Vedantic Tales: The Discipleship of
Sri Nag , The Cobra

For the next few weeks Sri Nag pondered over what Akhu had said; he could not dismiss the mouse's words, pontifical though they may have been, as mere twaddle and bluster. Perhaps it was indeed true that his failure to play the Game had brought about a state of disorder and suffering in the field and even in the village. He did not have to look far to see that his own household no longer had a glow of well being. Indeed, to see his once plump and lovely wife so thin and wan and his children no longer their carefree, frolicsome selves had been grieving him for some time. Yet, when he had played the Game, that, too, had brought suffering and hardship to others. There seemed to be no answer: to act brought harm to others; not to act-that, too, brought harm. The only thing he knew for certain was that he had promised his guru to repeat his mantra and to strike no one. To keep his word to so holy a man could not possibly bring harm to anyone. This thought brought him peace. Indeed the very act of repeating his mantra with concentration sometimes gave him an inner joy such as his ancestors must have felt when Shiva lived in the temple filling its dark interior with an unearthly light. But such moments of joy did not last for long. The words of the mouse would return to him, erupting from within himself. At such times he was nagged by a deep uneasiness, as though a question hung unresolved, a commitment unfulfilled.

And then there were his in-laws - Uma's parents and her unmarried brother-who now and then came to visit from a distant field and for whom, in the past, Sri Nag used to provide a sumptuous feast of mice. As it was now, Uma would do her best to prepare a spicy root-curry, a rich khicudi, and a berry or mango chutney. But this was not fare for cobras, particularly not for honoured guests. After the first meal of root-curry Uma's father no longer visited, sending word, which Uma's mother repeated many times, that he did not wish to tax the hospitality of his son-in-law. Uma's mother herself let her disapproval be known by barely touching the meals, staring in disbelief at Sri Nag, and treating Uma with the utmost solicitude, addressing her as my poor dear. Uma's brother, a fat cobra, who lived off his father's hunting skills, simply laughed when the meals were served. 'Nothing like being a monk,' he once said, 'especially with growing children to feed.' The remark was greeted with a prolonged silence, finally broken by Sri Nag's little daughter. 'Are you a monk, Bapu?' she asked her father. 'Is that why we don't have real food any more?' Uma's mother snorted; her brother guffawed, and Uma herself filmed her eyes, as if trying to shut out the glaring pain of life. 'Hush,' she said. On these unbearable occasions Sri Nag wished the earth would open and accept him into its deep primordial caverns. But more constant than this acute, stabbing wish was his longing for the return of the sadhu.

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