Pathu and a Python

It’s not a love that’s creeping in her sleep. Though wounding kisses wake her up, her worn-out body – an old Indian make – resists. She grabs its head as it twists around her – both are tough fighters – loser will lose life. The fray on her floor doesn’t seem to end. This snake coil isn’t as hard as cruel arms that had wound her youth – as rough as the coir ropes that had bound her wrists to an iron grill. Bite marks appear as antique art on her arched body – her rich mistress had made similar adornment on her back with a hot metallic bar. She had boiled her tender emotions in a kettle in the kitchen. She had no other way, then, but to live as a servant in a rich ranch house. Really, she’d no roof over her life – an orphan’s always exposed to the pain drops and memory light. They are lying like two wrestlers on a torn mat. Pathu’s yell goes out through the cracks in her walls. Neighbors gather – enjoy the game – indicate her heroism – take photos – share them on WhatsApp and Facebook. Finally, they rescue her. They unwind and leave the python in the nearby wood amidst the hullabaloos. Stomachs of their cell phone cameras are full. Since she has no poisonous thoughts, she curls up in serenity again. [First published in Shooter Magazine, UK]