He was my taboo, but I was his secret.
A pungent smell of crushed onions came from his dark form. He moved without even the whisper of air against his clothes, for he wore no shirt. Chibindi’s skin gleamed like varnished red clay in the pale moonlight. Around his neck on a yellow string was a gold amulet shaped like a horn. It glinted in the night. The amulet, I knew, was meant for the spitting cobra. The spitting cobra searches for the glimmer of its enemy’s eye so it may aim its deadly poison right into it and blind him while keeping a safe distance. A sparkling amulet distracts the attention of the cobra, and he will spit at the amulet instead.
In his hand Raja held a forked stick and a gunnysack. I was thrilled. Blood throbbed in my neck. What adventures lay before me?
“Take off your shirt and trousers,” he whispered very close to my ear.
From a rusty tin he scooped out a pungent mixture, the horrible reek that I had noticed earlier. Swiftly he coated my naked limbs with his puree, which had the consistency of yogurt and was cool on my bare skin. His hands were hard and sure. I remember thinking that the only soft thing about him was his love. Like the soft center of a boiled sweet.
“Snakes hate this smell,” he explained, his breath warm against my skin.
I stood quietly under his ministrations. “The cemetery is the best place to catch them,” he told me in a hushed voice. Many snakes came to the cemetery for the fowl and small piglets that Chinese people left on the graves as offerings to appease their ancestors. Because it was an ill omen to eat food offered to the dead, not even the drunks or the very poor came to steal the rich banquet available. The snakes feasted and became large and plentiful. He talked in a low excited voice about a beautiful cobra that he had almost caught the last time. It was the largest one he had ever seen. It must have been a truly remarkable specimen, because it made his eyes glitter hotly that night. I put my clothes back on hurriedly and worried about Mother and the incredibly strong smell that covered me from from head to toe.
“How come you don’t have to rub this smelly stuff on your body?” I whispered, wrinkling my nose with disgust.
He laughed softly, rubbing his hands vigorously with some crushed leaves. “Because I
want
them to come to me.”
We took a shortcut through the back of his house, past the field, through the small jungle where I had spent hours practicing to blow the perfect smoke ring, past the row of shop-houses. The cemetery lay on a few sleeping hills. Even from afar, the sight of the grassy mounds illuminated pale green against the night sky and dotted with white gravestones filled me with foreboding, but I followed Raja’s confidently striding body silently through the tall grass.
Under the full moon, round pomelos looked like ghostly orbs among the gravestones. The air was filled with the smell of fresh flowers on the graves, but the fragrant air was thick and unnaturally still. Nothing moved. I have thought since then that a Malay or a Christian graveyard can be a peaceful place at night, but a Chinese graveyard is an altogether different matter. Far from being a place of rest, it is a place where spirits still hungry for earthly desires wait for their relatives to come by and burn them paper houses complete with furniture, servants, and big cars with number plates parked outside. Sometimes they even burn paper images of a favorite wife or a bejeweled, richly robed concubine holding stacks of fake spending money. That night I was conscious of them everywhere, the impatient, hungry spirits, their restless eyes following me with jealous yearning. The hairs at the back of my neck sprang away from my skin, and a small, sleeping spider called fear jerked awake and began crawling slowly inside my stomach.
Tablets covered with Chinese writing and black-and-white photos of the dead seemed unnaturally white against the dark foliage. A small boy with liquid eyes looked at me sadly as we passed his grave. A young woman with thin, cruel lips smiled invitingly, and a horribly old man seemed to scream soundlessly at me to leave him to sleep in peace. Everywhere I looked, unsmiling faces stared sullenly at me. Our footsteps were quiet in the still, sibilant air. I looked at Raja.
His shoulders were taut with tension, but his eyes were alert and bright. His pronged staff probed the ground in front of him, whispering through the shrubs. Once or twice he pointed to a slithering body or a disappearing tail in the undergrowth. Dear God, the place was crawling with serpents. Near a very large tree he stopped suddenly.
“There he is,” he whispered.
Fearfully I swung my eyes in the direction of his gaze. On the ground a monster of a cobra was curled around the exposed roots of a big tree. Its thick body glistened in the silver night like a polished, extremely expensive belt. The wide belt hissed and uncoiled slowly.
