Close Encounter

In Buddhism, as you know, it is the intention of our action that we should be aware of, rather than the action itself. Therefore, if I accidentally stand on a slug whilst walking along a darkened path and kill it, that's okay. If, however, I actively seek out said slug with a torch and proceed to pour salt over its writhing body, that's not good. Notwithstanding that, there are occasions when the deliberate killing of a beast is acceptable – most usually when it is brought about through an act of self defence. For example, if you should find yourself in a small clearing in the woods and are confronted by a ferocious and violent grizzly bear, and you are in possession of a gun at the time, you would be excused if you were to shoot the bear, providing that it was demonstrating a clear intention to rip out your throat.

Whereas I make every effort to avoid causing suffering to any sentient being (you would laugh at the number of hours I spend shooing out the numerous flies that gather in my apartment on warm days), such an occasion for self defence once presented itself to me. I was on a camping holiday in the Bandavghar Tiger Reserve in Madhya Pradesh, Central India, and I'd been out all day filming wildlife with my travelling companion (my great-aunt Dolores – you will remember that she's the one who was once knocked down by a lorry and survived; the one who later became a xylophone player). We'd enjoyed a delicious dinner of kusli, lavang lata and jalebi, all washed down with perhaps too many Cobra beers. With her ivory cigarette-holder gripped between her teeth (she refused my protestations to exchange it for a plastic one), great-aunt Dolores laughed as she ripped the top off yet another bottle. "These Cobras will be the death of us, boy!" she said. Little did she know that her teasing words were to become almost horribly prophetic.

Staggering back to my tent a little while later, I tore open the canvas door and stepped inside, only to be confronted – to my horror – by a huge cobra that was reared up by my bed, its elongated neck ribs flattened to form its distinctive hood. It stared at me in alarm, hissing angrily and looked ready to strike. In my blind panic, I reached for the machete that I kept by the bed but only succeeded in knocking over the small lamp that stood on the table, and I was suddenly plunged into darkness. Now I could see neither the machete, nor the snake. Convinced that I would feel the hammer of its fangs in my flesh at any moment, I screamed for help and tried to retreat from the tent, tripping on the broken lamp. I fell onto the bed and by some strange providence, my hand came to rest on the handle of the knife. I grabbed it, jumped up and began thrashing wildly in front of me, yelling for help like a lunatic. By the time that my great-aunt and our guide arrived bearing torches, I was on my knees babbling and crying like a child. Writhing and twisting across my bed, only inches from my face, was the blackened, headless body of the snake.

"Hmm," muttered Dolores. "Nice work, boy. However, there's one characteristic about the Indian cobra that worries me. They mate for life and they always travel in pairs." We all peered nervously around the room and began to edge quietly from the tent. That night, I smoked several of my great-aunt's cigarettes and slept in the Land Rover. However, the slightly disturbing outcome of my shocking encounter was that I realized that I had actually enjoyed the killing. Oh, Buddha.