by Loreto M
He picked up a stone and flung it at the retreating car’s boot. He was feeling angry, indignant and frustrated. As he stomped his bare feet on the tarred street, a strange guttural noise rose from his throat. He wanted to scream but couldn’t. He never understood these rich people in cars. What was their problem? Didn’t they have more than enough for themselves? Then why this stinginess with alms? But these weren’t the only thoughts running through Gopu’s head. He was also thinking of how much his mother would whack him for coming home empty handed once again. And how his father would arrive later, drunk, glass bottle in hand, and intent on bludgeoning him half to death. He couldn’t decide whom he hated more: his mother or his father. What was he to do?
“Maybe I won’t go home,” he thought. “Maybe I’ll get on a truck and run away.” As he tried contemplating on what would be the best solution, a friendly figure came bounding down the street, happy and excited, tail wagging maybe a thousand times a second. Even though he was on the verge of tears, he smiled. It was Pinky, the dog from his street: his only true friend.
Pinky was a male dog, all of 11 months. He had lived under a broken footpath slab till Gopu found him and ever since, the two were inseparable. He now nudged Gopu with his nose playfully and started licking his face. With his best friend next to him, Gopu didn’t want to run away anymore. He knew that his mother would still beat him and his father would still try to kill him. But he had Pinky. And so the matter was settled. He wouldn’t run away. Not tonight at least.
With a clear vision of what would become of him, Gopu absentmindedly patted Pinky’s head and started walking in the general direction of home. Pinky, like always, followed suit.
The next morning, Gopu awoke feeling extremely sore and hungry. His eyes were red from crying and his head ached. He could hear his mother mumbling in her sleep. His father had mercifully decided not to come home, which was why his mother had let him off after just five minutes of thrashing. She had, however, remembered not to give him any food.
He rubbed his eyes with the back of his filthy hands, blackened and greasy with dirt, and walked out looking for Pinky. Pinky always slept under the traffic light diagonally opposite Gopu’s house. It wasn’t a house as much as a sheet of plastic thrown over a wall.
Since it was already morning, Pinky was busy playing with his other doggy companions. They looked a happy bunch, playfully growling and baring their teeth. He thought of calling out to Pinky but changed his mind seeing how much fun they were having. He decided to go back inside and look for a glass of water instead.
That is when it happened. A loud screech, followed by a dog’s bitter howling. Gopu’s heart jumped to his mouth. Pinky had been run over by a car which was now speeding away, leaving a trail of dust in its wake.
Blinded by rage and tears, Gopu ran to where Pinky lay howling. The poor dog tried to jump up, but his left front limb gave way. It was broken. He howled louder than ever. Gopu didn’t know what to do. He just sat down next to him and tried unsuccessfully to help him.
A car stopped nearby and from it two people rushed out towards them, talking excitedly to each other in English. One of them was a young woman who quickly knelt down beside Pinky and, murmuring soothingly, took a look at the broken limb. She shot an instruction to her friend, a young man, and he sped off with the car.
“Is this your dog?” she asked Gopu gently in Hindi. He nodded. “Get some water for him,” she said. Gopu rushed off immediately and returned with a small steel container filled with water. By now, the occupants of the entire street were awake and everyone, including his mother, looked on curiously at what was happening. The lady poured the water over Pinky’s mouth, which he gratefully licked. She squatted beside him, taking his head onto her lap. Gopu’s head was whirring. He had no idea what was happening.
A few moments later, the young man returned with bandages, a stick, and a bed sheet. The lady got busy tying the stick around Pinky’s broken limb with the bandage. The poor dog had no energy to protest. “What’s his name?” she asked as she deftly tied a knot. “Pinky,” Gopu responded. “We are taking him to the doctor,” she explained, unsure whether to smile in reassurance or not. He blinked away tears as he nodded.
By now the young man had slipped the bed sheet under Pinky and with the lady’s help, hauled him onto the car. As the car drove away, Gopu’s heart sank. What if Pinky never came back? He didn’t trust rich people in cars anyway. And to think that he had let them take his precious Pinky away! Another wave of tears flooded his eyes.
That whole morning, Gopu sat on the road looking at the direction in which the car had left. He didn’t even register watching some people in brown uniforms come and take his mother away with them around mid-day. They had left in a hurry. His mother had dropped the plastic water pitcher that she had been carrying and hadn’t even bothered to pick it up.
Finally at around mid-afternoon, the car appeared and in it, his beloved Pinky, all patched up and greatly subdued. The lady came alone this time and carefully helped Pinky get off the car. In a beat, Gopu was next to Pinky. Pinky tried to hop around him as was their tradition, but the bandages and the pain restricted his movements. Gopu more than made up for it. He danced around his beloved Pinky and squeaked like a little mouse. The lady laughed.
“Here, take this,” she said, handing over two hundred rupees notes to Gopu. “Buy biscuits for Pinky and also for yourself. And,” she added, before letting him grab the money, “make sure he takes rest and doesn’t run around.” She then patted Pinky who responded with a grateful wag, and smiling at Gopu, got back on her car and drove away.
This was the happiest day of Gopu’s life: his friend had been saved by unknown angels who had emerged from a “rich people’s car” (who would have imagined?) and now he had enough money to buy anything that he liked to eat! Leaving Pinky with his other doggy companions who were now curiously sniffing at his bandage, Gopu went off to buy the biscuits. For the first time in his life, Gopu was relieved; because, for the first time, he wouldn’t have to beg.
After buying five packets of the cheapest biscuits he could find, Gopu trotted home happily. Dusk was already descending as he spotted Pinky under his usual street lamp, licking his bandage. As he walked closer, he realized that many people had gathered around his “house”. He could also hear his mother wailing. Afraid and curious at the same time, he craned his neck to see what the commotion was all about. He saw his father’s body on the footpath, covered with a white sheet. His mother was tearing at her hair and beating her chest.
For a moment, Gopu froze. “He’s dead,” he thought. Nothing else occurred to him. He didn’t know whether he was relieved or sad. At the other side of the road, he saw Pinky and his ever wagging tail. He quietly slinked away to sit next to him.
Two old-ish looking men came to stand near the street lamp within earshot of Gopu, smoking bidis. He heard one of them say, “He was run down by a speeding car. They say he would have survived, but help came too late.” “These rich people in cars, I tell you…” said the other man, as he shook his head.
As this news sunk in, Gopu turned to look at Pinky. He was still licking his bandage.
Loreto is a performing poet, a singer, and a kathak novice. She used to be an MBA student, and before that a Botanist at an orthodox Christian college. Thankfully, neither could break nor contain her odd streak. She is part of a performance poetry band called The Rickshaw Muse (https://www.facebook.com/TheRickshawMuse).
Pic : http://www.flickr.com/photos/jurassicjim/
