And I mean all kinds, the ones that wandered in from the wild urban landscape around us. When we first moved into #27, there were only two houses on the street — 5th 'A' Cross. Chameleons, snakes, crabs, monkeys, dogs, two bee colonies, and once, a cow that gave birth in the canopy outside our house. One house was ours, the other belonged to Annie and Ananda, who lived opposite us with their parents-in-law.
Amma had maternal instincts when it came to animals. She wouldn't dream of killing anything — she'd simply let them out. I didn't love this when it extended to insects I personally detested. No matter how much I begged her to make an exception, she remained completely unmoved.
One evening, Annie and Ananda — our neighbours across the street — were home with their father-in-law, Keshavmurthy Uncle. Their house faced ours, close enough that we could usually see each other going about our days. Mornings and evenings were marked by the same small ritual on our street: opening the gates at dawn, closing them at night.
That evening was particularly sultry. Our main door was open, and there was music drifting through the air — Shekhar Saab always had something playing, and we'd go about our chores to the sound of Bhimsen Joshi, Kumar Gandharva, or M.S. Subbulakshmi.
Suddenly, screams — one male, one female — followed almost immediately by loud laughter. Annie and Ananda. We ran out to see what had happened.
Uncle had been asleep in his room, door closed, while Annie and Ananda did the evening chores — clearing the table, sorting laundry, hanging clothes to dry. Then, from a shirt they were about to hang, something fell. A cobra. Both of them screamed and leapt back. Ananda bolted to shut his father's door while the snake disappeared under the washing machine, and the two of them fled the house entirely.
Within minutes, they were laughing at their own dramatic exit — and then came the very real task of finding a snake catcher.
The moment Amma heard the word "snake," she tucked her saree up, grabbed a broom, and marched straight into Annie's house, with Annie and Ananda trailing behind her, pointing nervously at the washing machine. They'd already blocked off the passage to the rest of the house, leaving only the back door open. Amma got to work — poking, prodding, rattling the broom against the machine — until the snake finally gave up its hiding spot and slithered out the back door into the empty plot next door.
I remember being amazed by her — that complete absence of fear. I knew, even then, that I didn't have an ounce of it myself.
The snake made a few more appearances in our garden after that, but it kept to itself and never bothered anyone. We humans, on the other hand, were thoroughly rattled every time.
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That evening ended the way most dramas on our street did — everyone gathered in Annie and Ananda's living room, recounting the story over a very late cup of coffee.
Once again, Amma was the hero.
