Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I)

by Teresa J. Rhyne

  One of our local guides was handsome and charming, with a brilliant white smile flashing from underneath his Raiders of the Lost Ark-style hat. His name was Shakti. He asked us to call him Shaz, pronounced like Chaz. But then Terri explained the name game to him (though she likely didn’t call it a game), and he was christened “Happy.” Another guide joined us later, and when we learned he had college degrees in Indian history, architecture, sociology, and anthropology (and I hoped cuisine as well), he was dubbed “Wisdom.” I refrained from calling foul—if “Wisdom” is a feeling, I would have claimed it as my own. Given any opportunity to avoid a feeling, I will take it. If his tag could read “Wisdom,” couldn’t mine just read “Sarcasm”?

  In a rare stroke of luck, I was assigned a hotel room with Lina. I had chatted with Lina a bit and observed that she had both an enviable camera and an artistic eye. She also loved coffee as much as I did, thus she was willing to slip away from the crowd for either the perfect shot or cup. I liked her, though she probably felt she’d drawn the short end of the roommate stick. Poor girl also had the raging head cold that had been making its way through our group but, in keeping with the custom, had avoided me.

  We awoke at five in the morning to be at the Taj Mahal for the sunrise. The Taj is known for, among other things, the magnificent way the sunlight reflects off the marble walls and reflecting pools. Dawn is considered the perfect time to view this Wonder of the World, and having come that far, even I was willing to wake at that godforsaken hour to see it.

  The large white bus drove us through the darkness—Agra is not a pretty city and it was early on a Sunday morning, so we did not miss much. When the bus stopped to let us all off, the Taj Mahal was nowhere to be seen. We were standing in the middle of a deserted, dirty street. Then we all saw the horse-drawn carriages approach, brightly festooned with ribbons and flowers. Terri was smiling widely. The carriages were for us.

  I rode with Terri, thinking, I’m in a horse-drawn carriage being taken to the Taj Mahal! I concentrated on being in the moment, ignoring that the poor horse was far too thin (as was the driver) and the streets were filthy. I appreciated her efforts—the carriage ride, her choice to ride with me, and making the effort to check in to see how I was doing.

  We lined up outside the gates of the Taj, not the only group to have decided sunrise was the time to see this monument. There were stray dogs in the street, lying at the gate, sleeping alongside the road. They were not begging and they did not look hungry. They simply looked like they too were waiting to see this wonder. I resisted the urge to pet them.

  Though the sun rose while we waited in line to enter, the light was still beautiful—bright without being blinding, with subtle pink and lavender just barely visible. So naturally, everyone stopped and gasped shortly after entering through the front building and landing on the plaza terrace overlooking the Taj. The massive shrine to love was there before us in all its breathtaking glory. Only, so was the crowd, jostling, bumping, and posing for pictures. They handed each other cameras and posed—each in the same, traditional way, just off to the side with the white wonder of the world in the background, gleaming. My group did the same; they handed each other cameras and posed, taking each other’s pictures. But not mine. I was still persona non grata, and I was still not doing a thing about it.

  I am not adept at those teenage-girl selfie photos, and I was not about to hold my arm out and turn the camera on myself to try. I sensed that handing my camera to a stranger was not a good idea. Instead, I raised my camera in an attempt to take advantage of my height and just take a photo over the heads of the happy, snappy tourists. Wisdom took hold of my arm.

  “Come with me. Come this way.” He led me through the crowd and cleared a space, moving people aside politely but firmly. To my surprise, everyone obliged. At the front, just at the edge of the balcony, he said, “Kneel here for your photo.”

  I thanked him and knelt, careful not to slip on the damp tile. When I looked up, I was stunned by a moment of perfect peace and beauty.

  There was a dog, golden and white, bigger than a beagle but not by much. It was one of the dogs I had seen in front of the gate and wanted to pet. The dog was bent down, his two front paws dangling in the reflecting pool. He was sipping from the pond that stretches a long vertical line from the Taj to the plaza where I was standing, the better to capture the magnificent reflection of this world wonder. And it does. The reflection was perfect. From where I was kneeling, I could see the Taj Mahal twice—the real thing and its full reflection in the smooth clear water, with only the slightest ripple where the dog’s tongue met the water. The blue-pink sky, gleaming white marble, dark orange terra-cotta tiles, green grass, violet flowers, and a golden dog were all I saw. I heard nothing. It was a moment of such complete tranquillity I thought I was imagining it. I turned only briefly to look at the people crowded around me, yet far, far away from where I was. No one was looking at the dog. Did anyone else see him? Was he real? I was glad I was kneeling. I was thankful for Wisdom. I was breathing deeply for the first time in days. I stayed focused on the dog in the simple act of drinking water. I felt peace. I felt joy.

  I was amazed.

  I managed a few photos before the dog finished his morning drink, looked up, turned, and went about his day. I won’t need the photos to remember that moment always, but I’m glad I have them. It’s how I know that moment was real. I knew also that moment was a sign. And I knew I needed to figure out what it meant.

