The night was still, save for the distant croak of frogs and the rhythmic hum of cicadas. Mathevan Channar walked home under the pale light of a crescent moon, his lantern casting flickering shadows on the winding dirt path. The evening’s ritual at the Ambilezhathu shrine had left him weary, yet his steps were steady, his thoughts occupied with the chants still resonating in his mind.
As he approached a narrow stretch of the path bordered by dense underbrush, a sudden, sharp pain shot through his foot. He stumbled, his lantern clattering to the ground. Bending down, he saw the unmistakable glint of scales—a snake, its body coiled and ready to strike again.
The serpent hissed, its eyes gleaming in the faint lantern light. Channar clenched his teeth, his voice low but commanding. “You dare strike me, creature?”
The snake lunged again, but this time, Channar was ready. He snatched his staff and struck the ground near the snake, forcing it to recoil. Picking up the lantern, he held its light toward the snake, his gaze meeting its unblinking eyes.
“You’ve made a grave mistake,” Channar said, his voice calm but heavy with authority.
With deliberate movements, he unwrapped the ceremonial shawl from his shoulder and tied it tightly above the bite to stem the venom’s flow. Then, leaning against a tree for support, he closed his eyes and began muttering a mantra, the words flowing like a steady stream. The air around him seemed to grow dense, charged with an unseen energy.
As he chanted, the snake froze, its coiled body trembling. Slowly, it uncoiled and slithered back, its movements sluggish as though weighed down by an invisible force.
“Wait,” Channar commanded, opening his eyes. The snake stopped, its head lifted as if listening. Channar picked up his staff and pointed it at the serpent. “You’ve taken from me. Now, feel the bite of justice.”
In a swift motion, Channar brought the staff down near the snake, sending it writhing into the underbrush. He bent down, tore a strip from his dhoti, and dipped it into a small bottle of consecrated water he always carried. Wrapping the cloth around the wound, he continued chanting, his voice unwavering.
Minutes passed, and Channar’s breathing steadied. The burning sensation in his leg began to subside. He stood, testing his weight on the injured foot. Though the pain lingered, he walked with determination, his eyes scanning the path ahead.
The next morning, Channar summoned Velan, his loyal servant. “Go to the southern path,” he instructed, his tone brisk. “Search the underbrush near the banyan tree for a serpent. It must be dead.”
Velan nodded and hurried off. By noon, he returned, carrying the lifeless body of a large cobra. Its black scales gleamed under the harsh sunlight, but its once-fierce eyes were now dull and lifeless.
Channar examined the snake, his expression unreadable. “Bury it near the banyan tree,” he ordered. “Its life ended by its own actions, but its spirit must be laid to rest.”
Velan hesitated. “Master, should we not destroy it completely? What if its spirit lingers to harm us?”
Channar shook his head. “No spirit dares linger where truth and justice prevail. Let it rest where it struck, a warning to those who follow.”
Velan obeyed, and the cobra was buried with simple rites. For weeks after, the villagers avoided the southern path, speaking in hushed tones about Channar’s encounter with the serpent. Some swore they saw his lantern light flicker in the distance late at night, as if he were walking the path to ensure no other danger awaited.
And so, the story of the serpent’s last bite became another chapter in the legend of Mathevan Channar—a man whose mastery of both the mystical and the mundane earned him the respect and fear of all who knew his name.
