Cover

There’s a Crocodile in Our Bath!

by Patricia SchafferIllustrated by Jill Dubin

There’s a Crocodile in Our Bath!

by Patricia SchafferIllustrated by Jill Dubin

Start

SRI LANKA IS AN ISLAND NATION OFF THE SOUTHEASTERN COAST OF INDIA.

W H E N T H E S U N drops low in the sky and the road no

longer burns through our flip-flops, everyone in the village walks

down to the lake to bathe. I go with my aunt and uncle and my cousin

Gamini. My name is Nalin. My parents sent me here from Colombo,

the big city on the other side of Sri Lanka. People are setting off bombs

in my city. I worry that a bomb will explode in the factory where my

parents work. Maybe I will never go home again.

2

In the cool lake we wash away the day’s sweat. Then we play and

splash each other. The big boys swim far out from shore. Auntie and

the other women stand in the water to scrub our school clothes, so

they will be clean and white in the morning. A fisherman sells us fish

for dinner. The sun glows red and gentle. Myna birds screech. Egrets

stand on their long stick legs and peer between the lotus leaves for

minnows. We have many fine things in Colombo, cinemas and giant

cricket fields, but nothing like this lake.

A fisherman paddles madly toward us. “A crocodile!” he shouts and

points to where a finger of marshy land thrusts deep into the lake. “The

big one!”

Auntie looks where the man is pointing. “Gamini, Nalin, come in

quickly!”

All the mothers call out and snatch the little ones from the edge of

the sand. Children scramble out of the lake.

“What is it? Why do we have to leave?”

“The man-eating crocodile has come to our side of the lake!”

“There he is!” Gamini points, knee-deep in the shallow water.

“Look!”

“That’s just an old log floating,” I say.

“No, no! Can’t you see those two bumps just above the water? He’s

looking at us.”

The children jump up and down on the bank. “He must be very

hungry tonight,” one says loudly.

“They say last year he ate a fisherman.”

3

“That was a long time ago,” Mahinda scoffs. She is older and thinks

she knows everything. “And maybe it was another crocodile.”

“This one looks very big, though.”

“He’s quiet now but he swims very fast.”

“My father says a crocodile can run faster than a man on shore.”

I say nothing. I keep my eyes on those bumps in the water.

F O R S E V E R A L D A Y S we wash as best we can from a jug in the

yard. The soapy water runs down under the coconut tree.

The crocodile still lurks around the beach.

“Why don’t the police bring a big gun and shoot it?” I ask.

“But Nalin,” Auntie says in her quiet voice, “God made the crocodile

as well as us. The lake is his home.”

“But it’s dangerous!”

“Not if we stay away from him. Be patient. He’ll soon move on.”

One morning the crocodile cannot be seen. At first, everyone stands

on the bank and peers out at the lake.

“I think he’s gone,” Gamini says.

“But how do you know?” I ask.

“You’re right. He is gone,” a big boy says. He runs into the water.

Soon everyone follows him—except for me.

“I’m not going into that water. Not ever again. I won’t be crocodile

meat!”

Gamini pulls my arm. “Come on, Nalin, it’s hot.”

I cross my arms. “I don’t want to swim.”

“You’re just yellow!”

4

EACH MONTH BUDDHISTS CELEBRATE POYA, THE DAY OF THE FULL MOON. RAMBUTANS

ARE A KIND OF FRUIT.

“And he’s smelly, too!” a neighbor boy jeers from the water.

“Stinky, scaredy city boy!”

I sit on the shore all alone. I scan back and forth, looking for a

floating log that just might be a crocodile. They’ll be sorry if they get

eaten up.

T H A T N I G H T A U N T I E makes a special dinner—rice hoppers

and peeled spiky red rambutans for desert—then we sit around the ker-

osene lamp. Tomorrow is Poya, and we will have no school. My three

letters from home crackle in the pocket of my shorts. They all came at

once, today.

“Would you two like a story tonight?” Uncle asks.

“Oh, yes, please!” Uncle is a good storyteller.

“A long, long time ago,” Uncle begins, “in this very village, there

lived a young farmer who owned a rice field.

“One day, the farmer went to the field to see if his rice was ready to

harvest. As he walked barefoot between the plants, a cobra reared up at

his feet! It raised its hood wide and hissed. The farmer froze. Surely his

end had come. But the snake did not strike. After a moment, it slithered

silently away into the rice and was hidden from view.

“The farmer ran back to his small house, shaking with fear. He told

his servant what had happened.

“‘You were very lucky,’ the servant said. ‘Many snakes are hiding in

the rice paddies this year.’