  I roamed the grounds of the Taj alone at first and then, briefly, with one of our group, who kept up her steady stream of chatter, as she had, best I could tell, the entire trip. But now, I smiled, appreciative of her enthusiasm. It was indeed unbelievable that we were here. To go from a cancer diagnosis and grueling treatment that itself threatens one’s life, to have endured such an utter loss of control and, for a time, one’s own destiny, it was indeed a spectacular feat to now be standing on the other side of the world in front of this gleaming, world-renowned monument. It was, indeed.

  Once inside the palace, she and I separated, each roaming off to something we were drawn to. I took hundreds of photos that day, most of the architecture but plenty of the people as well. During my first week in India, I had been approached from time to time by young girls asking to take my picture. I get this—I’m blond and five feet ten inches tall; to them, I’m different. The girls usually stood with me, smiling but not touching. I’d always ask to take their photos too, particularly if they or their family members were dressed in the traditional saris in the turquoise, violet, mandarin, emerald, or fuchsia colors I loved. This time, as I walked around the vast courtyards and gardens of the Taj Mahal, I was stopped for photos by many more people. Perhaps my face had softened. I had, maybe, the smallest bit of a smile.

  A family of seven adults and two children approached me. A man I guessed to be the patriarch asked if they could take a picture of me with their baby—a boy in purple clothing with a red bindi on his forehead. I nodded, and a younger man came toward me holding the child, who was probably ten months old or so. I panicked, thinking he was going to hand the child to me. (I’m awkward at best with babies.) But instead he stood next to me. Then he motioned to my camera and then to a woman in their group whom I presumed was his wife and the mother of the child. This is when I noticed I was the only one with a camera.

  They wanted me to take a photo with my own camera? Why?

  The family was gathered behind the man’s wife, looking at us, the photo subjects. My mind raced. Was this an elaborate scam to steal my camera? If I handed my camera over, would it be gone forever, along with the hundreds of photos I’d just taken? I’d lose the photos of my golden dog! I hesitated, looking at their smiling faces. If it was a scam, it was indeed an elaborate one. And if it was not, well, I’d have another beautiful photo to remember this day. I handed her my camera.

  She took the photo and then another. She laughed and nodd
ed and handed the camera back to me. The husband asked, in half hand motions, half broken English (“we see”), if they could see the photo. I popped open the screen and showed them the photo taken moments before. The family gathered around and smiled their approval. We all nodded and, hands in prayer position, said our namastes.

  Later I asked Wisdom (who else would I ask?) what the photo request was about. He said it was a sign of respect and a story for them—the blond American they met at the Taj. Or for the baby, a story they would share as he grew up. The Hindu culture is very respectful of visitors; this much we had seen and learned. This was one more way of showing that. Since I was so obviously a visitor, they were, in a sense, acknowledging that I was special.

  What a very kind thing to do. Especially on that day.

  In our hotel room, following breakfast, we had an hour to rest or pack or shower before we needed to meet downstairs for two more stops and the long bus ride back to Delhi. Lina and I opted to rest in our side-by-side twin beds, the height of luxury compared to where we’d been sleeping. Maybe it was exhaustion, the lingering thrill of the Taj, or the sudden comfort of soft beds, but Lina talked to me. I asked her if she was married. She laughed joyfully and pointed out that I had missed the “letting go” burning ceremony two nights before. What she was letting go of, sending up into smoke, was her marriage. She told me her husband had an affair and she’d filed for divorce recently. I remembered then that in the group therapy session before I’d made my outburst, Lina had said she was enjoying the trip because she didn’t have to think about anything. Her schedule was set, her meals were made for her and served regularly, and there was no time to think. For her this was a reprieve. I had been shocked, but now I understood why. It’s always perspective, isn’t it?

  I shared with her that my first husband had cheated on me twice (that I know of; I’m sure there were more, but it loses significance after two). One of his mistresses was named Lina. This Lina’s eyes flew wide open and she let out a hearty laugh.

  “Get out! Are you kidding me? Was she Italian?” she said.

  “Yes, she was. So you’ll forgive me if I’ve called you Deena before. I have a mental block about your name.”

  She laughed again. “You can call me anything you want. I totally understand.”

  We talked for so long we had to throw our things back in our overnight bags in a rush and still were late getting downstairs. But at least I wasn’t alone. I had a friend. I had shared a feeling. Maybe two (anger is a feeling, right?).

  As we toured additional sites that day, I made more of an effort to talk with my fellow travelers and to join with the group. Though, even in my new lighter mood, I was enjoying being alone with my thoughts. Seeking to stay in that peaceful space I’d found, I now watched more closely for the dogs, and the monkeys, the cows, the goats, and even the birds.

  It occurred to me that the animals were in no better or worse condition than the people. If we were in a particularly poverty-stricken place, the dogs were more likely to be thin, hungry, and sick or injured, or both. At one temple there was a particularly aggressive baby goat. She danced and pawed at the ground to the laughter of the crowd but began to butt her head at the legs of bystanders when no food followed the laughter. It was hard not to be reminded of the small acrobatic girl who performed, grinning, flipping, and dancing, outside our car window a few days before on our way home from Mother Teresa’s. We had been told not to hand out money—that it wouldn’t help the child and would only encourage the rings of adults who “own” these children and force them to work this way (and indeed, she should have been in school—it was noon on a weekday). When we did not proffer money, she’d approached the car, yelling and banging on the window, going from adorable and amusing to threatening and frightening in one quick moment.

