‘I shall certainly consider it’ I replied affably.
NOTES
kanal – nearly 420 square metres
patwari – government official who keeps land records
tehsildar – executive magistrate of an administrative area
havan – a ritual ceremony, with offerings like grains, ghee, nuts into a consecrated fire
AN INDIAN CONNECTION
Iam carrying precious cargo. Ben and Elizabeth handed it over to me when they came to wish me bon voyage. During my short stay in the USA, I had come to like this wonderful couple who are in love with my country, her ordinary people, her street dogs, and even her motorbikes. I am glad they entrusted me to deliver it to Sandhya for a sacred assignment.
I met Ben first time on the flat top of the hill which I would climb almost every morning and evening. From my daughter’s home in Saratoga, California, where I was staying, it is barely a half mile up the circuitous Old Oakway Drive that cuts through the mountain. I was doing some stretching at the end of the climb. Suddenly, I heard the roar of a motorbike arising from the very depths of the mountain, crashing the silence of the woods. And, soon after, he came riding a black Royal Enfield, almost taking a giant leap from the last bend in the road a hundred metres down from where I stood.
He slowed down, sputtered at the landing for a while, steered gently around to face east, turned off the engine and parked the motorcycle on its stand. The sun rose just then from behind the hills, the first rays piercing the oak trees to light the vehicle up in brilliant iridescence. From his pocket, he fished out his cellphone, focused its camera on the motorcycle and started taking pictures from different angles.
I stopped my exercises and turned to face him.
‘Hello.’
‘Hi,’ he responded without looking up from the camera, taking more pictures.
He was a tall and handsome young man with sharp blue eyes and a thick crop of golden hair. He wore a fleecy jacket over a shirt and jeans.
‘Taking pictures?’ I said, more as an affirmation of what he was doing than a question.
‘Isn’t she a beauty?’ he asked animatedly, turning towards me, the sun behind his back and directly on my face. I shielded my eyes with my hand. The motorbike was spotless and shining, as if fresh from the factory.
‘Like a new bride,’ I remarked.
‘Well, yes, she is a bride; not so new, though.’
‘An Indian bride?’ I asked with a chuckle.
‘Yes, an Indian bride. Of course, you would make out. And what a lot I had to go through to get her here.’
‘Oh really?’
‘She had to be dismantled before I was allowed to ship her.’
‘Royal Enfields are available here,’ I said, more as a question than an affirmation.
‘Yes, they are. But I fell for this one at Delhi. I could not have abandoned her after she bore me faithfully for three years. And the engine is special, slick and soundless. You don’t find that in the new versions.’
‘And the pictures?’
‘My friends and relatives would love to look at her, the new look after she moved here. I will put the pictures up on Facebook for all to see. It was a job to reassemble her; I had to learn to do it myself.’
‘Why didn’t you bring her as accompanying baggage when you travelled back?’
‘They would not let me. There are restrictions, you know. Homeland security is a major concern after 9/11.’
‘I know.’
‘She had to undertake the long voyage from Delhi alone,’ he said, looking fondly at his bike. ‘I am glad she is finally here. She reminds me of my stay in India.’
‘Seems you had a good time there.’
‘Memorable. In spite of the extreme summers. India is a great spectacle of humanity. You are a pleasant people.’
‘Thank you.’
He grinned.
I extended my hand. ‘Kundan.’
He shook it warmly. ‘Benjamin; Ben. I live just a few turns down the road. On the right side as you go back; the house where you see work going on.’
‘Oh yes, I know where. I have seen the workmen.’
‘I am getting some renovation done. Where do you live?’
‘Jammu. I wonder if you have heard of the city. I am here on vacation. My daughter lives in the last house on the right as you go down the drive.’
‘In that case we are neighbours. I know about Jammu and Kashmir and wanted to visit the Valley while I was in India. I have heard so much about her natural beauty, but did not venture to go because of the militancy. Besides, from time to time, our government has been issuing advisories against visiting the place.’
‘Were you posted in the embassy?’
‘No, I was legal advisor to Nokia in Delhi for four years. I have been transferred back. We moved here last week.’
‘I see you own a Nokia cellphone.’
‘A gift from the company. It has a high resolution camera.’
‘Well, happy riding, Ben.’
‘Happy holidays, Kundan.’
A few mornings later, just when I started walking down the hill after my daily workout on the plateau, I saw a woman with her dog coming up the road. She was a new face, and her dog of a different breed than the ones I had been seeing during my four-week stay. I had grown quite familiar with the neighbourhood and knew almost all the home numbers on this short stretch up the hill of pines, cedars, redwoods, and oaks—just about two dozen high-end homes with huge lookouts, coffee brown or buff, with sloping driveways fenced by oleanders, some with terraced vineyards and others with swimming pools. It was a mystical experience to have deer cross your walk, rabbits hop into the bushes, crows from treetops caw at your arrival, blue jays raise a ruckus, and the mists materialise as mysteriously as they disappear. On weekend evenings, lilting music floated from a huge vineyard up the hill from across the deep gorge.
