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THE SNAKE CHARMER'S TALE

Tushar Prasad, a young Indian jackal typically of a jovial disposition, was seated rather despondently in the market of Nairobi, British East Africa Protectorate, on a wet March evening in 1912. He had escaped becoming drenched only by taking shelter under the awning of a tent belonging to a poultry merchant selling eggs and chickens, and as the rain splattered over the roof of the shelter, he watched morosely as various passers-by splashed through the puddles and mud of the street. The dank scent of wet foxes, hyenas, and jackals stung Tushar's sensitive nose, intermixed with the headier smell of fresh Nairobi mud. Voices called out to one another, feet sloshed in puddles, and behind him, the merchant's chickens loudly clucked their displeasure with the weather. Tushar watched the busy scene with an air of detachment, his attention instead drawn to the large basket in front of him. As for the shoppers, they ignored him entirely.

Just that morning, when Tushar had left the Indian hotel at which he and his family were staying, and set out to locate the man he believed to be his new employer, his spirits had been decidedly different. The sky had been cloudy, yes, but it was in the beginning of what in Africa are called the Long Rains, so that could not be helped, and in any case, Tushar's mood was too high to allow mere weather to interfere. His tall ears were proud and erect, his stride confident and precise, and his tail swung enthusiastically from side to side as he walked. Everywhere around him the sights, sounds, and scents of Nairobi seemed to swarm around him: dozens of tongues babbling in English or Swahili, the clatter of jinrikisha wheels over muddy ground, the tantalising aroma of roasted goat and seasoned rice from a street vendor's pot, all of it was exciting, inspiring curious glances, perked ears, and a twitching nose. Even the embarrassment of being told by a bespectacled Irish setter that the sidewalk was "for Europeans only, and don't you forget it, boy" failed to lower his dampen his keenness. He'd shrugged off the Irish dog with a hurried "Yes Sir," and forgot him almost immediately, his attention drawn by a group of scantily clad female hyenas, wandering in from the city limits in the direction of the market.

Tushar had arrived in Nairobi the previous day, via the Kenya-Uganda Railway which began at Mombasa and from there ran 329 miles through the wilderness of Africa to the city which was, for the colonists, the centre of society. The port at Mombasa was the main one in the Protectorate, at which new arrivals were most likely to dock. The Prasad family - Tushar, his wife Riya, his four children, and his old mother - had been in the port city for only one day prior to getting on the train; their ship, the P&O steamer Kafiristan, having docked the day before. They had retired to a hotel for the night, ostensibly to rest up before the next step of the journey, but in the end only Tushar's wife and mother got much sleep. He himself had taken the pups up to the roof of the building, and from there they had got their first glimpse of the night skies of Africa.

In the morning they had gone down to the train depot, where they had learned that the train was segregated, the cars themselves being designated for Europeans only. This was not uncommon in India, but as the family of jackals scaled the ladder up to the roof of the railcar, the area in which they had been directed to travel, they found it already occupied, by a variety of Africans. Heads turned, ears pricked, and for the first time Tushar found himself looking into the faces of hyenas, painted dogs, African jackals, and some small, large-eared vulpines. His wife was severely displeased. "Do they really expect us to travel with...these?" she waved a paw vaguely in the direction of the natives, her nostrils flaring.

Tushar told her to be quiet. As a reverent adherent of India's caste system, Riya was deeply proud of her own merchant-class birth, and held a profound distain for those she viewed as being beneath her. She had spent much of the voyage to Africa expressing her concerns that in the new country they would be forced to associate with "savages," who would, she believed, no doubt be a terrible influence on their children. It was her darkest fear that some tribesman would carry off one of their daughters. Tushar, who had read that the natives in Africa were largely a peaceful and friendly people, was tired of listening to her. Her expression sour, she stonily took a seat in the middle of the roof, drawing her veil closer around her face so that only her muzzle extended, and pulling her bags closer to her as though she feared they might be stolen.

As for the pups, they were all excitement, in a frenzy of wagging tails and exuberant voices. Tushar quieted them down as the train began to move away, instructing them to sit by their mother and stay away from the edge of the roof, and not to let go of any of their bags. His mother, who had that gift of the very old or very young of being able to fall asleep almost anywhere, lay down her head and went to rest. Tushar himself had left his bags in the area of the baggage car reserved for Indians, but he had kept on his body a small round, flat basket, about sixteen inches in diameter. This he sat beside him, and watched carefully.

Now, to be forced ride upon the roof of a train may sound like a very terrible thing, but as the train drew away out of Mombasa and began to climb into the hills, Tushar had to conclude to himself that the British had it all wrong. The best place to ride on a train, if one was in Africa, was not in the railcar, where one's view was limited to what one could glimpse from the window. No, it was on the roof, from which the view was uninterrupted in any direction. From it the Prasad family could see everything that the passengers below them missed; the wide, expansive sky, the green hills rising in the horizon, the vast herds of wildebeest, gazelle, and zebra scattered across a vibrant green landscape, the flocks of flamingos, cranes, and songbirds rising up in the hundreds or thousands from the wet, marshy land. For they were to learn quickly that in Africa when the Long Rains come the land and animals come alive again, and everywhere life is fresh and charming. Tushar was captivated. To say that he fell in love with Africa almost instantly would not be an overstatement. From morning till long into the night he watched with rapture as the train rolled past acacia trees, giraffes, and rhinoceroses. Rivers were crossed, and he pointed out to his pups the dark grey lumps in the water he knew to be hippopotamuses. At night, as the family drew their blankets round them, he thought he could hear the roar of a lion in the far distance.

The Prasad family spent four days and four nights on the train. Afterwards they would remember it as the most interesting rail journey of their lives, as none of them could avoid being fascinated by the new world passing by. The children chattered, Tushar's mother stirred from her slumber, and even Riya smiled and drew back her veil when she saw how the wet plain had blossomed up with new flowers. Had the heavens opened up that week the travellers would have been in a bad place, exposed to the elements as they were on the roof of the railcar, but by some miracle the clouds held.

There was only one incident during these four days which caused Tushar annoyance, the consequence of which was to cause him much trouble later. This was midmorning on the third day, when the train was passing by a vast herd of migrating wildebeest and zebra, spread out like a great many ants upon a lawn, which had attracted the interest of the jackals. The natives, being accustomed to the fauna of the region, did little more than cock an ear or eyebrow in the direction of the animals, but three days of travelling by the vast herds had yet to dull the fascination they inspired in the Prasad family. As it was then in early days of the calving season, many of the wildebeests and gazelles had small calves or fawns bounding along behind them, which further delighted the jackal pups. Tushar rather rashly declared that when they had arrived in Nairobi he would catch one for them as a pet.

The jackals were thusly engrossed in enjoying this exhibition of nature's bounty when Riya's attention was drawn to a flicker of movement to her left, where the natives had been sitting. To her dismay, one of them, a small brown fox of perhaps 11 or 12, had rose up and taken a few precise but wobbly steps towards the eldest Prasad daughter, Myra. This girl was 13, and accordingly approaching marriageable age. She was already shaping up to be a very lovely young jackal, with her slender form, large brown eyes, elegantly narrow muzzle, and lush golden fur. To Riya this daughter was a prized jewel. The thought of an untouchable like the vulpine boy so much as laying eyes directly on her was infuriating, so when she saw the native kneel next to her pup, who'd looked up more in curiosity than alarm, she bared her fangs and gave a sharp growl, propelling herself across the train roof to where she could insert herself between her daughter and the fox. Instantly she unleashed a barrage of angry words on him: "Stay away from my daughter, you horrible savage." It did not occur to her that the boy did not understand Urdu. She kept her teeth bared.

