A Snake in the Spotlight: A Gangoli Childhood Tale

We are privileged to have great story tellers amongst our readers. Appanna Ajja is a gifted raconteur, he weaves his anecdotes into stories that highlight, reiterate and illustrate our culture.

Similarly, we are privileged to present Dr Prasad J Kamath’s writings on Nature, wildlife in particular and the environment.
We have reproduced a delightful short story by Dr Prasad based on his childhood memories during summer vacations in Gangoli.

Gangoli is a village in coastal Karnataka, near Kundapura.
And the period mentioned is late 1970’s and the 1980’s. I am sure that some of our readers would remember the Tent Theatres and the famous Circus that came up in Mercara on the grounds next to the bus stand, in the 60s and 70s. It was better fun than watching movies in a proper brick and mortar Cauvery Theatre!
Lovely read!!

We continue to look forward to readers contributions – short stories, Army experiences, anecdotes on village festivals, Nature, School and College Memoirs, Poems – anything meaningful to share on the CLN platform – the only real Voice of the Kodavas.
– CLN Newsdesk

In the sleepy coastal village of Gangoli, nestled between swaying coconut palms and red-tiled houses, childhood moved to its own unhurried rhythm. The breeze carried the salt of the sea and the rustle of coconut groves; temple bells chimed in the distance, while the air was always thick with the scent of roasted peanuts, spicy mundakki upkari, and the fizzy promise of a chilled goli soda.

Mornings were for climbing mango trees. Afternoons slipped away in the cool shade of cattle sheds, gossiping with cows and chasing dragonflies. And evenings? They ended with slow, sand-dusted strolls along the sun-kissed beach, hand-in-hand with Grandpa. Occasionally, a boat ride or a curious peek into the many machwas (country boats) lining the bustling Bander port added to the thrill of discovery.

But among all the small-town joys, none matched the excitement of a movie night at the beloved, ramshackle Shri Manjunatheswara Talkies.

Once a humble touring cinema, the Talkies had finally pitched its last tent in Gangoli, thanks to the affection of its cinema-loving folk. It had just one wheezing projector, a thatched roof patched with tarpaulin, and walls that were more suggestion than structure. A later renovation replaced the thatch with Mangalore tiles—which promptly leaked when it rained—and finally gave it four barely-standing walls. It was closed during monsoons, but summer? That was showtime!

The screen was hardly a screen—just a large white cloth stretched taut across a wooden frame, fluttering slightly with the sea breeze that crept in. Seating was an adventure. First Class meant rickety wooden benches crawling with ants, termites, and other insect mysteries. The rest sat cross-legged on a dusty mattress spread across the cement floor. We never called it Floor Class, but we knew where we stood.

The air was thick—with sweat, dampness, coconut oil, and sometimes a hint of Lifebuoy. But the pungent aroma of mundakki and the sharp, gingery sting of shunti goli soda cut through it all like a fresh monsoon breeze.

We kids didn’t care much about the films—most of them were high-pitched Kannada melodramas, lost on our young ears. We tagged along with our uncles, more for the snacks than the cinema. The reel changes, due to the single projector, gave us three glorious breaks: after the first reel, during the interval, and once more before the climax.

Barefoot and buzzing, we’d sprint outside during every break—snatching up nelakadle in paper cones, scooping up mundakki laced with green chilli and carrot, and daring each other to gulp down the fierce shunti soda that burned and delighted all at once. Bellies full, eyes heavy, we’d slump back onto the bug-laced benches… and often, fall asleep.

But then came that night.

It was a typical tearjerker. A heavily made-up heroine in a silk saree, a tragic storyline… I only remember fragments. I was half-asleep, swaying between dream and mundakki burp, when the crowd around me stirred.

A rustle.
A murmur.
A gasp.
Then: “Havu! Havu!”
(Snake! Snake!)

For a split second, people thought it was part of the movie—maybe some symbolic danger. But no. A real snake had appeared on the screen itself, slithering across the heroine’s shimmering form. Its shadow danced eerily over her face as if it had been invited by the director.

Then, in a moment that still makes my skin crawl, the snake vanished through a hole in the cloth screen—right into the saree of the projected heroine. It was as if it had slipped from our world into the silver screen, crossing over dimensions with silent menace.

Pandemonium erupted.
People screamed.
Bottles of soda clattered to the floor.
One man leapt over the Floor Class crowd, trampling a mattress in the process.

I only woke up when my uncle—just a few years older than me—grabbed my arm and pulled me out, his goli soda still fizzing and the marble clinking inside the bottle. We ran into the night, our hearts pounding, mouths still burning from shunti soda.

By the time we reached home, the news had outrun the snake. That’s Gangoli for you. A whisper at the mundakki cart could circle the town before the projector even cooled.

The scolding that awaited us was unforgettable.

“Do you want to die and come back as a snake yourself?!” yelled an elder aunt.
“From today, NO. MORE. MOVIES.”

And just like that, my film career ended.
At least as an audience.

As for the snake… its fate remains a mystery. Some said it was trapped behind the screen. Others believed it slithered into the projection booth and took up permanent residence. A few claimed it stayed behind—watching the rest of the movie quietly from under a bench.

Me? I like to think it mistook the heroine’s shimmering saree for a mystical garden. Or maybe… just maybe… it too had come for the mundakki.

To this day, I’ve never looked at a movie screen—or a silk saree—the same way again.

POSTSCRIPT:
Years later, the Talkies was pulled down. And guess what? Several snakes were discovered in the debris—some killed, others translocated by forest staff. I’m convinced they were the descendants of that snake in the spotlight I encountered that fateful summer night.

Because in Gangoli, even the snakes love cinema. 🐍🎥 🎬🌴