The Wounded Enemy

Darkness was spreading rapidly. I glanced at my watch; it was half past seven. Since it was summer, there was still enough light to see clearly. I pulled my car over to the side of the road. I had been driving continuously for nearly three hours, with nine more hours of travel still ahead. I turned off the engine, stepped out, and stretched.

The sun had already set, but the sky remained red. A strong wind was blowing, causing the dense trees on both sides of the road to sway. The road was completely empty. I took a bottle of water from the car, drank deeply, and sat back inside. Just as I turned the key to start the engine, my eyes fell on the road ahead.

About thirty yards away, a snake sat coiled in the middle of the road. I watched it closely. It was a Chitrahari snake. Its golden skin shimmered in the fading light, and the dark spots on its body made it look terrifying. The Chitrahari was one of the most dangerous snakes of Sindh, though its species was now nearly extinct.

At once, I thought of Raza, my closest friend, who worked at a government laboratory in Karachi researching snake venom. An uncontrollable urge arose to capture the snake—it would be a perfect gift for him. I quietly took out my .32-bore revolver, stepped out of the car, and aimed carefully. The snake remained coiled, watching two healthy rats nearby, clearly preparing to strike.

I fired at its head. At the same moment, the snake leapt toward the rats, but the bullet was faster. The snake collapsed instantly. Alarmed by the gunshot, the nearby forest erupted with noise. Afraid that police might arrive—since hunting this snake was illegal—I lifted it with a stick, placed it on the back seat, started the car, and drove off.

Night grew darker. I turned on the interior light. The snake’s body looked even more frightening in the dim glow. To distract myself, I began humming. Suddenly, the car jolted. To my horror, the snake flew forward and wrapped itself around my neck. I screamed and threw it off. It fell onto the back seat, motionless. I assumed it was dead and continued driving, though my confidence was gone.

After refueling at a petrol pump, I resumed my journey. Gradually, my fear faded, and I imagined how thrilled Raza would be. Then I glanced at the rearview mirror—and froze. The snake was alive, sitting upright, its forked tongue flickering, mouth covered in blood, eyes blazing with fury.

I slowed the car and turned my head. The snake moved swiftly and positioned itself above the steering wheel, as if commanding me to keep driving. Terror consumed me. A Chitrahari’s bite leaves no chance for survival. I cursed myself for ever attacking it.

When I tried reaching for my revolver, the snake sensed my intention and moved onto the dashboard. I focused on driving. Strangely, it did not strike. By the time I reached Hyderabad, it sat beside me, watching silently, enjoying my fear.

Finally, Karachi came near. A plan formed in my mind. Raza lived in Nazimabad and woke early. I drove straight to his house and repeatedly honked. Raza appeared on the balcony, then rushed outside. Seeing the snake, he immediately ran back in and returned with a spray machine.

Signaling me to hold my breath, he sprayed the snake with a sedative. The snake lunged, but I jumped out just in time. It collapsed outside. Raza calmly picked it up.

“Don’t panic,” he said. “It’s harmless.”

Harmless?

“The bullet destroyed its venomous fangs,” Raza explained. “You shot it while it was attacking prey. It couldn’t bite anyone after that.”

A long breath escaped me. I had traveled hundreds of miles in terror—from a snake that could not harm me at all.