It was a really unfortunate affair. What Riya had interpreted as a malevolent act of predation was in truth a simple kindness: having noticed that a tsetse fly, the bite of which can give one any number of terrible diseases, had landed on Myra's tall jackal ear, the fox had moved to shoo it away. A person who took himself more seriously would have been annoyed in this hostile response to an act of kindness, but the African fox was more amused than irritated. His response as he backed away, which was to bare his teeth, was therefore intended to be mischievous, but Riya of course interpreted it otherwise. "Oh! How savage!" she gasped, pulling Myra further away. The fly, disturbed by her fury, buzzed away unnoticed.

Tushar had been feeling quite at peace watching the herds roll by, but now his serenity was disturbed. "Quiet, wife," he admonished Riya, who was presently trying to suppress Myra's insistence that the fox hadn't harmed her.

"But that savage was scheming to carry off our daughter!" insisted Riya.

"Ignore the natives and they'll ignore you," Tushar replied disinterestedly, and had both parties done so the trip might have passed without further incident, but it happened that this particular fox kit felt a little bad for having so upset the jackal lady. So when the train stopped later that afternoon to let the passengers stretch their legs briefly, the fox approached Riya, apologetically offering contrition. Alas! She did not speak Swahili. Nor could her judgmental heart then accept that a native might have anything but ill intent in his. When the kit, who was really quite harmless, approached, she assumed he now meant to carry Myra off into the Savannah.

Riya did what overprotective parents have been doing for centuries: she overreacted. Her ears pinned back, the fur on her neck raised, she growled lowly and interrupted the boy's words of apology by shoving him violently backward. Caught off guard, he felt hard onto the roof of the car. He was lucky not to have fallen off the train, but unlucky in that as his behind impacted with the roof of the railcar, he partially crushed the small round basket Tushar had sitting next to him.

At last the jackal's anger was aroused. "You silly dog," he snarled, with a glance at his wife. "Look what you have done." He grabbed up the basket. The fox scrambled away, concluding that foreigners were crazy and beyond hope of conciliation.

Riya was protesting again that the fox had meant to carry off their daughter, but Tushar ignored her. Carefully he peeled back the broken strands of reed that formed the basket to peer inside at the contents. Ah, what relief! They were not damaged. "It is all right," he said, after a moment. His ears were still pinned back as he made eye contact with his wife, but gradually as he allowed relief to supplant anger they lowered. "I told you to ignore the natives," he reproached her.

"That fox-" she began - but thought better of it.

Tushar held up the broken basket. "Have you got a spare sack?"

His wife had got a sack. When she had dug it out of her bags for him he dumped the contents of the basket carefully into it, and discarded the basket over the side of the train. He looked up at Riya. "We had better get off the train now if we are going to stretch our legs. But leave the natives alone." His tail wagged, and Riya knew he was not angry. Together the jackal couple got up and made their way to the ladder.

That had been two days ago. The previous day the Prasad family had arrived in Nairobi. And now this very morning Tushar had kissed his wife goodbye, told his children to behave, asked his mother to wish him good fortune, and departed for what he believed to be his first day at his new job. In India, Tushar had been employed by a British border collie as the foreman on his tea plantation, in whose service he had worked for a number of years. Nonetheless he remained restless, for he had in him the wanderlust of those who wish to travel beyond their native lands. So when a cousin of his employer had purchased a coffee farm in East Africa, the employer relayed this information to Tushar, and gave to his cousin a recommendation that the jackal was very qualified to hold the position of foreman at the African farm as well. A contract arrived in the post from Africa, Tushar said goodbye to his employer, sold his house, and spent most of his savings for seven tickets aboard the Kafiristan. Now, many months after the job opportunity had been presented to him, he was here and ready to begin.

Alas! He was too late. For the first thing Tushar learned when he, at the post office, inquired after the location of the plantation was that it no longer existed. His employer's cousin had died of malaria over a month ago. The farm had been sold. It was not going to be a coffee plantation. The new owner did not require a foreman. And so Tushar, and his family had come to Africa for nothing. They did not have enough money left to purchase tickets to take them back to India.

It was a very different jackal who walked back into the hotel only an hour after departing. When Riya and the children saw him his ears drooped, his tail hung loosely between his legs, his expression dejected. The worse thing about it, he thought, was watching his family's expressions change from concern to fear.

"No job?" Riya repeated, as if she could not believe it. "But you signed a contract!"

"None whatsoever," replied Tushar. "A dead man cannot fulfil a contract."

Riya told the children to go out with their grandmother, so that she and Tushar could talk. She had already mentally calculated that they could not afford to go back to India, at least not now - not with their finances depleted as they were. A weaker soul might, in the increasing likelihood of ruin, have wept. But Riya was made of stronger fibre. She willed her tail to remain free from between her legs, and fixed her husband with a firm, if unconfident, stare. She asked him what he intended to do.

Tushar had been rummaging through one of his bags as if searching for something. "The only thing I can do." He straightened up, and took from the corner of the room the sack into which he had deposited the contents of the broken basket on the train.

"You do not mean....?" gasped Riya, flattening her ears. "You must not. We are proud people. We are not beggars."

Tushar slung the bag over his shoulder, then counted out a couple coins and put them into his pocket. He then took a turban of blue silk and wrapped it around his head, although his ears still rose above it. His wife watched as he took off the western suit he had carefully dressed in that morning, replacing it with more ragged trousers and a plain white shirt. Thusly dressed, he turned and looked directly at Riya. "I would rather beg than see my family impoverished." And so he had left her there, and made his way to the market. At this point it had began to rain.

So this is how Tushar Prasad had come to find himself ignored and dejected in the marketplace. His accounts were reduced to only a few rupees; he had no job, no means of returning to India, and a family of seven to feed. There was only one option left: to perform.

Before Tushar, who sat crosslegged, was a large basket. This he had purchased from a basket-seller only a half-hour before. The basket-seller had not got any of the particular kind of basket he wanted, like the one crushed on the train; these were only made in India. But she had got a selection of rounded baskets of various colours, some which had attached to them a strap with which to carry the basket. Tushar had bought one that was dyed red and cream, and into it he had put the contents of the sack.

Now he drew out from his other bag a long instrument made from a gourd, which is called a pungi. He brought it to his mouth, glanced out at the street - and paused. The rain had dimmed to a low drizzle, and shoppers still sloshed by through the mud, but the jackal's eras dropped dismally. There was probably not much chance, he thought, of people actually paying attention to him. But it was worth a try. He reached out and tapped the side of the basket, rustling it carefully. Then he removed the lid of the container, and began playing the pungi.

For an instant there was no reaction: only the sound of the mechanism, so classically Indian, resonating across the muddy market. Then from the top of the basket rose a thick rod the colour of polished bronze, from which two ebony eyes gleamed menacingly at the instrument, and at the jackal playing it. The end of the rod inflated broadly into a hood, revealing it as the head of a cobra. This, the serpent sacred in Hindu theology, was the treasure Tushar had brought with him from India.

