. Seetharamu alone could go to the lumber-room, for Kanakapala knew the true from the false, as the rat knows the grain from the husk. Once, it was said, Surappa actually entered the lumber-room when Kanakapala was being fed with milk by Sata, and somehow — for the snakes have understanding where we human beings do not have — he knew of it, and spitting back the milk into the cup rushed to the spot, and having spread his hood hissed and bellowed and bit Surappa, without of course injecting any venom, for being of the temple it can never sting a Vision-House man. He yelled and ran into the kitchen. ‘What is it?’ cried Seetharamu, running to his brother’s rescue.

‘Nothing, nothing at all. When I was passing by the lumber-room, Kanakapala pursued me, though I’d done nothing. Perhaps he was just chasing his prey.’

Seetharamu hurried to the lumber-room, scolded Kanakapala angrily; and the poor fellow lay there quiet, curled and flat, and with wide-open eyes. He seemed tame as a dog. Since then Kanakapala has never pursued anybody. Somehow Seetharamu seemed to have commanded him not to. Oh! that he should have faith in these people! But, my son, who can ever imagine that your own brothers are going to murder you so that they may have the money — and holy money too! — holy money that your grandfathers have offered to the gods? Well, but the world is changing. We are living in Kali Yuga. And don’t they say, for every million virtuous men there were in the first Yuga, every thousand in the second, every hundred in the third, there is but one now? Unrighteousness becomes the master, and virtue is being trodden down. Oh, when our grandfathers were alive, how happily we lived. We bought a khanda of rice for half a rupee, and seven seers of ghee for a rupee. And now, you must beat your mouth and yell. Oh, to live in this poor, polluted world.

‘Anyway, Ramakrishnayya died. You know, Kanakapala lay by his corpse till they took him away. And when they had lifted up the corpse, Kanakapala spat out poison once, twice, thrice. That was how he showed his grief. And he never touched milk for three full days. Such was Kanakapala!

‘A week later the three brothers had begun to quarrel about the division of property. Each one said — though it is impossible to believe that Seetharamu could have said it — that he wanted the mango garden. They could not agree over it. First it was Surappa and Ranganna that had growled at each other. And when Seetharamu simply said: ‘Why quarrel over such small things?’ they both fell upon him — it must surely have been planned out — and beat him on the stomach and on the back. The old blind aunt went into the kitchen, and Sata ran about the house, pretending to cry and sob. That widow to sob! If she had a lover in her bed, she would not sob, hè? And nobody came to separate the fighting brothers. It was Kanakapala, who, strange to say, suddenly appeared and, slipping between the two aggressors and Seetharamu, tried to separate them. But when they continued he roped himself round the foot of Surappa who staggered and fell. Then Kanakapala frightened Ranganna with his spread hood, and Ranganna ran out breathlessly. And Seetharamu lay on the floor, quiet, blank-eyed, and with no evil in his heart, while Kanakapala gently moved his tail about his face in friendly caress.

‘That was as you know the last quarrel they had at home. It was hardly a fortnight later that Seetharamu’s body was discovered in the Hemavathy. As to how it happened, everybody has his own opinion about it. My own is slightly different from that of others, because being their neighbour, and third cousin, I have more reasons to know these things than most people. Besides, I am an old woman, and I have seen so many domestic calamities that I can quite surmise how this could have happened too. Listen.

‘Now, you will perhaps call me wicked, maybe I am wicked. But tell me, how else can one explain the sudden death of Seetharamu if not by realizing that his two brothers hated him and, wanting the gold, drowned him in the river? Of course, people will tell you they were both lying sick at home, and nobody knows how Seetharamu, who went to Kanthapura to look after the peasants that were going to sow rice, should suddenly have disappeared. There is the boatman, Sidda. You know how at least two murders — of Dasappa of the oil-shop, and Sundrappa of the stream-fed-field — in both of them he was implicated. You know too how he beats his wife, and no child will ever approach him. Now, Sidda was to ply Seetharamu across the river, for the field lay on the Kanthapura side, and he says he never saw Seetharamu. If he had not seen Seetharamu, who else could have seen him, tell me? I myself saw Seetharamu passing by our door. And when I asked him where he was going, he told me clearly that he was going to Kanthapura to look after the sowing, as the two brothers were sick. Sick! I know what that sickness was! They looked hale and strong as exhibition bulls. They must simply have starved themselves to bear a pale face two days later. The evening before they were quite well, and if Big-House Subbayya is to be believed, they were talking to Sidda, a long, long time. The case is plain. Sidda pushed Seetharamu into the river. Any honest person in the village will believe it. But they are afraid of the Vision-House people. Besides, they want to have nothing to do with the police. And who does not know the Police Inspector has been duly bribed by them? I have myself seen the Police Inspector, a fat, vicious, green-looking brute, staying day after day in the Vision-House. But nobody will accept this version. Maybe I am wicked. May God forgive me for my tongue! But, if I had no children, I will tell you what I would do, my son: I would poison these two brothers, and, drinking half a seer of warm milk with undisturbed contentment, I would go and drown myself in the river, happy, very happy.

‘Poor Seetharamu!

‘After that the story is simple. One day when Sata kept feeding Kanakapala in the kitchen, the two brothers closed the sanctum door and began to dig. Kanakapala swung out and hurled his head against the door, hissing and rasping. But there was no answer. Furious he ran to the roof, and slipped into the eaves, but every chink and hole had been closed with cloth and coconut rind. He rushed back to the kitchen again but there was no one. He ran to the byre, spitting venom at every breath, and there was no one. Then, frantic, helpless, repentant, he rushed out of the door and scampered up the hill. Entering the temple, he went round and round the god and goddess, once, twice, thrice, and curling himself at the foot of the Divine Couple, swallowed his tail, and died. For is it not said, a snake loves death better than an undutiful life?

‘The Vision-House people never found the gold. But with what libations have they now to wash away their sins. Child after child, new-born child, new-lisping child, new-walking child, young child, old child, school-going child, have met with mysterious, untimely deaths. And no woman in their family can ever bear a child for nine months and bring it forth, for the malediction of Naga is upon them. Never, never till seven times are they dead, and seven times are they reborn, can they wear out their sacrilegious act. Oh, sinners, sinners!

‘And to this day there is not a woman, child or man in Kashipura that has not heard the money clinking in the earth, for holy gold moves from place to place, lest the wicked find it. And that same night Kanakapala appears in the dream of woman, child or man, frantic, helpless, repentant, and scampering up the hill, goes round the god and goddess, once, twice, thrice, and curling himself at the foot of the Divine Couple, swallows his tail — and dies.’

I too have dreamt of it, believe me — else I wouldn’t have written this story.