The lithe, black snake drifts into the light.

Photo: Two Snakes by Albertus Seba

I am standing in the living room. It is unfurnished, and it feels like morning—the light soft, dewy. I look around, marveling at the home my husband and I have created. His presence is beside me, though his form wavers, and I sense, suddenly, that I am somewhere else. This is not the plane I was born to, not the one I usually inhabit.

As this thought crosses my mind, I notice something beneath the staircase—a slithering form emerging. Blue and white, its iridescent scales glinting in the light. I marvel at the creature’s beauty, before a more practical thought strikes: Why is there a snake in my living room?

The air shimmers, and I see that Milo is with us too—white and gleaming, standing directly in the path of the blue-and-white snake. The situation should alarm me, but all I feel is a mild curiosity, as if everything unfolding is somehow normal. Another sign that I am somewhere else, that nothing is as it seems.

The snake glides toward Milo, and then both begin to glow. The dewy light in the room turns golden. The snake pauses before Milo, and time suspends. It gazes gently into Milo’s eyes; Milo returns the look. They touch snouts—a meeting of minds.

I blink, and the moment passes. The snake drifts into the light.

I still sense my husband and Milo nearby, but they no longer occupy the forefront of my vision. Now there are thousands of snakes, all silent, swaying and slithering to a rhythm only they know. I feel awe ripple through me, goosebumps rising on my skin. I see them in every color, every shape and size. They are migrating, from the cavernous depths beneath the staircase into the light. The light grows brighter, feels like nirvana.

When I wake, the image of the blue-and-white scales and Milo’s golden fur stays with me. The colors linger for days.

===

I do not know my grandmother’s birthday.

She was born in a time when names were misspelled in official records, and dates were haphazardly assigned. So, someone in the family decided that New Year’s Day would be her birthday—a date no one could forget. It made sense, I suppose, to celebrate her when the world itself was in the throes of celebration.

My memories of January 1st are filled with cake, cuddles, kisses that smell of talcum powder, and toothy grins. In her later years, I’d catch glimpses of lucidity in her eyes when she recognized me—her favorite baby girl.

And then, as it happens, she died.

Since then, New Year’s has never felt the same. The season has become a strange, liminal space—one where beginnings are honored, and endings are remembered. Each year, on New Year’s Eve, I sit with my grandmother’s memory, paying homage to her life, her values, and the legacy she left behind in her family.

P and I have also adopted a new tradition. Every New Year’s Eve, along with my parents and sometimes my aunt, we visit the cemetery where my grandmother is buried.

In Singapore, burials are becoming rare. Land for cemeteries is being reclaimed for housing, and most religious communities, including Hindus, practice cremation. Yet, for reasons known only to the elders in my mother’s family, those who have passed—including my grandmother—are buried. Ironic, really, because for the last forty years, my parents have been the only custodians of my maternal ancestors’ graves.

They’ve never begrudged this role; if anything, they’ve always impressed upon me that it is an honor to tend to our lineage. When I was younger, I promised myself I’d take over when the time came, when it became too difficult for them.

And now, the time has arrived.

===

Tending to a grave is a deeply grounding act. Every few months, the weeds around the tombstone must be cleared, and the bugs gently brushed off the stone. Then, the picture on the tombstone is wiped with rose water, and a large banana leaf is laid out with offerings—candied peanuts, oma podi, sweets like athirsam and ladoo, various types of murukku, assorted fruits, and a packet of milk. Sambrani and agarpathi are lit, a garland hung around the tombstone. We stand in silence, praying.

I’ve never been afraid of the cemetery. In fact, I find it deeply peaceful. The meandering plants, the towering trees, the creatures that roam freely, the sweet silence that fills the air. It’s not so bad, this human existence—beginning and ending in the same way, our bodies returning to dust, to soil, to earth.

My grandmother’s gravesite is my favorite. It’s in a newer section of the cemetery, looking out onto a glen surrounded by trees. Every time I sit by her grave, staring at her picture on the tombstone, I feel a sense of homecoming—a feeling I’ve always associated with her. I ask her for a sign that she’s still here, still with me, walking this life path in whatever new energetic form she’s taken since her passing.

Often, her replies are immediate. A butterfly flutters past, an eagle soars overhead. A few years ago, a wild boar emerged from the dense green, staring me straight in the eye before retreating into the shadows.

My grandmother was a magic woman who communed with nature. No wonder the nature around me is redolent with her lingering magic.

===

This New Year’s Eve, I’ve laid out the food on the banana leaf. The sambrani and agarpathi are burning. The sun shines weakly through gray clouds. The air is cool, and a light breeze dances across my skin. I thank my grandmother for allowing me to come and see her, to tell her how much I miss her, to pray for a different beginning in 2025.

Let me know you’ve heard me, I say to her. Remind me, in my moments of weakness, that you are always here, that I carry your strength and love wherever I go.

As I think this, I notice something black moving in the weeds—reed-like, thin, and long, swaying in a dance I’ve witnessed before in my dreams. As I stare, it raises its head, and I see a forked tongue, a cocked head.

The lithe, black snake drifts into the light.