It ought now be evident that Tushar was a snake charmer. A few words about snake charmers: generally they are very poor, and make their entire income from handouts afforded them by passers-by, they being street performers. Tushar rather had taken it up more as a hobby than as a means of living. Neither was he a very good snake charmer; he knew only a few simple pungi tunes, unlike the masters of the craft who had entire musical libraries in their heads, and he had only ever charmed one snake at a time, whereas the masters sometimes charmed three or four serpents simultaneously. But if he lacked experience or talent, he made up for it in spirit. The muzzle and fingers working the pungi had passion in them.

Some snake charmers cut off the fangs of their cobras so as to reduce the risk involved, but Tushar thought this cowardly. A great part of the allure a snake charmer generates in his audience is on account of the danger the musician places himself in. To civilise the affair by eliminating its life or death connotations would make it sterile and lifeless. So as Tushar's fingers worked the instrument, he kept his eyes ever focused on the serpent, watching it sway from side to side, its own eyes locked on the pungi. Snakes cannot hear, having no ears with which to do so. It was the movement of the instrument rather, and of Tushar's fingers playing it, which attracted the snake's interest and attention. As the melody continued to season the marketplace with song, snake and jackal watched each other as intensely as sword-fighters in a dual.

When Tushar had taken a seat under the poultry-merchant's tent he had supposed in his misery that no one was likely to pay him much attention; after all, he was in Africa, a country where snake charmers do not hold the cultural fascination they do in India. But now as he played his tune, watching his cobra sway menacingly in front of him, his spirit, which was really that of an optimist, could not help but rise in the hope that someone might take notice of him. His ears pricked, and he listened - to the _jinrikisha_wheels, and the clucking hens. His nose picked up the scent of his own kind; evidently there were other Indian jackals living here.

Then from just in front of him he heard a gasp, and a sharp intake of breath. A voice babbled shock in a foreign tongue. Daring to let his eyes off the serpent, Tushar looked up just as his nose caught the scent of painted dog. Two men of this species were standing in the street, staring at him in a mixture, Tushar thought, of horror and fascination; tails between legs, ears pricked forward, nostrils twitching. Glancing between themselves they whispered nervously, not taking their eyes off Tushar.

The jackal dared to let a gleam of hope enter his heart. Then a female hyena, carrying several baskets, saw the two dogs as she was passing by, glanced over to see what they were gawking at, and let out a little shriek, dropping one of her baskets. Her eyes joined those of the painted dogs in being locked on Tushar and the snake. Still the snake waved to and fro, like a reed in the wind. Still the pungi's tune intermixed with the chickens' chatter. And before Tushar a crowd began to grow.

This went on for several moments before the poultry merchant noticed the attention the snake charmer was attracting. Being a dhole from India, he himself was not unfamiliar with snake charmers, but it quickly occurred to him that the jackal vagabond might actually prove useful. Could not this jackal help to attract new customers who would purchase his hens and eggs? Thusly motivated, he ran out from behind his crates and baskets and called to the crowd, who still stood back in mild trepidation. Several voices rose in Swahili, demanding questions.

Tushar quirked an ear in the direction of the poultry merchant, and asked what the crowd had said.

"They ask if you are a witch doctor," replied the dhole. "I believe they will take you for one no matter how you answer, however."

A witch doctor! Tushar's mind rapidly assembled a multiplicity of possibilities. It had not occurred to him that the superstitious natives might place special emphasis on the ability of a man to charm a serpent. Perhaps this would work in his favour. Is it not said of jackals that they have sharp and clever minds? "Tell them I am a charmer of serpents," he told the poultry merchant. After a pause, to continue the tune, he added "from a faraway land. I have come here to charm the serpents of Africa."

The dhole knew this to be nonsense, but was far too encouraged by thoughts of how he might benefit from Tushar's presence to concern himself with honesty. Immediately he addressed the crowd, which continued to grow, as more passers-by were drawn naturally by curiosity at what had captured the others' attention. Instantly more gasps ensued from muzzles, eyes widened, and tails went between legs. One painted dog, who had been converted to Catholicism at the French mission, crossed himself. And still Tushar played, and still the snake's tongue flashed between its lips.

"They are afraid you will put a hex upon them," conveyed the dhole, chuckling in amusement. At this moment another Indian jackal, being familiar with the custom, walked forward and threw two coins on the ground before Tushar. The crowd hummed.

This would be how to draw them in, Tushar thought. Keep them mystified. "This jackal respects my power," he instructed the dhole, slowly, as it is difficult to talk when one is trying to blow through an instrument. "I am not a threat; I come in peace. I will charm all the serpents. Tell them all of this."

As the merchant repeated Tushar's words, the snake charmer saw with increasing foresight the possibilities now within reach. Naturally the natives hated snakes; obviously they were bewildered and fascinated by one who seemed to charm them. He could see brown foxes pointing out to one another the way the serpent moved; he could see the expressions of hyenas flickering between fear and wonder. As the dhole finished, the crowd chattered, then sunk into silence. And then one of the painted dogs crept forward, nervously as though approaching a wild beast, and threw before Tushar a small orange pumpkin. The squash clunked onto the coins with a thud. "I am telling them that if they pay you well you will not bewitch them," related the poultry merchant.

Tushar felt inspired more than ever. The pumpkin, though small, would feed his family for a day - that was something. Ever more animated, he moved his own body to the tune of the music, swaying from side to side, then impulsively reaching out to stroke the serpent, which struck at him. The crowd collectively gasped. Tushar skilfully evaded the strike, distracting the snake with the movement of the instrument. His fingers danced over the pungi.

It seemed to Tushar as though the crowd then began moving forward as one body. Foxes, jackals, hyenas, dogs; all of them came streaming up, in pairs or singularly, to drop objects large and small in front of him. Baskets of rice or beans, eggs, squash and pumpkins, bits of cloth, trinkets, coins...the bounty rained down on the ground before Tushar. And as a farmer who has long prayed for rain laughs when the heavens burst with drops, Tushar laughed, wagged his tail, and played on.

Tushar told his family all about it later, over a meal of curry and rice Riya had cooked with the food he'd brought back. He told them how the mystified natives had showered him with gifts of all kinds, as had the occasional Indian shopper; even a passing Swedish wolf had tossed him a few coins. "They were transfixed," he told his children, "these natives. I suppose they have never seen a snake charmer before. They were as charmed as was the cobra itself." The snake itself had been returned to its basket, in which it reposed peacefully in the corner of the hotel room. Later Tushar would catch a rat or a smaller snake for it to eat. But for now - he celebrated his success.

Riya, as always, was hesitant to immediately accept triumph. "But will they respond the same way next time?" she asked in between mouthfuls of curry. "The same trick played too many times grows stale."

Her husband replied that he thought not. "They are too superstitious," he predicted. "The merchant who acted as my translator told me they were very suspicious of snakes. Accordingly they believe I am some kind of witch doctor."

Actually the crowd had thought him even more powerful than he supposed. The poultry merchant had in truth elaborated a little. When Tushar told him to relate to the crowd that he was a snake charmer from a faraway land, the merchant embellished the story by loudly proclaiming the jackal to be a powerful Indian witch doctor, who would, if properly respected, merely entertain them by charming serpents, but who possessed the power to put a hex upon anyone who displeased him. The crowd had thusly gone away concluding that Tushar was someone not to be messed with. The poultry merchant had come away quite favourably from the affair, having sold more eggs and chickens than usual, for some of the crowd, attracted by Tushar, inevitably took notice of the merchant's wares. "Come back again! Come back anytime!" the dhole called after Tushar when the snake charmer did eventually depart for home.

