There is a story I read about five years ago that still haunts me. Every now and then it pops into my head, almost out of the blue, and I find myself thinking how it’s one of the best contemporary short works of fiction I have ever read. It’s called “Night Garden” and it’s by the award-winning author Shruti Swamy.
The story is about an Indian woman named Vijji, who starts to make dinner and then hears an unfamiliar sound from her dog, Neela. She looks out of the kitchen window to see Neela, “friendly . . . black and sweet and foxlike”, in a stand-off with a cobra, “head raised, the hood fanned out”. The dog had stopped the snake from trying to enter the house but was now caught in this predicament. Vijji calls a doctor, who advises her not to do anything but watch, and to make sure that no one comes into or leaves the house until the snake is gone, otherwise the dog will break his concentration and probably be killed.
For the rest of the story we keep vigil with the woman as she watches the slight dance between the two animals, the way fear passes between them, the way the upper hand can shift, not knowing until the end who will survive.
The first time I read the story I was moved to tears, both by the dog’s courage to do whatever was necessary to protect his home and his owner, and by Vijji’s powerlessness to do anything but sit with her terror and her hope. This past week I have been thinking about the idea of how to navigate life during a time in which we can feel as if we are, collectively, ricocheting between anger, fear, determination and resolute courage. And “Night Garden” again came unbidden into my head, so I decided to reread it.
This time, I found myself reflecting on the idea of enemies. Not a topic I consider often at all. I thought about Neela’s perception of danger, and his decision to stand in its way. We think of animals as being instinctual rather than rational, but it did make me wonder about how we perceive danger in our midst. Not the obvious kind, like a fire or some sort of attack, but the quiet kind, such as when someone with nefarious intentions slowly worms their way into your trust, or when we realise too late that we’ve allowed ourselves to slip into a situation that is unsafe, either physically or emotionally. There’s a kind of danger that comes seemingly from nowhere. But does it always catch us by surprise, or do we sometimes choose to deny our instincts, lessen our attention, or even simply ignore what is right in front of us?
The early 20th-century French painter Pierre Roy is not often credited alongside the better-known surrealist artists, but his work is recognised for its strange and unsettling juxtapositions. His painting “Danger on the Stairs” (c1927), one of his best-known works, depicts an apartment stairwell with marbled walls, a pair of closed wooden doors and a banister that angles its way along the left side of the canvas. In the centre of the painting is a long, thick-bodied snake, slithering down the stairs and on to the landing. The snake’s tongue flicks out and its raised head casts a shadow on the floor. The sparseness of the stairwell gives the effect of an almost audible silence and heightens the sense that no one in the building is aware of what danger has found its way in. It’s an image that I find both arresting and terrifying.
Snakes have a range of symbolic meanings across cultures, including positive spiritual representations of transformation and rebirth. But most people in the west are conditioned to see them as symbolic of evil, creatures that we should distance ourselves from. I was struck by this painting because it made me think about how danger can get close to us when we least expect it. Our home, whatever that means to us, is the place we are supposed to feel most safe. When and how does danger enter our lives seemingly without our knowledge?
I am reading this painting metaphorically, thinking about how a threat can creep into our lives when we stop paying attention to our immediate surroundings. Or when we stop attending to things that need our care, especially in the places we are most tempted to get comfortable. Or when we turn a blind eye to any possible warning signs. Perhaps a door was unattended or left open in this home, allowing the snake to get in. Some boundary line was crossed that should have been better guarded.
The Russian-born painter Marc Chagall painted “The Fall of Icarus” in 1975, towards the end of his long life. Chagall had experienced turmoil and trauma, including fleeing Nazi-occupied France for the US in 1941, and the premature death of his beloved wife Bella a few years later. In this colourful painting, a winged figure is tumbling through the sky on to a crowd of people in a village. This is Chagall’s rendition of the Greek myth of Icarus, whose father Daedalus made wings of feathers and wax so that he and his son could escape Crete. Icarus was warned not to fly too close to the sun but, once in the air, was overcome by the feeling of power and speed and flew high enough that his wings melted and he fell to his death.
I have included Chagall’s painting here because when I researched the etymology of the word “danger” I learnt that one origin was from the mid-13th-century Anglo-French word “daunger”, meaning “arrogance, insolence”. It was an interesting reminder that danger and arrogance are often related. Icarus’s belief in his own ability to soar alone without heeding limitations results in his demise.
But in Chagall’s portrayal, Icarus seems to be falling into a village where a crowd has assembled. His hubris is not just a danger to himself but to an entire community of people. We often just think of arrogance as something we can dismiss if it relates to another person, but history teaches us that individuals with an inflated sense of power and disregard for limitations can prove dangerous not just for a village but an entire planet of people.
There is something calming and beautiful about Winslow Homer’s late 19th-century painting “Danger”. It is a seascape painting in a palette of greys, blues and reddish browns. It’s a violently windy day and the waves are foaming white and crashing against each other as two women hold hands trying to make their way along the shore. By their modest dress it seems that the women were not prepared for the weather, and as the lone figures on the canvas it is as if they are pitted against the threatening atmosphere that now surrounds them.
I was really drawn to this work because it speaks to me of how dangerous situations, whether man-made or the result of natural causes, are also an inevitable part of a life’s journey. We all find ourselves at some point caught in scenarios we may never have envisioned for ourselves or our families, or even our communities. But in this painting, the women don’t stop moving forward. They lock hands and face the conditions together. That is part of what makes it such a beautiful image, and I believe an important one for this theme. I think back to Shruti Swamy’s short story and how, even though Vijji was helpless as Neela faced the cobra, she stood watch with him. And that maybe her presence was part of what enabled Neela to stand firm.
Whatever may come our way, I hope we can find and also become those willing to walk forward together, willing to stand vigil when others are on the frontline. The presence of danger doesn’t mean it can’t be overcome. More than anything it means we need to figure out how to face these challenges and adversities together.
enuma.okoro@ft.com
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