by Polly McGee
***
Yanki watched the scenery pass as the dog stumbled along. Paksheet had taught her the very useful life skill of staying completely still, which she used to great effect in the jaws of the dog. The jerky movements as he raggedly jogged towards home had brought Yanki round to consciousness. She could remember Paksheet throwing her from the tree, then blackness and nothing until the jigging up and down of being carried.
Concrete paths turned to dirt and the low bushes that lined the animal, reptile and insect byways flashed by. The dog’s mouth was warm and firm around her. Yanki assessed her options. She was in the mouth of a dog, and, despite this being a strangely comforting sensation, from her own limited experience, she knew things that went in the mouth were usually swallowed.
She waited breathlessly, sensing subtle shifts in attention through the mouth of her new captor. His head lifted slightly, and she felt him pick up pace as the odour of canine grew stronger. He was a big dog, and just fitted through a well-disguised entrance. The dog ducked under a low pigeon pea and the pace picked up. The smell of the den’s front door was strong; the urine proclaiming to the world of the park to beware of the dog. The dog had a new enemy to beware of now, Yanki thought.
As he turned into the entrance, Yanki reached up and pushed her delicate fingers viciously into his eye. The dog’s mouth opened in surprise at the unexpected attack. Yanki, for the second time that day, fell to the ground. This time she was closer to the earth and prepared for the impact, tucking herself into a ball for the short drop and rolling into the undergrowth.
Yanki lay still for a period of time in the elbow of a fallen branch that was now rotten and hollow. The branch was more alive with nature than it had been when attached to its tree trunk. An oversized sugar ant walked out of the log onto her head, traversed the fur of her cheek and began its passage over her mouth. She crunched into its segmented body, energised by catching her own snack. Paksheet’s tyranny was over. The dog seemed to have forgotten her capture. For the first time in her life, Yanki was truly alone.
She tentatively sat up, staying behind the protection of the branch. She picked over herself, grooming and auditing her pint-sized body from the events of the day. She had a bump on her head from the initial impact of being thrown from the branch and an ache to match. Other than that, she was largely unscathed. The air was rich with smells of the earth, the faint sour stench of the dogs, and the sweet notes of flowers releasing their fragrance into the afternoon. If ever there was a monkey optimist, it was Yanki. Armed with a couple more delicious sugar ants in her belly, she gave her hands a final lick and an all over fur-smooth and ventured out into the world. Free.
***
Lakshman didn’t even try to understand how the dinner he’d been carrying in his mouth had just escaped. Today, the score was definitely monkeys – 1, dogs – 0. He dragged himself up the well-worn fern tunnel into his space. He could smell the anxiety of the other dogs at his arrival, his body reeking of blood and fear. Sniffing and nuzzling ensued, the few remaining dogs left trying to make sense of the recent seismic shifts in their security – and the lack of food.
Lakshman separated from the other dogs and returned to the spot where only a couple of hours earlier he had been happily napping. A bitch came over to him and pushed her nose in close in a gesture of concern. He growled at her and she quickly retreated. They left him alone after that. He got up and circled round and round, trying to find a position that allowed his painful elbow to rest. Eventually, he settled and slipped into a jumpy sleep. The den’s symphony soothingly played on around him, its score composed of the rhythmic sounds of licking, whimpering and the timpani of empty stomachs rumbling.
***
Rocky tried to open his eyes. He could blurrily make out green-and-brown shapes. Large drops of water slid off the broad flat leaf hanging over his head. They rolled down his forehead, cool and wet, sluicing his face. He blinked and looked again. This time the green-and-brown blur had texture and edges. Only one eye would open; the other appeared to be stuck fast. He blinked his good eye, not feeling any urgency to move or explore his cycloptic vision. From what he could see, he was surrounded by ferns and leaves.
It felt safe. Maybe he was really at home and had pushed into the deep recesses of his garden into a nook he hadn’t explored before. Rocky tried to hold this thought for a while, but it slipped away and left the other story there, the one in which he was lost and attacked and then hiding in the undergrowth before he passed out.
