The Cobra's Bride ~ OR ~ The Union of the Snake
an excerpt

The dust in the air transformed the setting sun into an enormous orange disk. It shimmered subtly in the dry heat, as it moved ever closer to the horizon.

But even as the day faded, the village of Shenapur remained alight—hundreds of tiny oil lamps lined the streets along the route that the wedding party would take later that evening. Thousands of blossoms had been brought in from the northwest, and the huts that lined the way of the procession were draped with fat, golden garlands of marigolds. The ground was strewn with a thick carpet of red rose petals, which, when crushed underfoot, released a heady, intoxicating fragrance.

Such was the celebratory atmosphere, the high-spirited anticipation, that several of the more cynical reporters, come to town to cover the event for the national papers, half wondered whether the drought was some kind of fabrication—a publicity stunt, like the wedding itself, that some savvy villager had cooked up to draw money and prosperity to the region.

Not so.

Neither the drought nor the wedding had anything to do with publicity. The one originated in causes unknown—the other, it was hoped, would be its remedy.

People from other villages had also voyaged in to join the nuptial celebrations, for the lack of rain had affected the livelihoods of many.

The bride herself, a young orphan named Lakshmi, was less than thrilled by the prospect of her upcoming marriage, for her husband-to-be was beyond inscrutable.

He was a cobra.

A dauntingly thick-bodied, sinuous creature, he had appeared in the wake of a series of portents, which, when interpreted by the mute seer, via her daughter’s translations, was proof positive that rains would come and everything would be better if everyone followed the signs exactly.

“You’ve all got to play your cards right, na?” the daughter exclaimed, once she had finished explicating her mother’s complex hand signs.

The cobra had, apparently, made some kind of gesture or indication that prompted the seer to conclude that it must be married, and to Lakshmi.

“He is likely an avatar of some sort—to a minor deity, perhaps,” the seer, via her daughter, explained to Lakshmi. “But he says that in return for your hand, he will petition the gods Vishnu and Shiva for rain on our behalf.”

How could Lakshmi refuse, under the circumstances?

She couldn’t. Not with all the village—the kind people who had taken her in and become her family when her parents had died—watching her, their faces haggard, their eyes hungry. She would do what was demanded of her if it helped alleviate the sufferings of her people. But she didn’t have to like it.

The cobra, meanwhile, had taken up residence in the village’s main square, its thick, patterned body a mess of coils, its scales dusty in the harsh sunlight.

Lakshmi passed it often enough on her daily errands in the weeks leading up to the wedding. She darted furtive glances as she went by, and was sure that it followed her progress with its beady dark gaze. But it never attempted to approach her.

She, meanwhile, had begun having nightmares, as her mind played through all the possible variations involved with having a snake—and, in particular, a cobra—for a husband.