The Brahmin and the Mongoose

A brahmin's wife went to fetch water, leaving their infant asleep, and a mongoose — raised in the house like a sharp, small dog — to watch the door of the room.

A cobra came, as death prefers to come: quietly, and toward the unguarded. The mongoose met it on the clay floor. There was a long, ugly minute. Then the snake was still.

The mongoose, proud as any soldier, ran to the door to show his work. His mouth was red. His fur was a map of the fight.

The father returned first. He saw blood. He did not see the cradle. He saw a killer where a guardian stood.

BrahminYou have eaten my child.

The staff fell. The mongoose, who had no language for innocence, died in the yard with his news still on his teeth.

Inside, the baby slept. Beside the bed, the cobra lay in two meanings. The brahmin understood, which is a kind of punishment that lasts.

Do not let the first picture be the verdict. The loyal are often stained with the work that saved you.