He tried to move the lid of the other eye a fraction. Still nothing. He pushed up on his front legs until he was in a sitting position. The hide was low, and his movement caused another cascade of monsoon-filled leaves to drench him. During the solid stretch of hours Rocky had slept, the rain had swept across the park like automatic gunfire. This was the regular seasonal sniping tropical climates took at their inhabitants. Rocky shook his sodden head instinctively and a searing blade of pain ripped through his face and scalp. The torn ear, crusted with semi-formed scabs, reopened, undoing the tireless healing work Rocky’s body had performed during sleep. He let out a low howl and slumped back to the ground as the waves of pain continued to roll. Defeated by the agony, he closed his eye and waited.
When the nausea from the agony subsided, Rocky opened his eye again. Nothing in the monocular view had changed. He tentatively tried to open his bad eye. The soaking of rain had loosened the blood crust and lymph from his face, and his eyelid lifted minutely. Limited success. He kept trying until both eyes were opened and seemed to be working. Still aware of the ache from his disastrous headshaking, Rocky put his head down to his paw and rubbed his eye clean on it. This was a slow process. The slightest movement on his face was excruciating. He tried sitting up again, keeping his head beneath the branches. With the world not crumbling beneath him, he slowly gave all fours a go.
He was up – but what now? He was completely lost and in a very unfit state. The temptation to stay low and never leave the hide was countered by a persistent hunger. The same indecision that had overwhelmed him those long hours ago at the metro station clung to him. Should he venture out or stay? Outside he heard a distant voice approaching.
‘Rocky, puppy, puppy. Dinnertime, Rocky.’
It sounded familiar, so safe and reliable. His dream-wake-pain state collapsed his reality and confused him again. He was at home in the garden, otherwise, how would he hear his name being called. It was his owner, home from work with a bowl of those crunchy biscuits he loved.
‘Come on, Rocky. Good boy.’
He slowly but obediently followed her call. His bad ear had a couple of close calls with low-slung twigs, but he eventually made it out, emerging into the late-afternoon sunshine of Kamla Nehru Ridge.
***
Lola was amazed that they had been able to find this dog needle in the haystack of the park. Only Poona had maintained a calm faith that the last place they saw him was near the temple, and God would be looking after him in the interim. Who was she to argue with God or Poona? The temple was slightly drab in the daylight, despite the rich colours of its gods and décor.
Gajrup looked on with some surprise as Rocky staggered out of the undergrowth like a drunk who’d been sleeping rough. Lola started again with her best impersonation of Poona.
‘Rocky boy, come. Dinner.’ It was hard not to slip into an Indian accent, but she was aware of the fine line between dog rescue and parody.
‘BhonsRi-Waalaa! Tatte masalna bakar chodu.’
Lola knew the sound of cursing, even if she couldn’t understand what Gajrup was saying. The trail of beige-coloured gruel he was pouring out for the dogs was splashed over his shoes and pants; no doubt it and Malina were included in his under-the-breath venting.
Lola held a cube of medicated paneer. How they were going to get one of those down Rocky’s throat was yet to be revealed.
Lola looked at Rocky’s collar; it seemed out of place in the park. She felt a pang of her own out-of-placeness. L
ola dropped down on her haunches and kept calling to the dog, entreating him to come closer. Rocky’s tongue finally made contact with gruel, slowly licking the ground clean.
‘Good work, Rocky!’ Lola’s praise was for both of them.
Lola slowly held out the antibiotic-stuffed paneer, the cube sitting high on the palm of her hand, like she was feeding sugar to a horse. She held out her other hand for him to smell, like she had been shown as a child. Rocky sniffed at her hand and the cheese. Finding them both acceptable, he swept the paneer into his mouth.
Lola turned smugly and nodded at Gajrup with the triumph every human feels after getting a dog to take its medicine. A couple more cubes of paneer were consumed, these ones the placebo. Buoyed with her successes and newly woven trust with Rocky, she slipped her hand underneath his collar, patting his back in reassurance, and tried to discover his identity.