She smiled when we neared each other as if she knew me. She was a lean, pretty blonde—green eyes and short wavy hair arranged like a halo around her small round face. She wore a white blouse and purple skirt.
‘Hi,’ she said in a tuneful voice, her dog wagging its tail and tugging at the leash towards me.
‘Hello,’ I responded. ‘Your dog wants to be friends with me.’
‘Yes, he can recognise an Indian from far,’ she replied.
Suddenly the dog breathed India to me. I realised that he looked a typical Indian dog with gentle, sad eyes and hungry looks. He looked at me and I felt a sudden, inexplicable surge of affection.
‘He seems gifted,’ I remarked.
‘In fact, he is.’
‘What is the Indian connection?’
‘He’s Indian.’
‘I now see he is.’
‘We got him from Delhi.’
‘I already feel close to him.’
Both of us laughed aloud. The dog looked on curiously.
‘There’s something you might call Indian-ness in everything that is Indian, something that tells you. I could tell when I saw you from far as you stood there on the plateau. Ben had mentioned about meeting you.’ She spoke slowly, clearly.
‘Yes, I met Ben with his bride,’ I chuckled.
‘Bride?’ she looked surprised.
‘The Indian bride,’ I said with a wink. ‘The one he had to get shipped here.’
She burst into laughter. The dog wagged his tail and seemed to laugh with her, all the time focused on me.
‘I am Elizabeth. And you’re Kunddan?’
‘Kundan,’ I corrected her.
‘Kunddaan,’ she said again, trying to pronounce it correctly, but doing it worse than before.
We both laughed.
‘What is his name?’ I asked pointing towards the dog.
‘Sandhya suggested we call him Ashok. But the kids found it difficult to pronounce. We decided on Dash.’
Dash was brown with a white underbelly, brown legs with white stripes and pale-black streaks as if a painter
had cleaned his black brush on them in a hurry.
‘Who is Sandhya?’
‘Our domestic help at Delhi. She loved him, took great care of him. I miss her.’
I could imagine Sandhya— young, lean, affectionate, in a colourful cheap sari—cleaning, cooking, washing and ironing clothes, ungrudgingly, joyfully.
‘You brought Dash with you?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Where did you find him?’
‘In the street where we lived. His mom gave birth to four pups. Sandhya would throw crumbs and leftovers to the brood. We liked Dash for his colour. He was affectionate from the beginning and my kids took a fancy for him. They wanted a dog. Ben said he would buy a pedigree. The kids wanted Dash and we took him in when he was two months old. Sandhya helped us tame him.’
‘It must have been quite a job.’
‘It was not easy. He sulked a lot inside the house. He yelped, wanted to stay dirty, and go back to his ways. His parents and siblings came for him. We let them hang around with him for a bellyful of playtime in our yard. Training Dash has not been easy. He would love to forage for food on the street even when we offered the best dog food. But potty training was the most difficult. I walked him every day, waited for him, ready with a poop bag to pick after him, but he would return home and ease himself in a corner of the lobby.’
‘Was it a lot of hassle to bring him here like it was for the Royal Enfield?’
‘We had to complete several formalities for his immigration, take him to the vet, get him vaccinated against rabies, de-worm and disinfect him, and get a certificate from Dr Mohan, a good vet who sends street dogs to Canada. There is a big demand in that country.’
‘How did you bring Dash here?’
‘We came by the same flight. He was put in the cargo in a special crib we had to order for him. When we landed, he looked frightened and confused, and clung close to my kids. It was a touching sight.’
‘Has he adjusted?’
‘He was quite morose in the beginning, but is adjusting gradually. He is happy with people, not so with the dogs here. When he sees one, he turns fretful and nervous. He still like crumbs thrown at him rather than eat off a plate. Seems it will take him long to get over his thousand-year-old street-dog mentality.’
The expression made me laugh. ‘Given time and the right conditions, he might turn out to be as good as any pedigree. He must be feeling homesick, like most first generation immigrants. Looks like he misses his siblings and the street where he was born. Place attachment, you know.’
‘Yes, he does miss it all; misses Sandhya most. She had spoiled him.’
Just then a hawk sailed across the sky and the crest of a blue jay rose in alarm like a serrated knife as it uttered a shrill call and darted across into a dense grove of oaks. Dash gave a yelp. Elizabeth patted him.
I took leave of them.
A few days later, I saw them again. Elizabeth stopped to speak with me. Dash wagged his tail. I went near. He started licking my leg. I patted him on the back.
‘He loves to be touched under the snout,’ she said.
I gently rubbed his snout. He curled around me in great affection. She smiled in appreciation.
‘He seems so happy with you. He prances with joy when he sees anyone in an Indian sari. I feel he would love to be back in India, amongst Indians.’
‘Now that you have two Indians in your home, they have each other’s company.’
‘Two?’
‘The bride and Dash.’
She laughed aloud, flashing her snow white teeth. ‘You are right. Dash jumps onto the bike in frolic. We are getting a basket for him to make him secure while pillion-riding him.’
‘You intend doing that?’
‘Ben wants to give it a try. He loves Dash like he does the kids. Since they go pillion riding, he would like Dash also to enjoy a ride.’
‘Has Ben driven to the city?’