“‘They are?’ the farmer said. ‘Then I am never going back into that

field again.’

5

“‘But, sir, snakes can be anyplace—by the side of the road, even in

your own yard.’

“‘You’re right!’ the farmer said, aghast. ‘I am never leaving my house

again!’

“And he didn’t. He settled into his house and never, never set foot

outside. The servant farmed his field for him and brought him food,

6

THAT CROCODILE REMINDS ME OF UGLY. YOU CAN’T LET HIM RULE YOUR LIFE AND SPOIL YOUR FUN...

... BUT YOU DO NEED TO WATCH OUT!

year after year. They both grew old, very old. Finally the farmer

died.

“After his death, the farmer found himself before Lord Buddha, sitting

under his Bo tree.

“‘How good to see you, my friend,’ Lord Buddha said. ‘Did you

enjoy your last life?’

“‘I was very careful, sir,’ the farmer said respectfully. ‘I lived a long

time.’

“‘Excellent,’ Lord Buddha said, ‘and what did you do with all those

years? Did you have the love of a wife and children?’

“‘Alas no, my lord. How could I find a wife, when I never left my

house?’

“‘Ah,’ said Lord Buddha. ‘Did you do good works then? Did you

feed the poor and teach the ignorant?’

“‘Impossible, my lord. No one came to my door.’

“‘Tell me then about how you enjoyed the beauties of the world.

The songs of the birds? The feel of soft warm mud between your

toes? The golden skies of sunrise? The scent of jasmine in the eve-

ning air?’

“‘But it was too dangerous to go outside. To keep myself safe, I

gave up the joys of the world.’

“Lord Buddha just looked at the farmer, great sadness in his eyes.

Finally the farmer saw what he had done. He had lived for many,

many years, but he had never really lived at all.”

Uncle looks at me. “I know, my nephew, that you fear for your

parents in Colombo.”

7

THAT CROCODILE REMINDS ME OF UGLY. YOU CAN’T LET HIM RULE YOUR LIFE AND SPOIL YOUR FUN...

... BUT YOU DO NEED TO WATCH OUT!

I touch my three letters. For a whole week I had not one word from

them.

“You know that your ammah and daddy keep a sharp lookout for

danger in Colombo, don’t you?”

I nod. If I don’t keep my eyes very still, the tears will slip out.

“There are bombs, yes, but they still go to work. Because danger

is everywhere. There are snakes in the fields, speeding drivers on the

roads, and malaria spread by mosquitoes, like the ones whining over

our heads right now.”

8

Gamini and I both look up, and my uncle laughs. “No one in this

world can be perfectly safe—that is impossible. Your parents want you

to look about you, but then to live.”

N E X T M O R N I N G I wake before the sun. Gamini is still asleep.

I slip out of the house. The birds are singing madly in the cool dawn.

Without consulting me, my feet bring me to the lake. The water is pale

and clear as glass. I hug my chest with my arms, like Ammah holds me

at home. Then I throw my arms wide and charge into the lake. I dive

deep and come up shivering, it is so cold.

And here is Gamini, beside me. We swim together under the yellow

sun, and splash each other and laugh.

That night the yard is silver with moonlight when we return

from the temple. The whole village has celebrated the feast of the

full moon. I sit by the window and begin a letter to Ammah and

Daddy. Gamini wants to know if I am writing about him. I show

him the first page.

“I am having fun here in the village. It is very different from

Colombo. And you’ll never guess—there’s a crocodile in our bath!”

NOTE At the time of this story, civil war was raging in Sri Lanka. Most of the fighting took

place in the northeast section of the country, home to the minority Tamil people. But in 2006

attacks on civilians in the south, including bombings in the capital, Colombo, became wide-

spread. Hostilities ended in May 2009 with the military defeat of the Tamil Tigers, but both sides

have leveled charges of human rights violations, which are still being investigated. Last January

the people of Sri Lanka elected a new president, raising hopes of a just and lasting peace.

9

Credits

Imaginative Stories and Poetry from CRICKET® Magazine

Fiction Historical 560L • 1495 words

Text © 2015 by Patricia Schaffer, Art © 2015 by Jill Dubin

Copyright © 2018 by Carus Publishing Company.

All rights reserved, including right of reproduction in whole or in part, in any form.

All Cricket Media material is copyrighted by Carus Publishing Company, d/b/a Cricket Media, and/or various

authors and illustrators. Any commercial use or distribution of material without permission is strictly prohibited.

Please visit cricketmedia.com/licensing for licensing and cricketmedia.com for subscriptions.

ISBN 978-0-8126-6641-0

Cricket Media® Books for Kids at Every Stage!