Longer weekends meant time to play, plan and sometimes implement new thoughts. After cricket, we lounged on the compound wall under the grand trunked gum tree or in backyards out of parents’ vicinity. We were a pious trio who built and rebuilt temples of brick and tile. Bettering it and expanding it was a constant event, attracting stinging red ants. In the afternoon when the township slept and the factory churned its kiln quietly; snakes became a topic of discussion. “They can become our friends, you know”, said Viji with conviction.
“Snakes! Our friends!?” said I.
“Yes, we just need to give it milk or eggs everyday”, said Kalyan.
“And?” said I.
“It’ll befriend us and protect us from all our enemies and evil”, said Viji.
“If we just keep milk”, enquired I, the slight rationalist.
“Yes”, said the other two and nodded their heads in unison.
I returned home with my cricket bat, just in time for my evening milk and biscuits. Rummaged through my play utensils and found a small cup. I filled it with warm milk when my grandmother and mother had cleared the zone. Carried the cup cautiously to the front door, balanced it while trying to reach out to the top latch and open the door without a squeak and stepped out. Unable to decide a spot I walked with the little cup brimming with milk from one end of the garden to another. Finally I rested it near a clearing with a patch of grass. I checked it from time to time through the evening to see if a snake emptied the cup.
Mother found a stray stainless cup in the garden in the morning with a colony of red ants drowned in it. She called on me to check. I narrated (to) her, our entire discussion and she dismissed the issue with her usual wave of hand. A well of white milk had turned into red ants’ graveyard. I poured out the contents without mercy and repeated the procedure. The gardener discovered the odd white in the midst of green and brown soil and informed my grandmother. She called to enquire. I just stated that it was for snakes. “Silly child, snakes don’t come for such things”, she said and ignored my statement.
It turned a red graveyard again.
Nothing was discussed with the group because one did not want to be belittled with failure. I poured some more milk and left it out again after two consecutive disappointments. On Monday morning in a hurry to get ready to school I forgot the small cup’s existence in the garden. Before I stepped out of the door I heard a scream, “Snake”, a neighbour yelled. My grandmother rushed out and so did the other neighbours, to my gate. Men were trying to get hold of a stick to kill the snake. I peeped out with my bag. Jumped a wall and was about to run to the school bus. My grandmother grabbed me by the collar, widened her eyes behind her thick glasses and said, “If you ever place milk for snake again!” I escaped her clutches and ran to the school bus through another gate.
Ready to discuss my share of success, I beamed from ear to ear in the bus. So much for the belief of three little children, a snake decided to stray by the house and get killed for it.
homelytruthisunpalatable 