“I can catch it now, but I want to show you something first.” Slowly Raja lowered himself to his knees. Behind him I swallowed and took a cowardly step back, ready to flee.
The snake began to move its lustrous body away from us slowly, scales brushing scales, soundless in its precision, the muscles under its skin strong and sure. Suddenly, among the moving black scales I saw its cold eyes watching us. The urge to run was so strong, I had to clench my teeth and bunch my fist to stop me disgracing myself.
From his trouser pocket Raja brought out a tiny vial. Very slowly he rubbed the contents onto his hands. The smell was sweetly aromatic. Then he began to chant slowly. The cobra reared suddenly as if it had only now sensed mortal danger.
I froze.
In front of me, Raja’s fine full limbs gleamed. Every atom that lived inside his body had become still. He was listening. And all of him, even his skin, became an extension of his ear. A deadly silence seemed to descend on the cemetery. After a while there was just Raja, the snake, and me, and the only thing that moved was Raja’s mouth. The cobra fanned its hood open, raised its head high into the air, and stood so stock-still that it could have been a freakishly good wooden carving. Out of the shadows of the tree its eyes were very, very shiny. Ominous and watchful, it pinned its unblinking gaze on Raja. Raja ceased chanting and stood up very, very slowly. He walked toward the cobra and held out his hand.
I stood transfixed, holding my breath. The snake stood up. Its shiny black hood was inches from Raja’s bare outstretched hand. He has gone completely mad, I thought, but to my astonishment the cobra flicked out its forked tongue, then rubbed its head like a sleepy kitten might and slowly curled its thick body up Raja’s hand. The hypnotized snake moved up his outstretched arm in a sensuous dance until it was at eye level with him. They stared at each other. Raja had become a wooden carving himself. Seconds, perhaps minutes, passed. Not a muscle moved. Time ground to a halt. The world stopped spinning so Raja could have his prize snake. I have lived many years since that night, but it remains the most amazing thing I have ever seen. He was truly the master that night.
Like a dark flash Raja made a lightning-fast movement. The stunned cobra swayed back and opened a purple mouth, but Raja was already gripping the sides of its head immovably in his hand. I could see its glossy fangs and the colorless liquid that dripped from them. All at once the tricked creature was writhing furiously. Raja held the head high above his head like a trophy as he surveyed his long catch. Its thick body curled and slapped uselessly against his lean tall frame. The struggling snake went into the sack, whereupon it calmed down instantly.
“I shall keep this cobra for my own. He is too long to fit into a basket and too heavy to carry to the marketplace,” Raja said with great satisfaction in his voice. His voice was full of justified bravery. How I envied him that night.
“Come, we must get you back in bed.”
We walked quickly through the jungle. With the woods behind us, he turned to face me. “Will you tell her? Will you tell her that I tamed the king of all serpents?” he asked, a quiet pride quivering in his voice.
“Yes,” I lied, worrying anew about the pungent smell rising in clouds from my skin and Mother’s sharp nose, knowing I would never ever tell anyone in my family about my adventure. I would be imprisoned at home forever. I’d be made to peel potatoes or chop onions in the kitchen all day.
Now I was hooked. I was past afternoons under the neem tree listening to stories; that was for babies. The adrenaline rush that had flooded into my body watching Raja and the monster snake staring at each other in the moonlight was addictive. I wanted more. Surely Mohini’s brother deserved more. I begged, I cajoled, I bribed.
“Show me something more,” I implored. I was relentless in my efforts. “Soon the Japanese will be gone, and Mohini will walk to the temple. I can arrange an accidental meeting,” I promised untruthfully, watching the black in his eyes turn to burning embers. “My father listens to the BBC, and he says that the Germans have already lost the war. The Japanese will be gone soon. They have almost lost the war.”
He looked at me carefully, and something flickered across his closed face. For a moment it seemed as if he knew my promises were false and my friendship hollow, but then his eyes became blank. “Yes,” he conceded. “I will show you more.”
