BETWEEN GOD AND GOODNESS

“I am happy… Without question, I am happy about his death!”, he said with a calm confidence that belied his years. I was surprised. I wondered if he was saying that because he was worried about how I might judge him if he said he wasn’t.

Zuhaib is a cousin of mine through a marriage or three. He graduated recently, and in spite of the ten years or so between us, we have become rather friendly. He is really mature for his years and I am not, so we always manage to find a happy middle ground whenever we meet to talk away the hours. And between talk of Cristiano Ronaldo’s twinkle-toed switch and Stanley Kubrick’s creative twitch, we always find the space and time to squeeze in a chat about religion. Now, he is Sunni Muslim and I’m a Hindu, and yet we manage an easy discussion, even a debate, about the goods and quaints of the faiths we were born into. So when we met last evening, and talk veered toward Osama’s death, I just had to ask him how he might have felt about it, as a citizen of the world… and as a Muslim.

Monday morning television made for confusing viewing. I heard of the operation in Abbottabad from a friend and fumbled through to CNN for confirmation. And confirmation came from the much barracked Barack, no less. I felt numb. Messages celebrating the killing poured in and I saw the crowd dancing on the streets in front of the White House, on the streets of Georgetown and in New York city. And yet I didn’t know what to feel. Osama had wronged the world. There was no denying that. And yet, does a death, even if it be the death of the man half the world calls the greatest villain since Adolf Hitler, warrant celebrations? And that, notwithstanding the fact that many in the other half of the world think of him as the greatest hero to have ever picked up a gun for a cause since… er… since… John Rambo, I guess (I couldn’t think of a historical figure who comes anywhere close to the gory glory of Osama’s methods).

I was confused because while we were celebrating the death of a terrorist who plotted and planned the death and destruction of thousands of innocents, there were homes and lanes and towns and whole districts in every part of the world, from London to Lahore and from Kuala Lumpur to Kashmir, where there was silence and anger; where a father or a widowed mother would hold a 10-year-old child close and say, “Osama, that man of God whose name you carry has been killed by American terrorists. He was a prince who could have lived in luxury. But he heard God’s voice in our cries. He was an educated man but he put down his books and picked up a gun… for us. He traded his life in a palace for the hardships of battle… for us.

He fought them like David (Dawood) fought the giant and brought them to their knees. The cowards killed the Sheikh while he slept but promise me that he did not die in vain… Promise me that you will live up to your name and avenge each drop of his blood that was shed… promise me that you will fight for our honour, for human dignity, for our rights, just like the sheikh did all his life”

Many homes in many countries would have heard these words being spoken as news of Osama’s death poured in. But I wondered if that was typical. Journalists were reaching out to separatist leaders and religious figureheads as well as to the common man in an attempt to understand what the people Osama claimed he represented felt about his death. The reactions ranged from outright condemnation to religious leaders blaming American policies for his admitted excesses. On the other hand, during the course of my interviews with militants and separatists, I had begun to see a human side to the Kalashnikov toting wild eyed mercenaries. I had begun to see them for what I now believe they are – men, women, oft en even children, who are hurt and angry; who believe they have no one and nothing left to turn to; who mistakenly believe, that the blood on their hands is the work of God and that it is something they believe in with such passion, that they would not regret their losses, of limb, life or love, in the pursuit of their goals. Speak up if you think I’m wrong but I think it takes a good heart, perhaps a bitter one too, but definitely a good one, to embrace death with pride.

Was Osama such a man? Was it empathy, or perhaps even compassion, for the oppressed Muslim that fuelled his passions? Was he a good man who fell victim to geo-political circumstances and the well modulated rant of a charismatic cleric? Or was he a misanthropic bigot tempted by a sense of history? And who is the real Osama – the feted war hero of the Russo-Afghan wars, or is it the man who plotted the murder of thousands in cold blood? And is an Osama any different from a Che Guevara or some other such freedom fighter or revolutionary? They all killed for a cause they believed in… then why is one a pop icon while the other a pariah?

Well the last one is easy. A Che Guevara never targeted civilians and non-combatants the way Osama did and as for the rest of the questions, perhaps it’s a case of the elephant and the blind men. But before I forget where we began, let me tell you what young Zuhaib made of the moment.

