One
Sticking her tongue out, the woman closed her eyes. Jamunalal brought a cobra, wound tight around his wrist, close to her mouth. In response, the cobra angrily inflated its hood. Jamunalal, as if waiting for this moment, with a quick blow, struck its head with a pincer, annoying the snake even more. In a fit of rage, the hissing cobra embedded its fangs on the woman’s tongue.
“Aaahh ...!” She unleashed a soft cry, in pain and ecstasy, and put her tongue back into mouth. The cobra too withdrew springing back to its position around Jamunalal’s wrist. The woman dragged her feet unsteadily toward a nearby bamboo chair. Seconds later she began muttering, though she could not continue it for long. Her head was spinning and she could do nothing but bend forward onto a wooden desk.
“Next ...!” Jamunalal called out to the waiting people.
Jamunalal lived within this shanty-gully, yet maintained a luxurious lifestyle. He occupied two rooms, side by side, one of which indicated opulence and the other, sheer deprivation. The interior air-conditioned room had a TV and a refrigerator, with vinyl flooring. The outer room was ill-furnished in comparison. It had rough mud walls and a low roof, supported by wooden beams. This was no irony at all. The rich–poor combo was very much intentional, a deliberate design. The luxurious room was for personal use and the farm hut-like ambience to lure customers who sought romance in rustic charm.
Snakes of various kinds hung from the wooden poles in the hut, as if the latter were serving as mall windows or showcases of this “snake bite” bar. Serpents were on display so that customers could see for themselves and choose whether they would like to be bitten by a fierce viper, a bad tempered cobra or a simple natured green water snake. Like the snakes of various species, an eclectic mix of people also filled up this place. A white German with green marble eyes stared at the yellow mud wall. A Madrasi with his lungi hitched up the knee-line, scratched his calf; a young lad skimming through a glossy, girlie magazine waited for his chance. He stared unblinkingly at a picture of a girl in lingerie.
A snake charmer squatted on the floor near the door, keeping beside him three baskets, each full of coiled snakes. He awaited his turn to meet Jamunalal, keeping a hopeful gaze on the man, so that as soon as Jamunalal finished business at hand, the charmer would be able to bargain for a good price and sell the snakes he had captured from the woods.
A middle-aged woman, wearing a low-necked blouse, persistently rubbed the portion below her neckline. Two youngsters, pointing mischievously at her, passed remarks, “Would she like to be bitten over there?”
They were close to the truth in fact. Everybody did not want to be bitten on their tongue. They chose to receive it on their palm, heel, big toe or even solar plexus. But Kalyani was firm on being bitten on her tongue alone by a poisonous snake whose potent venom could nullify the poison which life had injected into her.
For long Kalyani had been thinking of visiting Jamunalal’s gully, but was not able to, because she feared entering an obscure, mysterious lane which she had to cross before making her way to this one. God bless Anguri, whose help ultimately made this possible. Anguri knew the topography of the place well and was totally devoid of fear. Kalyani simply held her hand and went along.
Anguri was not an old friend. Kalyani got acquainted with her fairly recently when Anguri, along with a few members of her hijara fraternity, came for a ritual dance performance in the neighbourhood, on the birth of a male child. Though this also was almost a ritual that they come uninvited to celebrate such an occasion and perform a dance which is hardly rhythm