***
Rocky’s body had swayed towards the food as it tried to override his brain and get him moving faster. He was tentative and wary from the turmeric experience but not afraid of humans, his domestication having been a pleasant experience. This was not his owner, but her voice was soft and kind. He sat and allowed the inspection of his collar. He was now back into his familiar role as a dog, defined by human instruction and rewards of food. It wasn’t the food he was familiar with, but his belly was fuller than it had been recently and, although his head hurt, the patting was making him feel better.
***
Rocky’s tag revealed little new information: his name was Rocky. There was a telephone number on it, but it had been partially worn off and was no help to Lola. There was a New Delhi Municipal Council registration tag underneath his nametag. If they could extract some information from the council, it may lead them to Rocky’s address, but, like the events of the day, it was a long shot.
Lola looked down on Rocky’s head – it was a mess. His torn ear hung beside a nauseating gash that would never heal without stitches, at the very minimum.
‘Gajrup, look at his ear. What will we do?’
Lola could see Rocky’s ear was damaged beyond repair and starting to show the early signs of infection. The dog, although it still surprisingly had an appetite, was gravely injured. Lola wasn’t sure that any amount of medicated paneer could save Rocky from what Poona would describe as his passage to the next life. Poona had remained with the bodies of the other dogs and the shocked reporter who had witnessed the attack. Lola wished Poona were here though, so she could ask her what to do.
Poona had been adamant, as she was about many things, that Gajrup and Lola should go and find Rocky – saving a live dog had priority over those that had already passed. Lola already felt anxious and uncomfortable about the whole afternoon. She knew Malina would be furious about how much paneer had been wasted on park kutta. Spending time with Gajrup also made her feel very awkward. His English was more than passable, but the strangeness of their situation defied translation. And now she had to pass judgement on the life of a dog. Lola and Rocky waited expectantly for Gajrup’s guidance.
‘What do we do now, Gajrup?’ Lola persisted.
Gajrup shook his head from side to side, his mouth pursed. He made a cutting motion like he was taking the top off a green coconut with a machete.
Lola looked at him blankly.
He made the movement again, this time more dramatically but slower, like he was playing charades with a simpleton.
‘Cut it off,’ he said.
Lola’s eyes widened. ‘Cut it off?’
Gajrup nodded.
‘What, here – how?’
Lola was sure she was having a catastrophic communication breakdown. She couldn’t believe Gajrup was even suggesting field surgery. Perhaps this was just an optimal outcome if he had to come up with one. She held onto Rocky’s collar and continued patting him. Rocky, now full of paneer and pats slid to the ground, exposing his flank trustingly.
Lola sank lower with him, running her nails along his ribs while making soothing noises.
‘We can’t just cut his ear off!’ She looked at the slight curl on Rocky’s lips as she hit the sweet spot.
‘Rotting.’ Gajrup’s head shook with certainty. ‘Then kutta die, na.’
Gajrup’s mobile rang. Lola could hear the voice of Poona ringing out through the speaker as if she were inside the phone. He nodded and shook his head at the phone, then hung up.
‘Madam ready, you stay here, coming back.’ Gajrup pulled out a worn pocketknife and handed it to Lola. ‘Cut it off.’
He turned and strode off towards the car.
Chapter Eight
Death of an Ear
Poona would weep for the death of the dogs later that night in the privacy of her home. The senseless killing of the animals was as perplexing as it was brutal and pointless – and by monkeys. The story Sita had told her seemed ludicrous until she’d seen the video footage on Sita’s phone with her own eyes. Poona knew the editor of the New Delhi Times well. She called him direct and told him to hold the front page, as his new star reporter Ms Sita Unival had a scoop. Sita watched and listened as Poona told the editor she was so pleased to see the paper finally promoting talented women journalists. She hung up and gave Sita a wink.
‘I can’t believe you just said those things to my editor.’ Sita looked somewhat gobsmacked.
