Night of the Scorpion by Nissim Ezekiel

I remember the night my mother

was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours
of steady rain had driven him
to crawl beneath a sack of rice.

Parting with his poison - flash

of diabolic tail in the dark room -
he risked the rain again.

The peasants came like swarms of flies

and buzzed the name of God a hundred times
to paralyse the Evil One.

With candles and with lanterns

throwing giant scorpion shadows
on the mud-baked walls
they searched for him: he was not found.
They clicked their tongues.

With every movement that the scorpion made

his poison moved in Mother's blood, they said.

May he sit still, they said

May the sins of your previous birth
be burned away tonight, they said.
May your suffering decrease
the misfortunes of your next birth, they said.
May the sum of all evil
balanced in this unreal world

against the sum of good

become diminished by your pain.
May the poison purify your flesh

of desire, and your spirit of ambition,

they said, and they sat around
on the floor with my mother in the centre,
the peace of understanding on each face.
More candles, more lanterns, more neighbours,
more insects, and the endless rain.

My mother twisted through and through,

groaning on a mat.
My father, sceptic, rationalist,
trying every curse and blessing,
powder, mixture, herb and hybrid.

He even poured a little paraffin

upon the bitten toe and put a match to it.
I watched the flame feeding on my mother.
I watched the holy man perform his rites to tame the poison with an
incantation.

After twenty hours

it lost its sting.

My mother only said

Thank God the scorpion picked on me
And spared my children.

Night of the Scorpion is one of those poems of Nissim Ezekiel which have
been admired, read and discussed in the anthologies of Indian poetry in English
with so much profit and pleasure as well as have engaged the critics as for
critical analysis and elucidation. Nissim Ezekiel as a poet is one of the post-
independence period of Indian poetry in English who is famed for as the poster
boy of modernism. A Maharashtrian Jew, he is a modern poet of modern poetic
idea and expression who aims at clarity going along the colloquial idiom. In a
very conversational style of his own, he tells the things commonly. Shorn off
Indian thought and tradition, metaphysics and spirituality, ethos and history,
myth and mysticism, he takes the things in his usual way as he sees them
happening around commonly. A poet of Bombay and the cityscape, he is
modern and urban. An alien insider, he can just talk about a visit to the cinema
hall, the theatre, the park, the picnic spot; he can about birthday gift and
party, wedding ring, wedding party and love marriage. There is something of
the identity crisis which he suffers it no doubt, but is peculiarly Indian.

The poet remembers the night his mother was stung by a scorpion which might
have hidden behind a sack of rice as for the rains continuing steadily for
several hours. But having bitten her, it parted with risking again. The people
too came and searched for, but in vain, as they could not trace it. But when the
bite started corroding the self of the mother, the news spread it around and the
people from the nearby started coming just like the swarms of flies and in
bunches and batches buzzing the name of God to paralyze the effect and to
pray for her recovery. With candles throwing giant shadows cast against the
mud-baked walls, they searched for it, but could not find it. They clicked their
tongues with regard to the further movement of the scorpion and the increase in
pain. Had it sat still, the pain could have been stable.

A few of them asked not to disturb the scorpion while a few talked of the
previous sin and its dispensation while a few talked of karma and dharma, good
and bad and their balancing while the others said about the lessening of
misfortunes and the purification of the flesh and for granting of one more life
or time. With his mother lying at the centre lying on the floor, they went on
discussing and debating, the villagerly countryside rural Indian folks. But all
them of them had been just with the good wish of seeing her recovered and the
faces too showed the peace of understanding shining on each of them.

His mother twisted through and through on a mat while bearing the pain with
the men and women wishing her early recovery. It had been a rainy night of
endless rain and the people had been with more and more lanterns and candles
in their hands to see her writhing in pain. But his father, a sceptic and
rationalist of his type, thought in his own way, tried and applied everything as
far possible, be it curse or blessing, powder, mixture, herb or hybrid. The holy
man tried to tame the pain through mantras. The herbalist tried to apply the
paste on the bitten toe to give some relief. But in the end of all, his father burnt
the matchstick to put it over the paraffin oil applied toe and the fire flames
went on feeding upon for a few seconds.

The pain mitigated after twenty hours and she regained her consciousness. But
when she came to her sense, she thanked God as for picking her and sparing
her children which but every mother will like to say it.

Night of The Scorpion as a poem is about the night on which the mother of the
poet was stung by a scorpion, people coming from the area to see her, wishing
for recovery, the exorcist trying their best to tame the poison, the herbalist
putting the paste on the bitten toe and his rationalist father putting the paraffin
oil over with a match-stick lighting the fire and the flames feeding upon to
mitigate the pain.