  In the impoverished villages too, there were more disfigured beggars, more piles of trash, larger crowds of humans, and smaller shanty shacks (but always clean; miraculously clean lean-tos and shacks, thatched huts and tents). In less impoverished areas, the dogs and other animals, like the humans, seemed content, not starving, and, if not healthy, at least not visibly sick or injured. And, I realized now, in the neighborhood we were living in, middle-class by India’s standards, I had seen purebred dogs—a Chow, a poodle, and to my great happiness, a beagle—being walked on leashes in parks, not roaming the streets eating from trash or the handouts given, it seemed regularly, outside restaurants or on street corners.

  The symmetry—the equality of people and the animals as sentient beings with souls—appealed greatly to me. Before arriving in Delhi, I had thought I would be horrified by the condition of the animals. I expected to see sick, injured, and even dead animals. I had expected the dogs would be begging and that I would want to rescue each and every one and instead would feel my heart break over and over again at my helplessness. That was not the case. The animals did not strike me as unhappy or in any danger—at least not any more than a pedestrian in Delhi (and in my case, perhaps far less so, as I was not getting the hang of dashing across streets). And the dogs did not beg (and in that regard, I had to note, their manners were much better than a certain beagle, though clearly it was my indulgence that created his behavior, not a true need for food). The cows, of course, got special privileges; they are indeed sacred. We had even been told to follow a cow crossing the street; it would be the safest way across. That was true, but only if the cow went in the direction one wanted. But it seemed all animals were respected as sentient beings. I took comfort in that.

  The bus ride home from Agra took more than five hours, much of the time spent not moving at all, stuck in a long line of traffic with young boys waving at us from the streets and children posing for the photos we were taking from the bus window. Again, I watched for the animals. Over and over I noticed that people set out piles of vegetables for the cows, and occasionally poured kibble and food scraps out in piles for the dogs. These dogs were not pets, but it seemed they belonged. They knew where and when to expect food. I realized then that the dog at the Taj pond probably waited every morning for the gates to open. Every morning he trotted in for his drink and perhaps a roll on the dew-dropped lush grass on the grounds before starting his day on the streets. The Taj was home to him and the other dogs I’d seen outside the gates. His place in the universe.

  It was nearly midnight when we arrived back at CVV home base. I had not slept on the bus, though at least my thoughts were now restful. I changed clothes quickly, trying not to wake my roommates. I crawled into bed and quickly fell asleep.

  When I woke in the middle of the night, I had an email message from Chris.

  Seamus was improving daily, Chris assured me, and it was then I remembered reading in my Traveler’s Tales: India book that dogs at a location were a sign of positivity. Maybe that would be true now in my own life.

  Armed with that hope, and with the calm brought to me by the golden dog, I set out to salvage my second week in India from the ruin I’d wrought in my first. Groups would never be my thing, so I made efforts to get to know my fellow participants individually. By running out shopping with one of them, I learned she feared dogs and had never traveled far from home, let alone without any family. And I knew then, though she’d been joking and popular with everyone throughout the trip, how very difficult this all must have been for her being in a land where dogs run wild and the culture is so very different from ours. I had dinner out with a small group, and together we were late to the evening wrap-up session. Though the anger at a late arrival was palpable, this time I made amends by joining the conversation. I shared a story of a friendship I’d lost when I went through cancer. I defused the anger rather than stoking the fires, and I realized I missed the friend of whom I spoke. I tried to help another participant by trading volunteer placements for a day—she had wanted to go to Mother Teresa’s and instead was sent to teach at a school. Although the trade didn’t work out (Mother Teresa’s does not
allow a one-day volunteer), I was sent to the school for a day and learned I could, in fact, deal with children. I knew that going in—there was a dog sleeping on a cart outside the school when I arrived.

  Chapter 10

  Walk Beside Me

  I wanted to run from baggage claim, laden with my suitcases and packages, to Chris waiting in the car at curbside pickup, but I couldn’t. On my last day in India I sprained my ankle—I don’t even know how, but I guess it was inevitable with the roads and potholes and uneven terrain—but the injury and twenty hours of air travel had swollen my ankle to the size of my thigh (not small, if you were wondering). But I knew Seamus was in the car with Chris, and I needed to see him—alive and happy. Chris had texted me a photo of Seamus in his crate in the backseat of Chris’s car, along with a note: We can’t wait to see you. I couldn’t wait either. Nor could I move more than inches at a time without pain shooting up my leg.

  When Chris saw me, he jumped out of the car and took the bags from me.

  “What happened?”

  “I have no idea. It started yesterday. Or two days ago now, I guess.” I opened the car door.

  Seamus wagged his tail quickly, thumping the side of the crate. He greeted me with an enthusiastic howl. I opened the crate door and kissed his head, petting him and breathing him in. He was thinner, but not by much, and his energy seemed better than when I had left. Chris had not been deceiving me with his middle-of-the-night emails. Seamus was doing better. I closed the crate door.