by Polly McGee
‘Puppy, puppy, puppy, puppy,’ Poona began her familiar chant.
***
In the dense undergrowth nearby, Lakshman’s ears pricked up. He hadn’t heard the sound of feeding aunty for too long. His elbow had been permanently damaged by the deep bite inflicted by the monkey leader and he would never have the speed and agility he once did. The pack had suffered a double blow with an injured leader and the guards preventing Poona’s feeding. Lakshman had survived on the bodies of puppies that had starved. The other dogs had wandered off, leaving him alone and vulnerable.
***
Lola saw first one paw, then another break through from the undergrowth, as a lame dog hobbled out slowly. Poona fed him cubes of antibiotic-stuffed cheese and a pile of food. She and Lola were dismayed at the demise of Lakshman, who far from resembled the cheeky young dog Poona had described a couple of weeks ago. He was a broken dog that even with their support had little chance of survival. When it was apparent there would be no other takers for the food, they gave him the remaining serves, sadly leaving him licking it up in a fever of hunger and scarcity, knowing it was probably one of his final meals.
The park was crawling with monkeys. The numbers were noteworthy, as was their increased level of bullishness and aggression. Lola stared at their antics. Poona was more wary of the danger after having seen the demise of the acting director firsthand.
‘Don’t meet their eyes, it will set them off,’ she chided Lola, striking her stick in front of her to warn the monkeys to stay away. ‘Come, let’s find Rocky.’
They set off, avoiding macaque eye contact and walking fast, cutting through the tapestry of monkeys. Baj had been dispatched with the car around to the temple where they had last seen Rocky before his amputation.
‘Lola, you never told me how you came to know Geet and the Ramdas family.’
Lola’s stomach lurched.
‘Malina said something about a restaurant in Sydney when I asked her,’ Poona said, determined to extract the information this time.
Lola nodded. ‘Geet’s friend from school and I worked together. I wanted to travel to India. He said Geet was thinking about travelling to Australia after graduation, so he organised for me to stay with the Ramdas until Geet was done, so we could do a cultural exchange of sorts,’ Lola blurted out a hastily cobbled-together lie, hoping it would be plausible enough. ‘Malina being a cook and all.’
This was the supposed subterfuge – the bosses of Jaipur Nights were always relatives or friends of the people that the girls were sent to stay with. Lola didn’t want to lie to Poona. She was sick to death of Malina and the whole situation. Geet was scheduled to finally arrive that weekend for the official meeting, the wedding deadline looming closer. Lola wasn’t sure she could even go through with it now.
Lola avoided further deceit with a question: ‘What’s Geet like?’
Poona thought for a moment; she was obviously searching for a way to put something nicely. ‘He’s a nice enough boy. We’ve all done our best.’
‘What do you mean, Aunty?’
‘He can be very charming, but …’ Poona strode on, swishing monkeys out of the way. ‘Not proving to be university material.’
‘Why?’ Lola was confused.
‘Too much party, not enough study.’ Poona said Geet had skated through university with a couple of near misses on his exams.
‘How did he get into the mathematics Olympics in Mumbai, then?’ Lola asked.
Poona shrugged. Her body language and the slight raise of her eyebrow made Lola think she doubted he could even spell ‘maths Olympics’.
They walked for a while in silence, the lights of the temple ahead. It was Tuesday again and the lights twinkled for Hanuman. Poona called out for Rocky. Lola joined in chorus, and they chanted along the pathway until they were at the edge of the temple, throats sore and dry. No sign of the one-eared dog, and the fading light was making it difficult to navigate too far from the path. Lola’s eye was caught by Baj. He was completely focused on polishing bits of the car with a cloth while he waited for them to return. Lola observed the singular attention, as though achieving the shine on the passenger door handle was the reason he had been born.
‘Kutta, nihin?’ he asked, looking up from his polishing meditation.
The two women shook their heads in unison. They all felt disappointed. Poona waved to the priest, who was hanging out lanterns and sweeping the front of the shrine.
‘Come to the temple, and let’s pray for Rocky.’ She took Lola by the arm. ‘And we’ll pray for you, too, bachana.’