Night of The Scorpion which aims at clarity in expression and is evocative of

Indian rural imagery is definitely one of the representative poems of Nissim
Ezekiel, an Indian poet of Bene-Israeli origin writing in English. A poet of the
sixties, he employs a modern idiom for his poetic expression and is
conversational in his style. Just through the scorpion-bite he says it all which
the others have failed to say. Such a thing it is in Huxley's visit of Benares and
Orwell's essay on Gandhi.

Night of The Scorpion as a typical Indian poem describes a rainy night of

incessant rain when the mother of the poet was stung by a scorpion which
might have taken refuge beneath a knapsack or might have crawled somewhere
back to its safety penetrated against the backdrop of an Indian crowd of
villagers and peasants uneducated and typically rural and the through the
whispers and mutterings of the crowds coming and going one can sense their
thoughts and views, their belief in karma and dharma, balancing of the
previous sin and letting the things rest in peace. Nissim sees the mother
writhing in pain, at the centre of hectic activity. The exorcist is busy with
taming the pain with mantras, the herbalist applying the herbal paste on the
bitten toe and the rationalist father with the paraffin oil sprinkled over and
lighting over and the fire flames feeding upon. The villagers and peasants with
the lamps into their hands, casting shadows over the muddy walls and the rains
fallen take the centrestage from us. People searching for the scorpion and some
asking to let it be with its restricted movement keeping it undisturbed give
twists to the drama of the story and if it moves, this may cause evil for her. So
let it be at peace. Why to disturb it? This is but Indian philosophy. To bite is its
dharma. If one is mean and vile, will others be? The non-violence of Mahavira,
the peace of Goutam Buddha, how to dismiss them? The other thing too is this
that we are so much inactive, irrational and illogical and superstitious. Is our
superstition not our inaction?

Nissim has a style of beginning a poem and this is as if we were reading a

narrative:

I remember the night my mother

was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours
of steady rain had driven him
to crawl beneath a sack of rice.

The second stanza break shows the scorpion with the diabolic tail, biting and
hiding away somewhere, gone missing and untracked:

Parting with his poison - flash

of diabolic tail in the dark room -
he risked the rain again.

Parting with the poison flash, the diabolic tail in the dark room add to the poem
with the crooked appearance of the bizarre and grotesque creature and the evil
purpose of it which but cannot change its nature.

The third stanza break tells of the movement of people coming and crowding
the space with the lanterns and candles into their hands, praying for and
whispering:

With candles and with lanterns

throwing giant scorpion shadows
on the mud-baked walls
they searched for him: he was not found.
They clicked their tongues.
With every movement that the scorpion made
his poison moved in Mother's blood, they said.

The rural folks, especially the womenfolk start the discussion really with
regard to Indian life and living, age-old belief-system and thinking, opening a
plethora of thoughts with regard to good and bad, previous birth and this birth,
right and wrong, karma and dharma, unseen fate and its writ, time and its
situations. They also think it, if the scorpion is disturbed and it moves away,
the pain may increase.

May he sit still, they said

May the sins of your previous birth
be burned away tonight, they said.
May your suffering decrease
the misfortunes of your next birth, they said.
May the sum of all evil
balanced in this unreal world

The discussions they are doing are but very interesting and dramatic too which
is but a specialty of India and its idle gossips, but not always without meaning.

against the sum of good

become diminished by your pain.
May the poison purify your flesh

of desire, and your spirit of ambition,

they said, and they sat around
on the floor with my mother in the centre,
the peace of understanding on each face.
More candles, more lanterns, more neighbours,
more insects, and the endless rain.

My mother twisted through and through,

groaning on a mat.

The picture of a father known for scientist temperament also works as a

catalyst for this all:

My father, sceptic, rationalist,

trying every curse and blessing,
powder, mixture, herb and hybrid.
He even poured a little paraffin
upon the bitten toe and put a match to it.

We also need such a fellow to be really educated and up-to-date. Sometimes

ignorance misleads it.

The below-mentioned lines show the anxiety and helplessness of a son waiting
for her mother’s recovery:

I watched the flame feeding on my mother.

I watched the holy man perform his rites to tame the poison with an
incantation.
After twenty hours
it lost its sting.

The holy man here may be a pundit, a sadhu, a gunin or an ojha. ‘I watched the
flame feeding on my mother’, is no doubt a beautiful line full of meaning and
idea and expectation. What man thinks and what it happens. There is
something as the writ of destiny.

The last lines show the inner wishes of a mother, what she thinks and feels it
within her motherly heart for her children:

My mother only said

Thank God the scorpion picked on me
And spared my children.

It has rightly been said, a mother can never be a bad and indifferent mother.
The last lines tend towards a benediction. The poem is not only interesting to
read, but is dramatic too, so scenic and picturesque as well.