They said I killed a snake. I did. A poisonous


    cobra inhabited the wet grass near the


    bamboo thickets that grew near the Yamuna


    River. Some of my friends had spotted it, and


    they said it was almost twelve feet long with


    a hood the size of a small room. It had


    always lived there, its poison turning the


    water a darker, murky brown.


    I had personally never seen the cobra,


    probably because I rarely ventured towards


    the bamboo thickets. I preferred the cooler


    shade of the kadam trees, and ma had in a fit


    of paranoia had forbidden me from going to


    the river at all, forget the part said to be the


    haunt of the dreaded Kalia Naag, the cobra I


    ended up killing.


    This is how it happened. Radha liked to


    make my flutes. My flute was the bansuri,


    made from a single hollow shaft of bamboo.


    It was painful and time taking work. The


    bamboo had to be cut down to an exact


    length, and the holes made keeping in mind


    the pitch. It required precision, a refined


    sense of music, tonality, a steady hand.


    Radha made my bansuri because she could,


    and also because she could not bear to have


    someone else shape the one object I held in


    my hands and kept with me always. The


    bansuri was not just an instrument I loved. It


    was a piece of her, crafted by her that I


    carried with me all the time. It was her hands


    that carved the hole into which my lips blew


    to create the music that touched not just


    everyone''s heart but their very souls.


    It is the maker of the bansuri who tunes it.


    The maker creates the hole and plays the first


    note. The hole must be enlarged if the note


    does not sound right. Radha made my


    bansuris. She was the first to bring the yet


    unfinished bansuri to her lips. I played the


    bansuri she kissed, laying my lips at the very


    spot hers had been, and the sound of love


    that the world heard when I played, its


    genesis lay in that very first kiss where our


    lips never met.


    Radha went to fetch the perfect piece of


    bamboo to make my flute, my bansuri. She


    went to the grove said to be inhabited by


    Kalia, the twelve feet long, hooded cobra.


    The grove where no birds or animals


    approached, and she went there for me. She


    thought she had found what she was looking


    for when she heard a hissing in the grass


    nearer the waters of the Yamuna.


    As Radha looked towards the noise, she saw


    the forked tongue of the beast flick out,


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.almost as if smelling her before an attack.


    Radha has always been the bravest person I


    have known. But at that moment, she was


    terrified. She had heard the tales of the


    deadly snake from our friends and Pindaka,


    so she ran back towards where we played our


    silly boyish games, my rag-tag bunch of


    friends and me.


    I heard Radha running, and she nearly


    collapsed by the time she reached my arms.


    "I think I just saw Kalia. It flicked its tongue


    out at me." She was breathing in huge gasps


    and taking in gulps of air, holding on to her


    side. Kinki, a friend, ran to get some water


    for her to drink.


    Radha’s fear and helplessness did what very


    few could do. It angered me. Enraged by the


    creature that had troubled Radha, I headed


    towards the bamboo groves at the banks of


    the Yamuna. I did not have to look for it. It


    stood almost erect on its tail, a third of its


    body in the air, ready to strike out. The hood


    spread out it, threatening, intimidating. I saw


    it flick its tongue, and it brought back the


    image of a scared and breathless Radha. I


    would not let that tongue flick out again.


    I circled Kalia, staying a good ten feet away.


    Moving fast, I lunged at the cobra''s tail


    grasping it in my hand. The snake squirmed.


    It twisted itself into coils, desperate to get its


    fangs into me. But I was faster and could


    easily dodge its strike. Kalia wrapped his


    length around me, dragging me towards the


    river, possibly assuming I would be weaker


    in the water. I could feel the snake''s hold


    grow tighter as it tried to crush me. I kept my


    bansuri tucked into my waistband. I pulled it


    free, breaking it so that I may have a jagged


    edge which I pushed into the snake. Kalia


    was a monstrosity, but he was a snake with


    soft skin on the back. My bansuri used as a


    butcher''s knife freed me from the hold of the


    cobra, although it continued to hiss and spit


    venom, injured but still strong enough to kill.


    But I was no ordinary ten-year-old boy. I


    kept my grip on the snake''s tail. Soon


    enough, I felt Kaila tire. With one mighty


    heave, I swung the twelve feet cobra with my


    ten-year-old hand like a lasso and brought its


    hood down on the banks of the Yamuna


    River. Kalia was spent. I raised my left foot


    and brought it down on the hood of the


    cobra, raising my right hand clutching my


    broken bansuri in a moment of triumph, and


    that is how my friends found me when they


    reached the bamboo groves.


    Those stories you heard of me dancing on the


    hood of a subdued Kalia, merrily playing my


    bansuri- like I keep saying, just stories. A


    fictionalized account of what people saw.


    But these stories built the idea of me, so I let


    them add little changes as they recounted my


    exploits, embellishing them with details that


    turned me from one of them to so much


    more. I might not have been God. They


    ensured I became God.