Poona’s concern for Lola made her eyes prickle. She needed intervention from someone somewhere.
Inside the temple, it was pleasingly bright and welcoming. Poona introduced Lola to the priest, and they shook hands awkwardly. He and Poona had a rapid discussion in Hindi; he looked at Lola and nodded. He put a dab of bright-orange sandalwood paste on her forehead and one on Poona, then cut a length of orange-and-red string from a handcrafted ball. The priest started to tie it on Lola’s wrist, but Poona stopped him with a hand on his arm.
‘Nihin, nihin left,’ she exclaimed, indicating the other side. ‘Not married,’ Poona explained to Lola. Yet, Lola thought.
The priest tied on the string, blessed her and handed her a pinch of what might have been sugared rice from an ancient, rusty tin.
Lola ate it gingerly, not wanting to offend, but hoping that blessings neutralised bacteria. Poona led her through to the back of the shrine where the deities waited to hear her prayers. They were beautiful and benevolent avatars, each with endless depth in expressive eyes. Lola wished the Christian images of her childhood had been more like Hindu gods and less like sad men dripping glycerine tears. She closed her eyes and prayed for a solution to her situation.
Poona was still deep in prayer when Lola completed her wish list of problems to solve. Lola did a half-bow, half-curtsy, and walked out backwards, unsure of the proper convention for exiting Hindu temples. The priest handed her an apple as she left in a remote but not dispassionate way.
Baj, lolling sleepily on the car, leapt up when he saw her, and went to open the door to the back.
Lola shook her head and leaned on the bonnet, crunching into the prasad. ‘At ease, Baj-ji, I want to hang out with the monkey god.’
The giant statue of Hanuman stared at her with the same distant benevolence as the priest, his mighty hands and arms tearing open his chest to reveal a handsome couple within.
‘Baj, who are those people in his chest?’
‘Sita and Rama; Hanuman is devoted to them.’
He looked at the statue with an expression of pure devotion. Lola hadn’t really thought much about Baj feeling anything before. His face was so soft, and so full of love. Lola was struck by the thought that she wanted Baj to feel like that about her. She dismissed it. No more romantic nonsense, that was what had got her here to start with. And she was hardly in a position to go about developing crushes on people. Lola shook off the idea.
‘Who is the dog god, Baj?’
Baj turned towards the entrance to the temple. ‘I do not know the dog god, Lola-ji, but Madam Poona is their saint.’
Poona emerged energised, handing Lola a bag of fried sweets for distribution to the poor, who were assembling around Hanuman for the daana. Lola tipped the offering into the outstretched hands of children and adults till the bag was almost empty. She sampled the remnants; they were delicious, all sugar syrup and ghee.
‘Make sure you give them all away. Chatura will find them otherwise.’ Poona laughed. ‘That man is like your little Rama, Baj, he can sniff out the sweeties.’
The polished handles of the car door gleamed in the lamplight as the vehicle headed for home.
***
Out from behind the glow of the temple, Rocky emerged. Yanki was sitting on his shoulders like a dressage rider, the ragged pashmina wound around his collar like a bridle.
Chapter Fifteen
When Rocky Met Yan
ki
Rocky was alive. One ear was intact, and where his other ear once had been was now a thick, hard scab. His head still felt lopsided. Rocky was a slow Pavlovian; it had taken several painful lessons for him to remember not to vigorously shake or scratch his head with his paw on the earless side.
After the amputation, Rocky had miraculously lurched back to his spot behind the temple, crawling on his belly as much from fatigue as jungle craft. He had pushed apart the densely clumped ferns, grasses and orchids of the Ridge forest below the canopy with his nose and paws, trying to protect the open wound that replaced his ear. Circling unsteadily, he had made a hollow amongst the carpet of leaf litter and herbs, then, surrendering to the pain sheltered in strangeness, he had collapsed.
During the long hours of unconsciousness and delirium the antibiotics had done their job and staved off infection. With the damaged ear gone, his body had commenced the repair work. Rocky survived on fruit and offerings dumped close by at the temple, taking anything that was close and edible. He barely saw any other dogs in the park, occasionally catching the stale scent of the pack that had attacked him on the first day he’d sat at the metro station, waiting for his mistress.
