"The Nagaraja Doesn’t Forget"
A small concrete tank stood modestly next to the old well, perennially filled with cool, sweet water that tasted of rain and red earth. Below it, like a secret chamber, was a low-ceilinged room where the motor wheezed and coughed to life every evening, pushing water up to the tank that served the weary patients of the local hospital. The hospital itself was an ageing two-storeyed affair, whitewashed and weathered, standing like a retired teacher amidst fields of paddy that swayed in tones of green and gold, depending on whether it was Vishu or Onam.
It sat outside the town of Palakkad, where time moved at the pace of a temple procession and even the breeze seemed to carry the scent of ripe mangoes and camphor. Frogs croaked like drunken musicians, tiny fish darted in puddles, and crabs scuttled sideways in indignation, but it was the snakes that ruled this kingdom. Poisonous ones too, with eyes like molten copper, and legends that hissed louder than their forked tongues. They said there were snakes that killed with a hiss, and one even carried a jewel on its hood. No one had seen it. Everyone believed someone else had. After sundown, you wouldn’t find even the bravest drunk walking the fields; even shadows were suspected of venom.
You see, in these parts, snakes aren’t just reptiles, they’re ancestral landlords. Every child hears of Nagaraja and Nagayakshi, the divine serpents who guard homes, fields, and honour. In Hindu mythology, snakes are woven into the very fabric of the cosmos, Vasuki was the mighty serpent used to churn the ocean of milk, Ananta is the thousand-headed serpent on whom Lord Vishnu rests in eternal slumber, and Lord Shiva wears a snake around his neck, calm amidst chaos. To harm one is not just a mistake, it is a spiritual offence. A snake might be the Nagaraja himself, guardian of the land, or Nagayakshi, the feminine force of protection and fertility.
Many ancestral homes, especially among Nair, Ezhava and Brahmin households, had little wooded groves set aside for the serpents, untouched, uncultivated, unspoken. These groves were not to be lit, cleaned, or cleared, for to disturb them was to invite sarpa dosham, the wrath of the serpent gods, manifesting as infertility, family misfortunes, or worse—an inexplicable lingering unrest. Only the old astrologers with turmeric-stained fingers and the Namboodiris from serpent lineages could diagnose it, and even they approached with caution and a bundle of darbha grass.
Filling the water tank, then, was no small feat. Volunteers, mostly young men with more moustache than sense, vanished when dusk approached. Oddly enough, the duty always fell to two wiry old maids who muttered “Om Namashivaya” under their breath, armed with nothing but a stick and pure nerve. The little pump room, no taller than a cow, housed an anthill that reached the ceiling like a termite skyscraper. Someone once tried to remove it, twice, actually, but it grew back thicker and stronger, like weeds after the monsoon.
Whispers began: “Sarppam undu ivide”, there are snakes here. And in Kerala, that meant divinity had taken residence.
Finally, when baby snakes were found coiled in the warm embrace of the pump motor, the family finally called Narayanan Namboodiri from Pambumekkadu Mana, a scholarly priest and part-time schoolmaster, fondly called Mashae. He arrived just before dusk, dhoti crisp, and his forehead marked with a neat marking of Sandal paste. He was fair skinned, of medium height, thin and wiry like a bamboo reed swaying in the breeze, yet there was nothing fragile about him. His sharp Roman nose gave his face a certain quiet authority, and his eyes, though soft, seemed to see far beyond the visible. He spoke little, but when he did, his words landed with the weight of old granite temple steps, measured, certain, and graceful. There was something in the way he walked, with palms lightly folded behind him, that made even the frogs fall silent. With holy ash on his forehead and ancient chants on his lips, he surveyed the land, peered into the charts, and finally declared, “They must be relocated… to my property.” There was much relief, until his father, wizened and sharper than a sickle, said dryly, “Monae, avar varilla. Kuttikkal avaidae thane irikkatte.” (Son, they won’t come. Let the children stay where they are.)
And just like that, the grand relocation plan dissolved into incense smoke. Instead, a humble Sarppakkavu, a snake shrine, was built near the corner of the compound, facing east. Rituals were done, coconuts cracked, oil lamps lit, and curiously, the snakes were never seen again.
Years rolled by like monsoon clouds. The hospital swelled with patients and politics, only to fall silent during a strike that shut its doors and hearts. When some miscreants tried to break in, they were greeted by a 7-foot cobra on the doorstep, as if to say, “This place is still under protection.” They fled. No one returned.
Eventually, the strike ended, the hospital reopened, and faith was restored. The Sarppam Pooja became an annual event, with Mashae leading the chants, his voice rising with devotion and arthritis alike. Time marched on. A shiny new three-storey hospital rose from the rubble, the old tank forgotten, the new one holding a lakh litres of water, but not a drop of the old stories.. The family left for faraway lands, the rituals now performed quietly at the Namboodiri home, with fewer participants and more memories.
One spring afternoon, far away in suburban Australia, the family gathered in their sunny verandah. Children shrieked, elders laughed, and the scent of eucalyptus mixed with warm nostalgia. On the wooden fence sat a diamondback python, silent and still, its eyes calm like an old sage watching over familiar souls in unfamiliar lands.
Maybe it was just a snake.
Maybe it wasn’t.
In any case, no one disturbed it.
