From Cobra to Corona: The scale of Homosapien fears

As scared to the guts Homosapiens scamper and slither into holes for safety, the still remaining species come out of their hiding places and take a view of the empty stage. The skies are relieved in the absence of the massive metallic birds, who no longer shout in to its face and puff out million tons of horrible farts in its nostrils. No wonder, the skies are bluer. Mother Nature appears to have regained its smile.

The Bigger pathogens are busy in fighting a smaller pathogen as of now. On the empty stage, on the premises of a gated colony in a city, a Cobra comes out to take a stock of the abnormality, the eerie silence. ‘What fresh mischief the two-legged ones are cooking up from their houses now?’ it must be mulling in its little brain inside the attractive hood.

The stage is less crowded. So its revulsion of Homosapiens is diluted a bit. In front of an unoccupied ground floor flat, it flashes its majestic black body as a veteran soldier from Mother Nature’s army who has occupied an abandoned post and claimed independence from subjugation and slavery. Its hood is raised with peaceful alertness. In routine times, a Cobra in the open in a human colony gets swiftly condemned as the worst possible enemy and you straightaway hear shouts of ‘Maro Maro Saanp aaya, kill, kill, kill the snake’. But now Corona is the biggest enemy. So there are no such impromptu shouts. Cobra is a lesser evil in comparison to Corona, the Mahishashur out there to wipe out the entire humanity. I think many eyes must have even fetched tears of devotion for Lord Shiva’s fabulous necklace. Some extra devotional type may even offer a logic: ‘Corona dies the death of a stray dog where a Cobra breathes!”

Not too many have the courage and even the will power to come out and attack with their routine childish vengeance to kill a snake. Possibly we try to kill our own fears by attacking a snake. But now the fear is far bigger than symbolized by an almost innocuous Cobra. The shapeless reptile Corona, stretching its obnoxious slithery invisible body across the planet stands for our fear for life as of now. So no Maro Maro war chorus. A bit more than average responsible fellow calls the snake catchers. ‘Sorry boss, we can’t come! Lockdown! Policewalla’s stick is more dangerous than the Cobra’s hood’. So they back out.

Someone believing the police to be the ultimate remedy calls the them. Two Corona-scared policemen, their faces hidden under the mask, arrive with their sticks. Guns have become irrelevant by the way against Corona, the rascally criminal. Even a stick stands better chance in the fight. Its tip may squash a few Corona idiots waiting to feast upon someone’s lung cells. The policemen strike their sticks on the ground from a distance. With an irritated hiss, the Cobra gets back into the unoccupied flat. People prompt the policemen to be the saviors as they are expected. ‘We aren’t snake catchers!’ they reprimand. ‘But you are supposed to protest us!’ the believer in policing powers offers his point very politely. ‘Presently we have to protect you from Corona by forcing you guys to stay holed up inside your houses,’ they recall the pressing issue. Everyone looks expectantly at the heroes to salvage the day from the side of Homosapiens. ‘Take out chilies from your houses and throw inside this flat from the windows!’ they tell the solution and scamper off to fight the bigger Corona battle.

Left to devise their own solutions, the people shout their snake manuals from their windows and balconies. A spiritual type says, ‘Mix some milk in water and throw inside!’ The idea is immediately taken up. Nobody seems to argue and opine unnecessary. All appear to conserve their energy to fight the bigger enemy. So the solution is carried out. By chance, mischance or for any other reason, the Cobra comes out again to take a stock of the empty stage. And they applaud at the victory from their locked down houses. It scares the Cobra and angrily it slithers into drain pipes linking the sewer to cozy pots where Homosapiens vent out their exhausts after their planet-conquering efforts.

‘It’s even worse!’ a panic-monger immediately hoots out his apocalypse scenario. ‘It has the power to slither across the pipes and bite you on the chuttar, bum, as you are busy disburdening yourself on the pot!’ The horror of Corona appears to take a backseat. All appear to envision the injection pinch on their bums offered as a sort of punishment for all the negative karmas of life. Well, we need to be pinched definitely on our ass for our errant ways. But then in that case even the Cobra can’t escape the effects of someone’s dirty morning deed of the day. To kiss the ass, it has to first cross the final hurdle set up by the Homosapiens in the form of pot’s contents floating like a safety layer to save its ex-master!