Rocky still had the tattered remnants of his collar and its worn identification tag, with the ragged pashmina looped around. He was an in-between kutta: not a house dog, yet not a proper street one, adrift without purpose or a pack or people for structure. His head itched as the scab healed. Rocky shut his eyes and hoped a beam of afternoon sunshine would hit the spot and bake the itch into abeyance for a while.
***
Yanki had explored Kamla Nehru Park with wonder after rolling out of Lakshman’s mouth into her new life. Despite being on constant alert for her former captor who she knew would kill her on sight, the park was full of adventure. After such a restricted existence as an extension of Paksheet’s arm, Yanki had finally begun walking, playing, running, tumbling and living. She had learned which fruits tasted good and which of the moths had the creamiest bodies and the crunchiest wings. She’d investigated the velvet texture of flowers and their honeyed centres. She’d played with the giant snails of the park for hours, watching as their heads moved in and out of their shells at her touch. These were the experiences of endless delight.
Yanki met Rocky quite by accident. She was dragging a fallen papaya from a nearby tree for some private dining. Putting down her fruit quarry, she found herself suddenly in front of a slightly ajar pink mouth. Rocky was in deep dog sleep. Small squeak-like woofing noises came out of his mouth every so often. Yanki’s instincts told her to retreat, but the sound effects were captivating.
The lone ear of this dog also fascinated Yanki. It stood up high like a sentry, even in sleep. The other side where an ear should have been looked like dried mud had been splashed on his scalp. She sat back on her haunches and watched a while. Hunger reminded her of the papaya, and she broke into it, gorging on the sweet overripe flesh until she was stuffed and somewhat sleepy herself.
***
A foreign smell brought Rocky into groggy, post-nap consciousness. He opened his eyes to see Yanki mid-mouthful, sitting with a ravaged papaya and an expression of cautious interest. This monkey was remarkably small and probably posed no imminent threat, but he was mindful of the strange mood of the monkeys of late. He lifted his lip in an exploratory growl to see what the reaction would be. Thinking the dog was hungry, Yanki tore off a piece of papaya and put it next to his mouth. The fruit fragrance was deliciously intense. Yanki pulled off another piece and pushed it towards him, repeating until the papaya was gone.
Rocky rolled up onto his shoulder and looked at the mini-intruder. Neither of them moved, each waiting to see what the other would do. The scab on Rocky’s head itched furiously. His back paw twitched; he was desperate to get his claws and scratch his head until the sensation left him. But Rocky had learned his lesson in the matter of the scab. Instead, he delicately scratched the other ear, hoping for some kind of itch transference. Nothing. The immediacy of quelling the itch was overtaking the fact that there was an interloper in his den. He put his head down to the ground and tried to rub the scab on the leaves to get relief.
This was not an exact or effective science. Yanki watched Rocky rubbing and twisting into strange angles to get to the brown bark on his head. He sunk back to the ground, exhausted and defeated by his scab.
***
Yanki had spent enough time grooming Paksheet to know the signs of an itch. Yanki inched over to Rocky’s head. Rocky’s lip lifted in warning, trembling with a growl that never emerged as Yanki gently touched the space where his ear had been; it felt rough. She touched the fur part around it. It felt like fur. She reached again for his scabby head and lightly scratched. Rocky dissolved onto his side; leg peddling furiously in the air with visible pleasure. Once the itch was dispatched, Yanki clambered across him to his stomach area. Mud, dirt and dried blood from Rocky’s weeks away from home were stuck to his fur. There was a lot to groom. Yanki and Rocky, with the wariness of new friendship, settled in for the afternoon.
Chapter Sixteen
What Happens in Mumbai …
The lights of Mumbai twinkled, a spangled carpet with the city swept beneath. The apartment’s stretch of glass windows reflected the metropolis outside. On a low table of marble and timber, a bottle of Mumm Champagne emerged from an ice bucket and a second bottle sat unopened, beads of condensation pooling at its base.