‘We girls have to help each other, na,’ said Poona, knowing all too well the invisible barriers Sita was going to face in her career. Poona felt a familiar intuition about the moment, there was something important about the meeting with this young woman. Poona knew to trust her instincts. She exchanged contacts with Sita, making her promise to come to Hastinapuri Estate and debrief after she had filed her scoop, and perhaps even plan some dog-welfare awareness raising through Sita’s media contacts.
Waiting for Gajrup, Poona scrutinised the bodies of the dogs. She recognised them as her regular diners, members of the pack that had so recently lost their leader, Shiva. A superstitious chill passed over her – two bad events in succession. She prayed for her children and Chatura to be protected.
The citizens of New Delhi traversed the park as the light of the day ebbed. They walked with eyes averted past the kneeling woman and the dogs’ bloodied bodies; the ubiquitous monkeys; the flighty Indian squirrels; and the litter of nature and man. They kept on walking, the life and death of the day just another part of the comings and goings of existence and not their concern.
***
Gajrup loaded the last of the dogs’ remains into garbage bags and deposited them into the boot of the car. Poona had decided to head through the park to Lola on foot. She wanted to see if she could find a trace of the other dogs and piece together the rest of the story. And she needed to walk the shock and adrenaline out of her body.
Gajrup leaned into the driver’s seat of the spotless Ambassador sedan, looking for an errant handkerchief to wipe the relentless sweat from his forehead.
His phone was vibrating in his pocket. He checked to see it wasn’t Poona. It was Malina. Three missed calls. She would be incandescent about his long absence. And in the presence of Lola, Malina would no doubt see it as a conspiracy, yet another failure of Gajrup to be supportive in a litany of offences. Gajrup knew he hadn’t always been the best husband, his fondness for street booze and gambling overriding his duties both to Malina and the Sheenas at times. He had always straightened up, often with some stern words from Chatura or a verbal flogging from his wife. He loved Malina in a familiar way, like a comfy pair of pants that were worn through in places but he couldn’t imagine not slipping into at the end of a day.
His son was less of a fit. Gajrup thought about the playful times they had spent when Geet was a child. He was a fun and precocious boy who had entertained Gajrup and his friends as they drank and threw dice. Malina was always accusing him of being too soft on the boy, that they both lacked discipline and self-control. Geet had seemed to slip away from him sometime in his early teens. There was a secretiveness, a di
stance in their relationship that had crept in and never left. Gajrup caught another stream of perspiration. He shook his head, shaking off the thought and the sense of yearning and love mixed with sadness. More vibrating in his pocket. He didn’t even look at the screen this time. It felt like the bony finger of Malina hammering into his chest as she shouted out his failings.
Guests were arriving at the hotel that evening; there were suitcases to be carried, chores to be done, tables to be set, dinner to be served. Gajrup sighed. It was never easy choosing between the wrath of a wife and that of a boss. He suspected his dinner would be very sloppy tonight indeed, if he got any at all. He spied the missing handkerchief lying on the floor as a splash of perspiration hit the car seat.
He picked it up and straightened to flick a lever near the steering column and shut the boot, distracted by another call from Malina. If he drove quickly he could possibly get back to Hastinapuri Estate in time to be eligible for a burnt chapati. Maybe.
***
Paksheet had watched with interest the attention and activity around the deceased dogs. He watched the animals being packed into bags and then dragged to the shiny car, a vehicle much like the one that had crushed the dog yesterday. Were they being taken as trophies or as martyrs, he wondered. Perhaps the dogs and humans were more connected than he thought. As they were both inferior animals to monkeys, it made sense that they would need to work together.
Or maybe the humans were the enemy of all the animals and had simply been enraged that he had killed the dogs before they could. This complexity had not previously been part of his thinking. Of course he could outwit all of them, but it somewhat changed the strategic planning. He needed to get inside the world of the humans and infiltrate their stronghold to see what it took to dispatch one of them.
While the human was bent into the driver’s seat with his view obscured, Paksheet discreetly shimmied down from his observation post and slipped into the boot of the Ambassador, hiding himself at the back, behind the body bags. He’d ridden in a train, now he would go in a car and see where the humans went with their carrion.