Unsuspecting Tushar knew none of this. He knew only that he had fascinated the Africans, and that in their captivation lay his chance. "I shall perform in the market every day," he declared to his family. The meal being over, the jackals had wandered out to the plaza behind the hotel, from whence they could see the last light of day, which, given the rainy weather, had not been much, dwindling into nothingness. Full of childish optimism, the pups had taken to chasing each other in some sort of game.

Riya did not much like being the wife of a beggar. "You cannot beg forever," she reminded her husband. "Sooner or later these people will tire of you."

"This is only temporary," said Tushar, flicking his ears dismissively. "Sooner or later I will find another job." And so the matter was settled.

Or so it ought to have been, but Tushar had greatly underestimated the impression he had made upon the crowd that rainy March afternoon. These people went home to their families or tribes and told them that a powerful sorcerer had arrived from India, who possessed the power to mesmerise snakes. Accordingly when Tushar took up his place under the merchant's tent the following morning, aroused his cobra from its slumber in the large basket, and struck up a catchy pungi tune, he found several foxes and hyenas already gathered round the tent, as if waiting for him.

The crowd grew quickly as the jackal began to play. Painted dogs and striped hyenas, jackals Indian and African, Indian wolves and dholes, even the occasional European dog or fox, young and old, male and female, they gathered, all watching with pricked ears and twitching noses, all enthralled with the jackal who charmed snakes. "You are the talk of the town," enthused the poultry merchant as he clapped his paws together. It may be said of this dhole that he was prone to exaggeration. Probably he was just mentally calculating how he might use Tushar's fame to make himself rich. But to the jackal himself, seeing the crowd grow, watching coins or bits of food drop before him, the poultry merchant's words seemed to carry weight.

In the case of the Indians and Europeans they had seen snake charmers before, or at least heard of them, and so Tushar, if a curiosity, was not a revelation. But to the snake-fearing Africans he was a mystery untold, and so, in the days following Tushar's first visit to the market, gossip of his talents spread like wildfire. All over Nairobi, and on in the native encampments of the nearby plantations and estates, voices whispered: "Have you heard? In Nairobi there is a jackal, a mighty witch doctor, who has the power to charm snakes."

He became an expected and anticipated feature of the market. On rainless days he took to sitting out in the open so as that spectators could gather round him in a circle, with fathers holding their pups up to glimpse the flickering tongue of the cobra as it waved in from of Tushar's muzzle, and toothless old women blinked their eyes, held their tails between their legs, and shuddered at the sight of a serpent seemingly controlled by a jackal. Tushar's nose became so accustomed to the stench of crowds that it no longer twitched from the cocktail of scents infusing the market. When it was raining he would sit underneath the tent, listening to the patter of the raindrops on the roof, occasionally joined by the crack of thunder, and even if the heavens poured, before long a group of spectators would have gathered around, little caring if they were drenched. Rain or shine, the curious mob came. The spectacle of the snake charmer was too fascinating to avoid.

With time the fame of the snake charmer spread beyond the Indian and native inhabitants of Nairobi to reach the ears of the European population. He even became the subject of conversation among the members of the Muthagia Club, the centre of Nairobi high society. "What is it that's got all the natives amassed down in the market as late?" asked one member as he sipped a brandy.

"Oh, you had not heard?" replied another. "It's one of the Indian jackals, a snake charmer. The natives are convinced he's a witch doctor."

A third added: "I had to take my son down there yesterday to see the dog. Now the pup insists he wants a snake of his own! I'm half-afraid he'll try catching up one and get bitten."

After a time conversations of this kind became fairly frequent among the European population, as they were among the natives.

It came that Tushar began to find himself invited to the garden parties and gatherings held on the grounds of the Club or at the homes of various settlers. He was asked to these as a curiosity or a means of entertainment, both for the guests and hosts themselves, and for their native servants, who never failed to hold him in great esteem. While champagne was toasted and hors d'oeuvres sampled from, society vixens shivered behind their lace parasols, and pups shrank, with tails tucked, to the sheltering legs of their parents. Even seasoned gentlemen, wolves, collies, and Alsatians who had stood before charging lions without baulking, found themselves flinching and pinning their ears when they saw the serpent strike at Tushar.

Of course the jackal was himself paid for these events, being hired out in much the same way one might hire a photographer or a pianist. With the income he now possessed he had been able to rent not one but two rooms in which to house his family. Riya and his mother had set up house and begun acquiring furniture. The family always ate well. In fact it seemed their fortunes were ever on the rise. Tushar had in the evenings began inquiring around about where a suitable school for Indian boys could be found, having decided that his son, approaching his 5thbirthday, was at the age at which education should begin. Riya, meanwhile, after observing various European ladies with their African servants, had concluded she too needed one. Tushar had told her it was silly to consider employing a maid when they did not even have a house of their own, but he suspected within Riya's mind the matter was far from settled.

It was at one of these events that Tushar was presented with the opportunity that was to advance his snake-charming career to the next step of its destiny. This particular gathering was at the Nairobi racetrack, at which a highly anticipated horserace was being held. A wealthy farmer called Amory Henton, a British collie recently married, had called for a race to commemorate this milestone in his life. As a wedding gift he had given his new bride a prizewinning racehorse, shipped all the way from Britain at great cost. The race was proposed as a trial run to see if the horse could live up to his reputation.

Typically at occasions of this kind the natives present, whether servants of the Europeans or otherwise, were left up to entertain themselves on their own. The same went for any children who might find horses tiring. Amory Henton had, however, finding himself in that copious flowering of generosity some men experience following their weddings, decided it would be prudent to expand the attraction of the events beyond just a horserace, and accordingly, he contacted Tushar and hired him to bring his cobra and _pungi_to the horserace. In addition to agreeing to pay Tushar for his time, the collie also invited the snake charmer to bring along his family.

It happened that the race fell upon a day free from rain. The Prasad family was among the first to arrive. All along the racetrack big white tents were being set up, while liveried painted dogs and jackals brought out plates and trays of food and spread them upon tables. Chairs were unloaded from wagons and set up for the ladies. Grooms were leading prancing thoroughbreds about, up and down along the outskirts of the track. The air smelt of wet grass and the mud of the racetrack. An African jackal wearing a Somali turban, presumably Amory Henton's assistant, directed Tushar to set himself up under one of the tents.

Riya, Tushar's mother, and the pups, meanwhile, found themselves a place upon the track. Snake charming they were familiar with, but horseracing was new and exciting. And so as the crowd of dogs, foxes, wolves, hyenas, and more grew ever larger, the excitement grew, and before long Tushar had attracted his usual crowd. A few chairs had been set up for some of the Europeans who wished to see the cobra hiss and sway before him, while wide-eyed pups sat on the grass nearby, and dozens of native hyenas and dogs watched from outside the tent. Eventually many of the spectators were inevitably drawn away by the start of the race, but there were always a few pairs of eyes or ears quirked in the direction of the snake charmer.