“I am happy… Without question, I am happy about his death!,” said Zuhaib. And no, he did not say that because he was worried I might take him to be a sympathiser if he didn’t. “I am glad the man was killed,” he continued, “… because not only did he deserve to die because he killed innocents, knowing fully well that even killing one innocent civilian is tantamount to a crime against all of humanity, but also because of what he did to me, as a Muslim. Before Osama, the faith had an aura of tranquility, civility and even tolerance. But aft er 9/11, every Muslim is a potential suspect. We are looked at with suspicion and skepticism and we cannot escape it. Even when people see me entering a mosque, I see the skepticism in their eyes. And I’m not just blaming non-Muslims.

I too am guilty of having lost faith in my fellow Muslims. Today, if I’m stopped near a mosque by an elderly gentleman and asked a few innocent questions, instead of being touched by his kindness and warmth, I would eye him with suspicion and wonder if it’s the first step in an attempted indoctrination. If tomorrow, a Muslim lad wants to rent my house, I would be extremely suspicious and might not even let it out unless I was 200 per cent sure that man is above suspicion. And I have become so wary of being seen with the ‘wrong kind’ that I actively avoid interacting with people I don’t know, especially if they ‘look the type’… you know, with the traditional beard and skull cap. It’s wrong, and it’s unfair, but that’s what even I have become, though I am every inch a proud and sincere Muslim… This is what an Osama has done. He destroyed faith in the faith and so I am glad he is dead.”

I nodded. Osama’s death was no victory. Inconsequential in real terms, it only has symbolic significance, as our reactions to it underscore the civilisational fault lines of the day. But yes, it definitely was justice. Delayed, diff used and perhaps one that matters only as much as a pacifier might to a hungry child but it was justice nevertheless…

BAREFOOT IN THE PARK

Rosa’s eyes… they are hazel brown, and deep. They stared unblinkingly into mine and there was something primal and brazen in that stare. The smooth touch of her skin sent a nervous rush up my spine as her sinuous form undulated in my arms. I felt her weight on me. She was stronger than I had imagined. My breath grew heavy and awkward…

We were close enough to kiss and for a moment we searched for answers in each other’s eyes, almost daring the other to take the next step. And then she flicked out her tongue and waved it in my face. Almost on an impulse, I did the same. For the briefest of moments one brushed ever so lightly against the other. “Aah… mouth to mouth!,” screamed a voice on the public address system.

In parts of rural Thailand, snake-pits are about as common as dentures in an old-age home. So here I was driving up a mountain in Chiang Mai when I happened to see a big cardboard sign that said “Dance of death with the King!” As soon as I pulled up, I was greeted by a rather squat Thai lady with hair dyed so blonde that it would not have looked out of place on Boris Becker’s eyebrows. She sang out a welcome and then grabbed my arm and tugged. I waited for a moment and the shock to pass and then allowed her to drag me in to see the treasures that the snake park had to off er. We went past the thatched ticket counter and a counter selling snake-skin shoes, bags and trinkets and then there we were, in front of an empty snake pit. “Show start fifteen minute”, sang the lady, and beamed a happy-gappy grin. I wondered where the stars of the show might be. As if on cue, I heard a faint hiss and then the rustling of scales against concrete.

I looked around and for the first time noticed the row of fine-mesh cages behind the seats. The hissing and the rustling grew louder and I followed the sound to the first cage just in time to see the tail end of a snake disappear into the mouth of another. The King was at lunch.

King cobras eat other snakes, both venomous and non-venomous ones. The King didn’t bother to make eye contact and chewed on the tail like Dirty Harry might on gum, and slithered back into a corner. I drift ed towards some of the other cages. There were Siamese cobras in the next one, then a python and then another king cobra. In the far end was a tank full of dirty brown water and I could see a dark shape at the bottom. “Take out! Take out!,” sang the blonde woman from behind the public address system. I looked away from the tank and quickly took my hands out of my pockets. I looked at her trying to understand what she might have meant. “You take out?” she repeated. The intonation suggested a question and I showed my hands. “No, no… you take out Pi-ping... take out water?” she asked again. Hmm… Pi-ping taking out water… I wondered where this was going. I just managed a confused shake of the head. The lady pushed the table and microphone aside and waddled up to where I was standing. Then she pointed at the dark shape in the water and said, “Pi-ping take out water, you want?” Ah, it was Pi-ping in the water. Although I was still a little unsure about whether the lady wanted me to take Pi-ping out of the water or whether it was Pi-ping who wanted to take out water, or was it that she wondered if I wanted Pi-ping’s water, but I decided to go for it. I rolled up my sleeves and lunged in the water. Halfway down, I realised that a misunderstanding now could be rather painful, perhaps even fatal, and so I asked the lady even as I felt Pi-ping’s leathery skin if Pi-ping happened to have a venomous bite. The lady smiled and shook her head. “No Pi-ping very gentle”, she said. And sure enough Pi-ping was as docile as a house cat. I later learnt that Pi-ping is an ‘elephant trunk snake’, also known as the Javan Wart Snake, called so because of the snake’s rough leathery skin.