He took me to the dilapidated, deserted house at the other edge of the jungle. The rotting door opened wide at his touch. Inside it was dark and cool but quiet, very quiet. There was the impression that the jungle was taking over, slowly creeping in. Sand-colored roots had broken through the cement floor, and wild plants were growing in the cracks in the walls. There were gaping holes in the roof, and in the broken corners of the ceiling pale pink roots spiraled downward, but in the middle of the room a single lightbulb hung from the wooden rafters. I shivered inside my shirt. I was glad Raja was with me.
We sat cross-legged on the cracked floor among the large roots. Out of a cloth pouch tied around his waist, he produced a little bottle and pulled out the stopper. Immediately a strong smell wafted out. I crinkled my nose with disgust, but he assured me it was only the juice of roots and tree barks and that a sip would show me another world. He began to build an uneven pyramid of wood and grass on the cement floor of the deserted house. When he had coaxed a small yellow fire into the dry branches, he turned to me and offered me the bottle. There was no expression on his face. I was sure it was a test of some kind and to hesitate would have revealed my doubt and fear. I took the bottle from his hand and took a good gulp. The brown mixture was thick and bitter in my mouth. The hair on my arms stood on end.
“Look into the fire,” he ordered. “Look into the fire until it looks back, until it talks to you.”
“Okay.” I stared at the flames until my eyes burned, but the fire steadfastly remained mute. “How much longer?” I asked, tears starting to cloud my vision.
“Don’t look away—look into the fire,” he said, very close to my ears. I could smell him, that peculiar animal smell, the scent of something that lives in the wild by its wits.
I was starting to feel giddy with staring at the dancing tongues of yellow and orange, but every time I wanted to look away, a firm voice instructed, “Watch it burn.”
Just when my eyes began to hurt, the fire turned blue. The edges burned green, and the middle burned turquoise like the uniform secondary-school girls wear. “The fire is blue and green,” I said. My voice sounded far away and quite unlike my own, and my tongue felt thick and heavy inside my mouth. I blinked rapidly a few times. The fire burned a bright blue.
“Look at me now,” Raja instructed. His voice sounded like a whisper or a hiss. My head lolled around on my neck, and my heavy eyes fell on my hands. With something approaching detached wonder, I noticed that the skin on my hands had turned transparent. I could see my blood pounding and rushing through my veins. I stared at my hands in shock, and then I noticed the floor. It was moving. “Hey,” I said thickly, turning to look at Raja.
“Great, isn’t it?” he grinned.
I nodded, grinning back. I was eleven years old and as high as a kite on secret roots and tree bark. It was then that I noticed Raja was changing. I peered into his face.
“What? What do I look like?” Raja asked eagerly. His eyes were feverish in the flames of the small fire. He was a wild animal.
I blinked and shook my head, unsure of what my eyes were seeing. I looked at the fire. It was burning yellow again, but I had an impression it was urging me to reach out and touch it, hold it and enter it. If only it was bigger, I thought, I could stand in it. The thought frightened me, and in frustratingly slow motion I focused on Raja once more. It took some time to get the smudges out of the edges of my vision. Thoughts formed in my brain, and words appeared out of nowhere. They were mine, and yet how could I have spoken them? “Can I touch the fire?” I astonished myself by asking.
“Don’t look at the fire anymore. Tell me what I look like,” Raja persisted. “Do I look like a snake?” he asked. Had he sounded hopeful? I felt confused. Were there points for agreeing? I shook my head weakly, and my head swung on my neck like a balloon filled with water. My whole body was alive with strange sensations. Inside my skin my blood pounded in a not-unpleasant way. When I shut my eyes, a burst of color appeared across my closed eyelids. Beautiful rainbow hues appeared and merged again in countless patterns.
Smiling, I opened my eyes, and Raja stood before me. His eyes glittered fiercely, and his teeth seemed long and ferocious. There was something wild and unfamiliar in his face. For a while I could do nothing more than stare in shock at the transformation, then I quickly shut my eyes. I was no longer excited but full of deep foreboding. Water lapped against the walls of the balloon. I needed to think, but my head was heavy with the water that swished around inside. Raja was turning into a frightening creature. Inside him was not Chibindi the dancing lion tamer but something evil and ugly that I didn’t recognize. Something I had never suspected. Poor sweet Mohini.