Wounded enemy

The Deadly Snake That Wasn’t

By: Zargham Raja

It was a summer evening, around 7:30 PM, and darkness was slowly settling in. I had been driving for nearly three hours, with another nine to go on my long journey. I parked my car by the roadside to take a short break, stepped out, and sipped some water. The wind rustled through the dense trees lining the road, their branches swaying wildly in the evening breeze. Everything seemed calm—and then my eyes fell upon something that froze me in place.

About thirty feet ahead, a snake coiled on the road. My heart skipped a beat. It was a Chitra Hari, one of the most venomous snakes of Sindh, now nearly extinct. Its golden scales gleamed in the fading light, marked with dark spots that made it look terrifying. My mind instantly went to my best friend, Raza, a herpetologist who worked in a government lab in Karachi studying snake venom. The thought of gifting him such a rare find thrilled me—and impulsively, I decided to catch it.

I grabbed my revolver from the dashboard and stepped cautiously out of the car. The snake had its eyes fixed on two fat rats nearby, poised to strike. Following the instinct to act fast, I aimed at its head and fired. The bullet was faster than the snake’s lightning attack; it fell to the ground, lifeless.

I quickly moved to collect it, nervous that the gunshot might attract unwanted attention, especially from the authorities, as hunting Chitra Hari snakes was illegal. I lifted it with a stick and placed it on the back seat of my car, then restarted the engine and continued my drive.

As darkness deepened, I turned on the interior lights. The snake looked more menacing than ever, even though I thought it was dead. I tried humming to distract myself—but suddenly, the snake jumped, wrapping itself around my neck. A scream escaped me as I flung it off, and it fell back onto the seat. I stopped the car, shocked by how fast and strong it was. I realized it must have been alive all along.

Heart racing, I drove carefully, trying to maintain control. Every time I glanced at it, the snake’s forked tongue flicked menacingly, and its eyes seemed to spark with anger. At one point, a passing truck honked loudly, startling the snake and aggravating its fury. It even moved to sit right in front of the steering wheel, as if commanding me to keep driving. I felt helpless—my life truly seemed in danger.

By now, Hyderabad was behind me, and Karachi was ahead. I remembered Raza’s habit of waking up early. It struck me: he could help. I steered toward his house in Nazimabad, careful to keep the snake calm but fully alert. Reaching the gate, I honked sharply, hoping to draw Raza out.

Within moments, Raza appeared on his balcony, eyes wide at the sight of my car—and then he noticed the snake. He rushed down with a spray device containing what I assumed was an anesthetic. Signaling me to breathe calmly, he sprayed the snake. It twitched, lunged once, but ultimately fell harmlessly to the ground. I jumped out, stepping back, and Raza scooped it up like a rubber toy.

“It’s completely harmless now,” he laughed.

“What do you mean?” I asked, still catching my breath.

“You shot it while it was attacking its prey,” Raza explained. “The bullet destroyed its fangs. All along, the snake could not bite anyone. You spent the entire drive terrified of a harmless snake.”

Relief washed over me, and I exhaled slowly, my heart still pounding. I laughed nervously at my own fear and impulsiveness. What I thought was a life-threatening encounter had turned into a lesson: appearances can be deceiving, and sometimes, our fears are based on misunderstanding.

That night, as I finally resumed my journey, I realized how close I had come to disaster—and how small actions, like firing a bullet, can change the course of events. And as for the Chitra Hari, it remained an extraordinary gift for a friend who would appreciate it, venomless and safe, a rare story to tell.

thanks for reading