After the race had finished - with the victory of the new Mrs Henton's horse - Tushar was still entertaining, although given his cobra was growing sulky, he anticipated quitting soon. Most of the spectators had wandered off to celebrate the outcome of the race, or to lament it if bets had gone awry, so he reached out to grab the lid of the basket, with which to supress the serpent back into its lair.

"Mr Prasad - a word with you, if you will," interceded a low, husky voice from behind him. The scent of Alsatian dog wafted across his nose.

Tushar laid aside the basket lid and turned to detect the speaker. The Alsatian before him was notable not so much by appearance, as she was slight in height, and her pale green blouse and white skirt were not extraordinary, but because she approached him just as politely as one would have approached another European. Her accent was not British; something continental rather. Her eyes, dark and rather large, were full of curiosity at the spectacle before her, the large Alsatian ears pricked forward. Behind her was another Somali jackal, presumably a servant.

"Can I help you, Madame?" Tushar asked.

The Alsatian smiled. "Perhaps." From behind her the servant stepped up to pull out a chair for her. "My name is Anya, Baroness Robeson." She held out her hand to Tushar.

Not used to being offered the chance to shake hands with Europeans, Tushar hesitated briefly, but he could not help letting his tail wag. He kissed the woman's hand. "I'm pleased to meet you, Baroness."

The Baroness raised her eyes to look over a few scattered natives who were still eyeing Tushar's cobra. "The natives are quite riveted by you," she remarked. "You have a strange ability to bewitch them."

"They are superstitious," Tushar acknowledged. "My snake intrigues them."

"Indeed." The Baroness folded her hands in her lap, her tail curling around her legs. "Well. Have you ever been to a ngoma?"

Tushar's ears perked. "A ngoma?" he repeated. "No, I have not."

The Alsatian lady nodded. "I thought not. 'Ngoma' is the name of a festival the natives have from time, a very large dance. It goes on for days. The natives on my farm are holding one in ten days time. I thought you might attend it."

"Is it a religious festival?"

"No. The Africans are not so practical as that. I myself believe they hold ngomas for no other reason than that they can." The Baroness relaxed her ears, lowering her voice a little. "My people have heard a great deal about you. They hold you to be a kind of witch doctor."

"I am only a simple snake charmer," replied Tushar modestly, but his tail was still thumping nonetheless.

The Baroness smiled. "Nonetheless. They think much of you. They also think believe I myself to be a figure of great authority, so a few of the tribal elders have asked me to speak to you on this matter."

It was unusual, Tushar thought, for a European to act on request of the Natives; usually the affair would have been arranged the other way around. Regardless the Alsatian's proposal seemed to have potential. "How many Natives attend these ngomas?" he queried.

"Thousands," replied the Baroness. "You will be the star of the gathering."

This of course was rather daunting, but somehow Tushar gathered the impression that Anya Robeson was not the kind of person accustomed to being said 'no' to. "I shall be there," he agreed.

The Alsatian nodded. "You will be paid well. Feisal," she gestured to her servant, "will pay you half in advance. I will send a wagon to pick up you and your family on May the 10th." She rose, and Tushar did the same instinctively, bowing respectfully to her.

"Thank you, Baroness."

His new employer's tail wagged. "Thank you as well." Her dark eyes flickered down to where his snake was settling back into its basket. "I look forward to meeting you and your serpent again." Saying thus she turned and left him, while the other jackal approached Tushar to count out the suitable number of rupees into his paw.

When Riya was informed of this new development, she was less than enthused. "A native festival?" she repeated sceptically. Tushar repeated what the Baroness had told him of the ngomas, plus what else he had learned by asking about. "Thousands of crazed, drunken savages, probably half-naked, dancing around bonfires?" she shivered. "It doesn't sound appropriate for the children."

"I'm sure it's not that bad." Tushar dropped a rat into his snake's basket as its meal. "Europeans would never tolerate truly extreme behaviour." He reminded her that the ngoma was being held on Anya Robeson's coffee plantation.

Riya flicked her ears dismissively. "Probably the dancing and fires are just pretences for offering sacrifices to their evil gods" she muttered. Tushar ignored her. He was used to his wife's superstitions and prejudices. To him the prospect of performing at the ngoma_was not only desirable for financial purposes but also because unlike his wife he was actually curious about the African cultures. He performed again in the market a few times, but his thoughts dwelt on the approaching _ngoma.

Whatever reservations Riya might have had about her family's attendance of the event, the 10th of May nonetheless found Anya Robeson's jackal servant Feisal delivering the Prasad family to his employer's farm. The Robeson plantation lay two hours drive from Nairobi, up in the highlands where the air was crisp and cool at night, where leopards prowled and bushbuck grazed under forest glades. Feisal proved rather quiet, but from him Tushar had learned a little more of what they might expect at the ngoma. The Baroness's husband was away, and she had no European or Indian employees. Accordingly aside from herself and Feisal, the Prasad family would be the only attendees of the festival who were not native Kenyans. Tushar could tell that his wife found this alarming, the prospect of being surrounded by thousands of excited natives, but he gave her only a smile. Of course the pups were full of excitement; like their father, they were very curious about this new land. So when at last they sighted the tiled roof of Anya Robeson's house glimmering through the trees, and drew closer to see the green lawns and flowerbeds of the grounds, their excitement grew, the waggon filled with wagging tails and perked jackal ears.

The Baroness came out to greet them, welcoming Tushar's family with such warmth that even Riya felt herself relaxing a little. Their hostess showed them where they were to stay while at the ngoma. "You need not rouse your serpent until the dancers have assembled," she advised Tushar.

"And when will that be?" inquired Riya.

"Only the dancers can say," replied the Alsatian.

At dusk they came.

Tushar and his family had come out to sit upon the damp grass of the yard, which extended off some distance from the house through a scattered variety of very tall trees. Despite the weather it was a lovely sunset, red and gold light filtered down through the branches of the trees to cast shimmering light upon the glace or the terrace of the house. Not knowing where exactly he was intended to perform, Tushar merely took a seat out in the open, placing his large basket in front of him, but not yet disturbing the cobra from its languid slumber. Riya, his mother, and the pups were themselves directed by the Baroness to join her in some wicker chairs she had upon the tiled patio of the house, from whose luxury one could watch the dancers in comfort. This was all very well received by Riya, who enjoyed being treated as a lady of class, and because it kept her children at a respectable distance from the natives.

Tushar meanwhile paid little mind to his family or their hostess. His curiosity of the native ritual was awakened, and from his vantage point his eyes took in the evidence of the night's festivities-to-be; firewood piled up in an enormous heap, and the occasional hyena or brown fox slinking by to toss on another branch. A pale, ivory moon escaped its cloud cover to prematurely make its presence known, as the golden light of the sunset dwindled. And from the trees, or up from the coffee fields faintly visible in the distance, the dancers appeared.

It can be said that Tushar was as fascinated by them as they with him.

There were every variety of African people found in Kenya. Hyenas spotted and striped, painted dogs, jackals, and the small brown foxes all came, trotting or strolling out onto the lawn. They had covered themselves head to foot with a dry dusty clay, which gave all, regardless of species, an otherworldly aspect, as though they were pieces of art rather than people. What clothing they wore, which was bands of leather cast around select areas of the body, was obscured by the clay, so that as Tushar watched the gathering begin to form themselves into circles, it was as though a cave painting had come to life.

