THE COBRA
The RAF married quarter bungalows rest on stilts with a three-foot space beneath, and I have already explored this inviting cave before the monsoon. I decide that if I can find a snake or two they will bring Arthat back to deal with them and maybe he can stay longer this time. In fact, why doesn't he stay with me and I can provide a local snake disposal service?
Underneath the bungalows it's cool and quiet if rather mucky, and soon I'm covered in red mud left by the monsoon rains. As I'm crawling under Sgt James's house next door I sense rather than see something move from between the stilts, and I'm suddenly seized by utter terror as a diamond-shaped silhouette rises and sways not five feet away from me. I know it's a snake and some basic instinct screams to me that I'm in terrible danger.
I reverse into the sunlight yelling in fear, plastered in red mud and calling in English and in Hindi words picked up from our friendly bearers. Sneep, burra sneep, jeldi jeldi, mongoose-wallah karo! Snake, big snake, quick quick get the mongoose-wallah! Sgt James hobbles down the steps on his broken leg, Indian bearers run from the other bungalows, one with a hooked pole drags out a snake and they beat it to death.
They call that it's a cobra and hold it up so I can see its body is taller than I am but I dare not go near it. Mummy is very upset and Daddy is called home from work. I've had such a fright that I am scared to come down the verandah steps for the next week, even with kindly Pop our bearer as escort.
Next instalment: Arthat the mongoose tells Geriaviator (aged 5) that the cobra is a very bad snake - Koborrah sneep bahut burraburra hai, for mongooses don't speak English) – and it's best to leave the snakes to him because he is protected by the Lord Shiva. Which will lead to an interesting theological discussion with the padre …