Geet refilled his glass. He held up the bottle, scrutinising the label. He toasted himself theatrically. ‘Before Mumm there is no other.’ Laughing at the irony, he drained the glass and loudly burped out his name.
After another refill, he set the bottle into the cooler and returned to stand at the window, gazing out over the sparkling silhouettes of high-rise buildings and other penthouses. The shiny glass reflected his full frontal: a sculpted body covering toned but tense muscles.
Geet stared at the city. His hand touched the window, as if to caress the metropolis outside. He stared harder – perhaps the answer to his problem was spelled out in the dots of light.
His mobile phone beeped with a text, one of several he had received in the past hour. It was Saturday night and he was in Mumbai, 1400 kilometres away from where he was expected to be. He should have been home, planning his future, feasting to his successful graduation, meeting his gora future wife, building on the lie that was already so epic, so toxic, so insidious it fitted like an odious skin. The distance from home still felt too close.
Geet took a deep breath and another mouthful of champagne, dragging himself away from the window. He picked up his mobile and looked at the text. As predicted, it was his father again. Mummyjee was hysterical with the questions they couldn’t answer. Where was he? Was he alright? Had he missed the train? When would he come? Why wasn’t he there? Geet had drunk enough for courage. The aircon vent above him hummed into action. A gust of chilled, cleaned air lassoed his chest, raising a shiver. He re-read the text he had laboured over all evening, musing on how long it could take to write so little and say so much. Should have taken philosophy not engineering, na.
In his wine-numbed consciousness the text read uncomfortably like a summarised confession. He looked away from it.
‘Forgive me, Father, for I have shinned.’ Geet slurred out an apology to a god he wasn’t sure existed, despite the endorsements from his Hindu faith and his Catholic high-school education. He moved his hand solemnly across his body in a rough approximation of a cross. ‘Spectacles, testicles, wallet, watch,’ he said with a school-boyish giggle.
Geet impulsively pressed send, and dropped the phone onto the carpet, stomping on it until it was destroyed. The anxious drumming in his chest slowed. Now he wouldn’t have to know whether or not they could handle the truth. The city lights drew him back to his spot at the window. The city was vast, ready for the taking. There was money and opportunity beyond the double-glazing – opportunity that didn’t care whether or not he had a degree in
engineering, or a wife.
Geet wasn’t book smart. He knew that from an early age. Despite the best intentions everyone had for his escalation from the service industry to the knowledge economy, his marks had loitered below average throughout his prestigious schooling. Geet had, however, a significant advantage over many of his peers during the tedium of his secondary school years: he was both tall and handsome. He had won the genetic lottery of his parents by getting Gajrup’s height and his exotic brown-green eyes. Malina’s lantern jaw, which while masculine and obstinate on her, sat perfectly on Geet, framed a generous mouth accustomed to smiling. He had avoided the oily, pimply, gangly passage of teenage-hood and appeared to transform from a precocious, outgoing child straight into a rare, elegant adolescent.
Schoolgirls’ pulses raced when they saw him waiting at the metro, and more than one teenage heart had Geet’s picture imprinted in its secret recesses. He had figured out the world currency when he was twelve years old. He knew that sex had a value, just like being smart did. His mind and body were highly tuned to pleasure, and he was several grades ahead of his classmates in experiencing a full repertoire of sensual delights.
Geet could have been the school games captain with his build and looks. Sport was about as captivating for him as girls, so he hung with the studious and shy, happily leading his loyal gang of geeks from the fringes of popularity. He became the source of classified information for many a conflicted and frustrated friend, giving authoritative, but not always factually accurate, answers to the most intimate of questions. Luckily for the boys he had befriended, the questions were mainly academic.
Geet traded his stock of scandalous stories with them for homework assistance and the guarantee that a timely note would be passed his way in exams when he needed assistance. At lunchtime, encircled by his awkward coterie, he would explain in hushed tones to widened eyes and tightly crossed legs the function of a vagina (something he knew only theoretically) or the acrobatics of an erect penis (something he knew intimately). He crafted long, convoluted stories about the trysts of their teachers, parents, sisters and strangers, adding in all kinds of perversions to make them interesting.