Now as the last of the sunset was replaced by night, it began. Young men approached the giant firewood heap with torches, thrust their branches forward, and sent the mass ablaze. A few individuals who appeared to be older than the average dancer took a set some distance from the fire, holding drums of animal hide stretched over wood, or simple bone or wooden flutes. Then the mass encircling the fire begin to move, one by one, like a snake uncoiling into movement. Tushar was pulling out his pungi and tapping the basket, but even as his cobra rose, spread its hood, and hissed his attention was drawn to the dancers. It was as if all of them, dozens or hundreds - for the circle was expanding all the time as more arrived - were thrown into a frenzy, jumping up and down, in a fever of tossing heads and whipping tails and shaking arms. Hundreds of feet stamped on the ground to a rhyme so loud it made Tushar's ears ring, heads were thrown back, and from the lungs of the drum-players and the dancers rang out an eruption of chants, cries, howls, yips, and song, all so asymmetrical as that it gave the impression of universal improvision, in which every singer opened his muzzle in expression without regard for what any of the others were saying. The cacophony unleashed by this discord, intermixed with Tushar's pungi and the drums and flutes of their fellows, rang in one's ears long after it had ended.

It was as if all persons present had been drawn into a trance. The dancers, the musicians, Tushar himself, and the spectators, who continued to appear in groups, pairs, or singularly for hours long into the night, were all participants in one colossal performance, which, whatever Riya might have thought, did not really have any religious significance at all; the dancers danced simply because it was the full moon, and they felt alive. The things we enjoy most in life are sometimes those we do not for any particular reason but simply because we can. Let the world go by, the dancers seemed to say. We can dance, we can howl, we can sing. And so we will.

Of course Tushar got all caught up in the extravagance of the moment. He played the pungi with more spirit than ever before, his body unable to resist waving to the melody, to a melody, as if matching the movement of his serpent. The snake and snake charmer seemed to be dancing a dance all of their own. Tushar's fingers danced over his instrument with all the passion of the Africans dancing round their fire. His tail thumped the grass with to the beat of the stomping feet. The light of the full moon combined with that of the fire, with seemed to reach straight into the heavens, gave the glade a strangely day-like, atmospheric quality. And then something amazing began to happen.

Tushar had in his passion not even thought to wonder if the Africans were really paying him any mind at all; he thought them too caught up in their dancing. But then as the whirling leaping circle grew ever larger, he became aware that it was extending in one direction: towards him. Closer and closer drew the thrashing tails and pounding feet; louder came the wails and yips of the vocalists. Tushar's cobra seemed to wave with greater fluency; probably it was made nervous by the vibration of the lawn. Even as Tushar was himself becoming aware of how close they were, the circle broke, and came together again - with Tushar and his snake inside it.

Was it normal for the dancers to encircle a person? Tushar did not know. The Baroness had not mentioned it. But now here they were, twirling round him in their frenzied joy, dancing, so it seemed, all for him. A great magician had honoured them with his presence. They respected him, so they included him in their ecstasy. Around and around him they cavorted, even after Tushar had put his snake back into its basket. On into the night the Africans danced, and Tushar, feeling the rhythm infuse into him, threw back his head and howled with them, wagging his tail, savouring the delicious sensation of one who is adored.

This triumph at the ngoma may make it all the more difficult to believe that only three days later, Tushar found himself thrown into Nairobi's prison, on assassination charges.

Tushar had left the festival, exhausted, after two days of scattered performances, praised by the natives, praised by the Baroness, and praised by his family. Even Riya had had a good time. The pups chattered with wagging tails about how much they hoped for an invitation to the next ngoma. Accordingly when, after a day's rest, he again set out for his usual place in the market, his spirits were soaring, for his ears still rang with the beat of drums and cries of hyenas, and within his nose lingered scents of acacia ash and musky dancers. He recalled how, when at last he had left the Robeson farm, throngs of painted dogs and jackals had followed him for some time after. He had felt like a king, or a god.

On that first morning back in the market, the snake charmer made one mistake only: after setting his basket in its usual place, he went to speak for a moment to the poultry merchant. Of course simplifying the majesty of the ngoma proved difficult, so several minutes passed before he again returned to begin his performance. A few passers-by had already paused in anticipation. But when Tushar tapped the basket to arouse his cobra, it did not appear.

It was when a second tap again failed to produce the intended result that the jackal's ears lowered in concern. Now true terror set in, for when he looked into the basket, it contained, instead of a snake, only vegetables, and when he examined the basket, he found that while the red stitching on its sides was the same colour, the design was different. The basket was not his own. Horrified, he leapt to his feet, glancing down the market strip in one direction and then the other. He knew the basket before him was not the one he had carried to the market moments before. Accordingly the thief, or whoever had taken his snake, must still be nearby.

With lowered ears and lower tail Tushar searched the market for his cobra. His pungi forgotten, he ran from stall to stall, pushing through groups of shoppers, glancing closer at those who carried baskets, but no, while similar in size or construction or colour, the baskets they carried were not his own. His ears were filled with the murmured voices of hyenas or dholes, or the cries of vendors hawking their wares; his nose full of the scent of roasting lamb or beef - but not of snake. The cobra was his prize possession. But who would have taken it - the natives, in their great fear of snakes, and their greater reverence of Tushar himself, would not have dared. Could it be a rival Indian? He began to inspect with closer attention every jackal, dhole, or Indian wolf that passed, but none carried his basket. Shoppers passed, oblivious to his dismay. Jinrikishas_clattered by._ But nowhere did he see the prize he sought.

Alas, poor Tushar. For it was not, as he surmised, an Indian who had taken his snake. Nor had the cobra been stolen; it had been carried away by innocent mistake. What happened was this: as Tushar had been conversing with the poultry merchant, a jinrikisha had stopped in the street nearby. This _jinrikisha_carried an English vixen called Lady Margaret Stanford-Phillips. Lady Margaret had alighted to inspect the poultry merchant's goods, and for a moment set aside the large shopping basket she carried. But she did not like the look of his chickens; she wanted one already plucked. This was where her error occurred: by an act of simple carelessness, Lady Margaret picked up Tushar's basket, which was very similar to her own - for he, knowing very little about African baskets, had bought one designed for shopping. In a moment she and the basket had been whisked away by her _jinrikisha._She went straight home, having completed her shopping. It was no fault of Tushar's that he could not find his basket anywhere in the market.

Once home, this vixen took the basket into her kitchen and gave her cook orders regarding a party she had planned for that evening. She then opened the basket.

Lady Margaret was very fortunate. The cobra was accustomed to being rudely disturbed, and was therefore disinclined to striking. For this reason when it rose up and spread its hood, it did not strike at her, and she was able to back away, albeit not without screaming horribly. Her cook then had the good sense to use the basket's lid to push the snake back down into the basket, preventing it from escaping into the house. His mistress had already fled the scene.

Now, had Lady Margaret been the wife of a simple colonist only, probably nothing would have happened. The snake would have been disposed of, but otherwise the matter would not have gotten back to Tushar. But it happened that this lady was not just any vixen; rather, she was the wife of a Sir Maxwell Stanford-Phillips. Sir Maxwell was at that time the Commissioner of British East Africa.

One does not give a snake to the wife of a colonial Commissioner and not hear something more of it. "Someone has tried to assassinate my wife!" sputtered Sir Maxwell when he was informed of the incident. He was one of those very red British foxes who seem to grow even redder when angry. His bushy tail puffed out even more in his agitation as he continued to his secretary, "it is probably part of an attempt to subvert the government here by endangering our families. It will not work, I tell you!"

