A Delayed Apology

The Deccan Plateau is a large triangular area in South India, bounded by the eastern and western Ghats—escarpments that meet at the southern tip of the country. Our home, where I lived with an extended family for much of my childhood, was a modest dwelling within a walled-off campus on the outskirts of a busy city in the plateau’s upland region. Being far enough from the city, the campus allowed for brilliantly studded night skies and the rhythmic songs of nocturnal insects. The arid climate of the region brought scorching summer days and cold winter nights. And all across the campus, there were stretches of thick, dry forest teeming with wildlife—monkeys, birds, reptiles, and an incredible variety of insects. Dragonflies fascinated me, their wings glistening in the light of tropical evenings. I had a special affection for colourful bugs that inhabited the vast outdoors. They dotted the large lawns of the more luxurious homes, where they sparkled like diamonds on recently watered, wet grass. House lizards crawled across the walls and ceilings of our home, and while they were mostly agile creatures, once in a while, one of them would drop from the ceiling onto my passing shoulder. Snakes slithered across paths in the woods, and in their uninhibited explorations, they occasionally wandered into homes. I once found a happy fellow sunning himself on our balcony’s railing, giving me quite a turn. But all in all, I delighted in the access I had to the natural world, a rare privilege in an Indian city.

There was one very special resident of the neighborhood—an Indian chameleon. He

would perch on a stone wall in front of our home and remain there without any movement for

hours. I often sat in front of him, watching and waiting in anticipation, for I knew of his

camouflaging ability. Once in a while, he stuck his tongue out lazily to catch a passing mosquito but seemed indifferent to the outcome of his attempt. He rarely changed his customary yellowish-brown garb, and only once do I recall seeing him turn a pale yet distinct green. This magical transformation was absolutely riveting to witness. He was a meditative, tranquil creature, and I still carry a warm feeling of affection for my sagacious friend from the past. The days brought many adventures, including friendships with stray dogs and tête-à-têtes with rhesus monkeys. I often brought stray pups home and hid them in a shed next to the house. I was too naïve to realize that as the shed had no door, the pups would stray into the house, and soon I would have to face the admonishment of Authority, i.e., grown-ups. Monkeys that invaded homes and helped themselves to edible selections also left chaos in their wake as they rampaged the campus’ fruit trees. They were endearing creatures nonetheless—the little ones, wide-eyed and alert, clinging to the bosoms of their fiercely protective mothers.

But this would be a convenient, selective recollection if I failed to issue an apology,

although delayed, to the common dotted garden skink. Known locally by the names saamp ki

mausi (the snake’s aunt) in Hindi and pambu aranai (the snake lizard) in Tamil, she is a beautiful iridescent snake-like lizard and can grow up to 85 mm. Edgar Thurston, a 19 th -century British researcher and author of a book on South Indian tribes, mentions an ancient Indian legend concerning the garden skink, or the Brahmini lizard as he refers to it. According to the legend, when the cobra and skink were created, they were both supplied with poison on a leaf. The skink drank most of it, leaving only a few drops behind for the cobra, making her far more venomous than the cobra. As it turns out, the garden skink has no venom and feeds mainly on ants and small insects, but like so many Indian legends, the fable of the venomous skink turned into superstition and eventually into pseudo-fact. I remember quite vividly that when she visited our home, full-blown panic would set in. I had been told of the threat she posed, so I was terrified of her. She was routinely, unceremoniously, ejected out of our home; I have memories of her slithering away hurriedly, most probably in sheer terror. With this image comes great sadness

and remorse.

Now, several years and many lessons later, knowledge and observation of the natural

world have been helpful in dissolving some of my illusions. Today, when wasps fly into our

home, I try to be patient and wait for them to make their intentions clear. If their movements

appear slow and lethargic, my friend gives them honey, which they usually accept. Once they feel strong again, they leave through an open window. Sometimes, a wasp gets in through a crevice and then scans a window frantically. We can see that he is trapped, so we simply open a window to let him out. And when the cold weather sets in, some visitors come indoors to hibernate or live out their lives. A bee once made her home on the folds of our living room curtain. She hibernated through the winter months, and one night quietly fell to the ground, where I found her the next morning.

Even with everything I know today about the creatures of the wild, I can never be sure

where my actions will stem from if I leave a fear unresolved or let a foolish mental habit linger. Knowledge alone is not enough to dispel our fallacies—it has to be protected, cleansed, and constantly nourished by a deeper wisdom and intelligence. And so, I hope the beautiful Brahmini lizard of the Deccan Plateau walks her land today with joyous abandon, and if I do meet her again, it will be with the wonder she merits and the love she embodies.

Anna Mallikarjunan writes from her love for the natural world, lessons from her journey through illness and trauma, and gratitude for the wisdom of the ancients. Originally from South India, she presently lives in Montreal (Tiohtià:ke), on the unceded lands of the Kanien’kehá:ka.