“Showtime!,” screamed the lady on the mike, and I went and took my seat at the edge of the snake pit. There were a handful of Australians who had come in for the show. I took out my camera and was about to take a few test shots when a little Thai boy, in an oversized tee-shirt that ran all the way to his knees, patted me on the shoulder and then dropped something black and bristly in my hand. I looked down and saw a rather large black Malayan forest scorpion, with its hound’s tail sting poised for what could be an excruciating introduction. And crawling on its back were two baby scorpions. My wife would never agree, but I tell you dear reader, those little baby scorpions are some of the cutest creepy-crawlies you could ever see.

Meanwhile, the first of the wranglers entered the pit with a pair of cobras. Music played and then he teased and goaded the snakes while they raised their hoods and ‘danced’. Then they fooled around with a pair of rat snakes. Each of the wranglers would finish off his performance with a ‘kiss’ and the blonde one would look at the audience with an expression that said ‘have you ever seen a happier threesome?’ and go “Aaaah!... Mouth to mouth!”

Then they brought out Rosa, the reticulated python, and took her around and asked if anybody from the audience wanted to hold her. No one did, and since I didn’t want to hurt Rosa’s feelings, I volunteered. At 15 feet, young Rosa’s pretty small for a reticulated python. These snakes, the longest in the world, oft en grow to be nine metres or more in length. But boy she was a handful already.

Anyway, it was now time for the grand finale. Superstar wrangler ‘Lek’ sauntered in with a huge snake on a ‘snake-prod’. It had olive green scales and its eyes reminded me of an eagle’s. It must have been about three metres long. This was what I had come to see. The king cobra!

Lek had an assistant with him, just like matadors would in a bull-fight. Whenever Lek would get cornered by the snake, the assistant would distract the snake and help Lek get out of the situation. I was on my knees outside the ring, taking pictures when the King raised its hood. And suddenly from taking pictures at floor level, I realised I was now pointing the camera way above my head. The King had raised its hood more than four feet off the ground. I was awestruck, and so must have Lek been for he froze as the snake launched itself in the general direction of his crotch. He was wearing loose track pants and jumped out of the way at the very last moment. But the snake still got one of its fangs into the fabric while the assistant tried to draw him away. A collective gasp went round the snake pit and there was a stunned silence. The audience knew this wasn’t a part of the plan. And perhaps to give the shaken Lek a break as well as prove that the snake still had his poison glands intact, the assistant with the help of the other wranglers subdued the snake. Then, with its head in his hands, he brought it around in front of the audience and then made it bite down onto a glass container with a soft cap. We could see those fangs and those glands squirting surprisingly large amounts of golden yellow liquid death into the container. Those drops of neurotoxic venom were potent enough to kill all 22 of us in the audience. Lek was lucky, very lucky.

But Lek wasn’t done yet. It was now time for his signature move. Like a bullfighter drawing his saber for a final thrust, Lek squared off against the angry snake. He didn’t have a cape so he used his hands to keep the cobra transfixed onto a target and then as the two moved towards each other, with grace to match the matador’s pirouette before his final thrust into the hump of the charging bull, Lek reached over the snake’s hood and kissed it even as the snake looked on, as if spell bound. The audience erupted and Lek took a bow.

The show was over. The King was back in the bag.

The finale was a splendid display of skill and courage and I was glad I got to see it. Unlike the bull-fights in Spain, the snakes aren’t harmed. Not until they are made into hand-bags anyway. And yet it just didn’t seem right to poke and prod these magnificent creatures for the sake of entertainment. I can’t make up my mind about this one. Snake wranglers like Lek are an invaluable asset in the race to create more anti-venom than there are victims. And anti-venom can only be made from the venom of live snakes. So, it’s a bit of a chicken and egg situation here. If wranglers are good, then why are snake charmers bad? And if charmers are bad, why are such snake shows any better?

Well, that’s an issue I’ll save for next week but until then, tread carefully, lest you be no lucky Lek…