This all happened as Tushar was still despondently wandering the market in search of his snake. Having kissed his wife and comforted her with the assurance that the assassin-to-be would be found and punished, Sir Maxwell immediately turned to the task of doing so. It was not difficult. One of the native painted dogs employed as an askari guard recognised the basket. "I have seen that basket, and the cobra, before," he told the fox. "At Baroness Robeson's ngoma, and in the market besides."

Sir Maxwell told the askari to continue.

"There is an Indian jackal who charms serpents," replied the painted dog. "He charms them with a flute. My people think he is a powerful sorcerer."

Sir Maxwell's secretary chimed in. "Oh, I've heard of this jackal. The natives certainly think quite highly of him."

Several others were questioned, Tushar's name and history was procured, including his immigration documents, and within an hour Sir Maxwell surmised he knew enough about Tushar to convince himself of the jackal's guilt. On account of the poultry merchant's original embellishments it was now widely held that Tushar himself had testified of being a witch doctor, information Sir Maxwell used as evidence of Tushar's wickedness. "This jackal came here thinking he had a job, it was denied him, and he has now sought to take revenge on us by harming my wife," stated the fox. "This nonsense of telling the Africans he is a witch doctor is just meant to stir up subversion amongst the native population in order to create further annoyance for us." He called up a few askari, and gave them a warrant for Tushar's arrest.

This was how Tushar found himself thrown in prison.

Within the cell the jackal slumped against the bars, his ears drooped, his tail flat against the stone. He felt like a deer that has blundered into a hunter's trap; he hardly understood what had happened to him. The askari who had seized him and dragged him off to imprisonment had accused him of attempting to assassinate the wife of the Commissioner. Tushar did not even know who the Commissioner or his wife were; how then could he plot to murder them? Somehow, it seemed, his snake had found its way home with the vixen Lady Margaret; she must, he deduced, have carried off his basket under the supposition it was her own. But when he had tried to protest this to the askaris, and later, to the Commissioner himself, he had been ignored. He was locked away in the cell, told he would be brought to trial and persecuted to the fullest extent of the law, as was proper punishment for terrorists.

It must be evident by now that Tushar was not the kind easily discouraged, but now at last he felt truly defeated. He had come back from the impediment of his lost employment; he had even triumphed, but how could one, especially one belonging to an immigrant population disliked by most Europeans, come back from an accusation of having attempted to murder one of them? Tushar knew well that Indians were not well liked by the British. Probably some of them would be pleased to use him as an example of the odiousness of his kind. He did not cry, but his head sank back against the bars of the cell, and he closed his eyes. Charming snakes would not save him this time.

What Tushar did not know was at this time word was spreading all over Nairobi, and on plantations and villages nearby, just as it had when he first arrived. Hyenas, foxes, and jackals whispered to each other, ears perked, eyes went wide, and before long another runner would be trotting off to the next house, or village, or farm to spread the news. The colonial administration had taken the snake charmer and locked him up in prison! Normally the Africans in their fatalistic way tolerated the actions of the colonists with about the same attitude with which they'd regard a particularly bad bout of weather; it was just someone one had to accept. But incarcerating Tushar, a figured they loved, and moreover revered, was more than they could bear. They still believed him to be a witch doctor, and to anger a witch doctor was a perilous misdeed. Consequently they responded to his confinement with the same anxiety which would have ensued had one of their own chiefs or magicians been seized.

By early evening a crowd had begun to grow outside the prison. Hyenas and jackals, painted dogs and foxes, intermixed with the occasional member of Nairobi's Indian population, the agitators milled in varying groups, murmuring uneasily amongst themselves, calling out in intervals to whatever officials or askari might be visible. As the dusk set in the crowd was growing, carrying torches, or rocks and bits of rubbish, which some of the more unruly members of the gathering threw at the offices of the prison. The vocal discourse of those present was not coordinated, but the general message was along a common theme: displeasure with Tushar's jailing.

Meanwhile gossip of what had befallen the snake charmer continued to spread. It reached Tushar's family, sending Riya, the children, and Tushar's mother into anguish. Riya put on her best clothes, dressed the pups similarly, and set out to throw herself at the mercy of the authorities, intending to use her pups to play on their sympathies and suggest that a family man such as Tushar could not possibly have attempted assassinating anyone. Talk of Tushar's misfortune also spread to the Robeson farm, where Baroness Anya found her house crowded with jackals and hyenas protesting to her of the injustice committed that day. And it spread as well to the Stanford-Phillips residence. Sir Maxwell and Lady Margaret were just sitting down to the dinner party the latter had planned when a servant brought notice to Sir Maxwell that his secretary was at the door. "Send him in then," said the fox. And this was how the Commissioner learned that a mob of hundreds of anxious Africans had formed outside the prison. It was, advised the secretary, looking like the beginning of a riot.

Tushar of course knew nothing of any of this. His cell had but one window, and this was too high for his eyes to each, but through it his ears caught the sound of angry voices chanting in Swahili, and the scent of smoke. Unfortunately his discouraged mind took this as evidence that a mob had appeared demanding vigilante justice, who would, he imagined, break down the doors and tear him to pieces. Tail between his legs, he shivered in the corner of his cell, praying his family would stay far away and thus avoid the mob. He could not imagine that these people, the same who had seemingly sung his praises at the ngoma, were now calling for his release.

While Tushar envisioned a brutal and bloody fate, Riya was prostrating herself before Sir Maxwell. By simple luck and jackal cunning she had thought to hire a jinrikisha, giving its operator orders to take her and the pups to the home of the Commissioner. When this had been done, she demanded of his servants that she be allowed entry. This was not done, but she put up such a protest that presently Sir Maxwell's servants again ventured into the dining room. "What nonsense is it this time?" protested the fox. He had dismissed his secretary with orders to alert him if affairs at the prison deteriorated further.

Riya was standing staunchly on the patio of the Commissioner's home when the fox himself appeared. She willed her ears and tail to remain high, and her expression proud. Whatever her family's fate, she was not the kind who begs. So when Sir Maxwell stepped out, puffing on a cigar, she stepped calmly up and bowed stiffly in deference to him, then said, "Sir, I come to ask after my husband." She had rehearsed her words carefully on her way.

"Your husband stands accused of trying to assassinate my wife," the fox replied, "Cleopatra style, as it were." It cannot be said of Sir Maxwell that he was without humour.

"My husband is only a poor snake charmer," continued Riya as if he had said nothing. "He knows nothing of assassinations or commissioners. It is all a mistake."

The fox flicked his tail, desiring to get back to his dinner. "Then why does he claim to be a sorcerer?" He took a puff on his cigar. "The man is an agitator. I shall find out how deep his guilt runs, do not doubt it."

"Sir, my husband is a loving father," Riya's voice, even then, did not waver. Her tail was stiff behind her as she gestured to the four pups who stood, both nervous and curious, behind her. "We have four children. We depend on his snake charming to survive, he being unemployed." She boldly met the fox's eyes. "You would not deny little children their father all because of an innocent mistake?"

"A mistake?" repeated Sir Maxwell. "What do you know of the matter?"

"I know that it is your wife's error that caused it," Riya responded definitely. For she had heard enough from the gossips to surmise the truth of Lady Margaret's mistaking her husband's basket for her own. "My husband is imprisoned all because of an innocent mistake, but a mistake nonetheless."

This was her error. Men do not like to hear their wives criticised. "Go away," the Commissioner told her. "Your husband will stand to trial, as do all who break the law. If you are concerned over his welfare, hire a lawyer." So saying, he went back into the house.

Riya looked after him for a long time, staring at the closed door. Finally she sat down stiffly on the steps, holding her youngest pup to her, lost in thought.

Meanwhile affairs at the prison continued to delve further into disorder. It must be understood that in the viewpoint of the Africans, dire consequences might result from this incident. One does not simply insult a witch doctor. Should he be angered, they thought, all of Kenya might pay the price, if he decided to bewitch them or curse the crops to fail or send pests to plague their livestock. Moreover, they really did like Tushar, who with his friendly, benevolent demeanour had treated them kindly. So in their mind the anger brewing amongst them was well justified on multiple accounts. By eight o clock in the evening they had broken several windows, and were milling around about the prison in such numbers that the _askari_were getting nervous. The Commissioner's secretary, from within the office, told his servant to send another message to Sir Maxwell, but the servant was too nervous to obey. The secretary was thus forced to tuck his tail and do so himself.

This is the scene then set at the Commissioner's residence: Riya and the Prasad pups still congregated on the patio, trying to decide what to do next; the secretary, out of breath and having lost his hat, panting as he asked again to see his employer, and Sir Maxwell himself, ears pinned in annoyance as he asked why, yet again, the peace of his evening had been disturbed. The secretary told him. "It's a terrible mess, Sir. There's a fearful crowd about the prison, and more coming all the time. They won't take no for an answer. They want that jackal released."

"We can't just release him," Sir Maxwell began.

Riya saw her chance. "You must," she insisted, springing to her feet again with ears confidently raised. "You know my husband is innocent. You are merely annoyed with him for the inconvenience caused."

"Begone, jackal," the fox waved a paw at her. "We must maintain order. We cannot just release prisoners because the people demand it."

"I fear if we do not there will be great disorder," muttered the secretary.

"Might I propose a solution?" inquired a voice.

Heads turned, and together foxes and jackals watched a slender Alsatian alight from a horse and walk calmly up to the patio. Her coat and mane were wet with rain. Dark eyes rose to meet Sir Maxwell's.

"Baroness!" exclaimed the fox, bowing his head respectfully as was then proper when addressing women of the aristocracy. "I cannot imagine you have anything to contribute to this scene."

Riya seized upon an opportunity. "Baroness," she cried, stepping up to the approaching Alsatian. "You know my husband is innocent. Help us."

"I will to what I can, Mrs Prasad," the Baroness said calmly. Still holding the lead of her horse, she stood before Sir Maxwell. "Maxwell, you know as well as I that that poor jackal cannot possibly be the mastermind of a plot to harm Margaret."

"Really, Baroness," Sir Maxwell began to protest, but the Baroness continued.

"I came as soon as I heard," she said, nodding towards Riya. "I know Tushar Prasad. He is a good, honest man. I do not believe he went to the market today with any scheme in his head other than to charm that snake. You ought to release him."

"He cannot be released until this matter is investigated further," argued the fox.

"The Africans will not like that answer," muttered his secretary.

"That is where my solution comes in," continued the Baroness. "I am in need of a man who knows carpentry and blacksmithing. Mr Prasad worked on a plantation before he came to Africa. Your husband can do these things?" This was addressed to Riya.

Riya nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes. He is very good with his hands."

The Baroness smiled. "I thought so." She turned to address the Commissioner. "Tushar Prasad and his family will come to live on my farm. Investigate him as you will; you will not find anything disagreeable, and in any case you will know where to find him."

"My wife-" began Sir Maxwell, who then hesitated.

"You cannot have a native insurgence on your hands," prompted the Baroness. "They already think that you are being tyrannical. I myself know that you are not malevolent, only prone to overreacting."

Sir Maxwell's secretary spoke up. "The Baroness is responsible; she will keep an eye on the jackal for us. And the prison will not be torn apart by a mob."

The Commissioner glanced first at the other fox, then at Riya, and last at the Baroness. He was tired, he wanted to get back to his meal and socialising, and he had heard enough for one evening about Tushar Prasad. His ears flicked back sourly, and he sighed. "Fine. Baroness, the jackal is your responsibility. If he flees or disappears I will hold you responsible."

"Very well," nodded the Alsatian. She turned back to stroke the neck of the horse, then pulled herself aboard it. "I will accept responsibility for his actions." She then turned to Riya. "Mrs Prasad, pack up all your things. I will send a wagon for you in the morning." Her eyes and big Alsatian ears swung expectantly in the direction of Sir Maxwell's secretary, who looked expectantly at his employer.

The fox sighed. "Go release him then. But I will still investigate this matter!"

Riya had felt a growing sense of relief settling over her in over the course of these developments, and now she stepped forward to look up at the Baroness on her horse. "Madame, thank you, thank you, thank you," she repeated. In her relief she could not say anything else. The pups, inspired, started up the same refrain.

The Baroness smiled. "I will see you all tomorrow." She wheeled her horse around, and, followed by Sir Maxwell's secretary, rode off down the street in the direction of the prison, while Riya clasped her paws, clutched her children to her breast, and cried. Sir Maxwell shook his head and went back into his house.

This was the end of Tushar's trouble. Sir Maxwell's secretary, eager to avoid a riot, went immediately to the prison with the Baroness and ordered Tushar's release upon the Commissioner's command. A dazed and confused Tushar was brought out, nervous at first that he was being brought to trial, but the Baroness was quick to set him at ease. The very next day he, Riya, and their family travelled out to the Robeson plantation. The Baroness had a cottage there that had been occupied by her previous carpenter. It became their home, and in one of the plantation buildings nearby, Tushar was employed as a dual carpenter-blacksmith. The family finally had a secure income. Riya had a friend in the Baroness. She helped them find a school for their son. And when she told Riya how the loyalty of Tushar's African fans had played a part in his release, Riya had no choice but to release the resentment she had held towards the natives and open her heart to the possibility of friendship with them.

And as for snake charming? Well, the cobra had been thrown out by Sir Maxwell's cook. It crawled away and was gone. For a time there was no more snake charming. But a month or so after the Prasad family had come to live on the Robeson farm, one of the hyenas who lived there came running up to the carpentry shop. He pointed excitedly in the direction of the Baroness's house. Tushar asked the man what was the matter. "Nyoka," the hyena insisted. "Nyoka." This, Tushar knew by now, was the Swahili word for snake.

Tushar left his work and went up to the house. There, upon the terrace of the patio, he saw the hyena's reason for alarm: an Egyptian cobra, that member of the species who delivered Queen Cleopatra her coup de grâce, had crawled upon the tile and was sunning itself there.

It took only an instant for the experienced Tushar to capture the snake. Soon a few Africans were attracted. They saw the cobra held expertly in his paw, and they chattered. Tushar looked around at them, and at the snake. "Shall I charm this nyoka?" he asked, grinning. The Africans cheered.

"This snake will be charmed, then," he continued. "Just let me get my pungi." And a crowd began to gather as upon the grass of the Baroness's lawn the snake charmer began to perform once more.