‘Not yet. But he was suggesting the other day that he would ride it to his office.’
‘Well then, enjoy the Indian company,’ I said taking leave of her.
‘We sure will.’
Over the next three weeks, on my morning walks—I was almost a solitary morning walker on that mountain path—I would often hear the roar of an engine followed by Ben’s familiar figure driving the Royal Enfield, his kids taking turns riding pillion behind him and, sometimes, Dash. For the dog, Ben had procured a large basket which he fastened with a belt on the pillion. On other days, I would find Elizabeth on her morning walks, Dash on a leash. She would invariably stop on seeing me to exchange pleasantries, possibly also to please her dog that wagged its tail vigorously on meeting a fellow Indian. She said Dash was gradually adjusting to the new milieu; that her younger son, John, was in love with the pet. The two had become inseparable. Besides, Dash loved the pillion rides.
Then, the roar of the engine stopped for no reason. I didn’t see Ben, Elizabeth, Dash or the kids on my morning trail for a whole week. Passing by their house, I did not even hear the familiar screaming of the kids or the woof of Dash.
Had they gone on a holiday? I had not been to their home, never even stepped inside their front yard, nor ever paused near the gate while on my walks. The incremental familiarity with them, as we passed each other on the road or stopped to exchange pleasantries, seemed good enough. But my stay in Saratoga was drawing to a close and I wouldn’t feel happy to depart without meeting them just once.
It was Thursday—I would be flying back on Saturday— when my curiosity got the better of me, and I paused near their house, wondering if I should step in, ring the doorbell and find out how they were faring. Just then, Elizabeth opened the front door. I felt embarrassed, as if caught prying, and was about to walk away when she called out affably, ‘Come in, Kunddan; I saw you from the window.’
She looked pale. The familiar smile was missing. Her small face looked smaller.
‘I wanted to say goodbye before I return to India. I have not seen any of you for a whole week,’ I said.
‘It is good you came; I wanted to let you know.’
‘Know what?’ My heart skipped a beat.
‘Dash is gone,’ she said in a sad voice and broke down, her face contorted with pain.
I did not understand. Where could Dash go? He could not have just disappeared? Had he been given into adoption to someone?
‘Last week Ben wanted to buy some dog food for Dash. He took him along on the pillion seat of his motorbike. This was the first time he was riding with Dash on the main street. It seems Dash got frightened of the traffic. Somehow, the basket came unfastened, Dash fell down, and a car coming from behind ran over him.’
‘Oh!’
‘He was crushed. Ben took him to the hospital. The vets tried everything to save his life, but his skull had broken and he bled profusely from a ruptured liver and intestines. It was a gruesome sight.’
‘I can’t believe it.’
‘We can’t, either. We are still in shock. Ben just sits brooding in the corner, assailed by a sense of guilt. He is cursing the day he dispatched the bike from India. Even rues his decision to bring Dash here. The kids are inconsolable.’
‘I feel so sorry, Elizabeth. Sorry for Dash whom I had come to like, sorry for you to lose a family member.’
‘You are right; he had fully integrated with us.’
‘Hope you get over this tragedy soon to resume your lives.’
She pushed back her hair, took a deep breath and said, ‘Can you do us a favour, Kunddan?’
‘I will be pleased to.’
‘Wonder if you can carry the ashes to India when you go back?’
‘Ashes?’
‘Yes, the mortal remains of Dash. We would like you to deliver them to Sandhya. We will let her know your flight details so she can collect them at the airport.’
‘Why do you want to send the ashes all the way to India?’
‘We want Dash to have Hindu rites. We arranged for his cremation
the same day he was crushed to death. It was a sad spectacle. We wrapped him in saffron cloth and laid him on a tray for the cremation. The kids offered their homage with floral wreaths and we had a Hindu priest to say the mantras before Dash was consigned to the flames. We loved him like family, but his heart was in India. We could sense it. We want his soul to rest in peace where it truly belongs. Sandhya will perform the rites. We phoned her. She said she will immerse the ashes in the Ganges at Haridwar.’
I was moved by the poignancy in her voice. ‘I am flying this Saturday; I will be glad to carry the ashes with me.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, shaking my hands warmly; ‘it will ease our conscience somewhat.’
With a heavy heart, I took her leave and walked down the path back to my daughter’s home.
THE RING OF SULEIMAN
Jwalla is the presiding deity of Kashmiri Pandits, also known as Battas. She resides in a temple on the hill at Khrew, barely 15 kilometres from Srinagar. Her birthday used to be celebrated with great devotion and enthusiasm by her devotees on Jwalla Chaturdashi, the fourteenth day of the shukla paksha of Ashadha. After the exodus of Battas in the early 1990s, security forces moved into the temple precincts where they have been camping ever since. Temples are their last refuge since the local Muslims are unwilling to lease out any office or residential space to them. Thankfully, they guard the temples while they help maintain law and order in the strife-torn Valley.
In 2008, the Jwalla temple was thrown open for the first time after 18 years of turmoil, and the exiled Battas were permitted to celebrate Jwalla’s birthday once again. Several hundred pilgrims travelled from Jammu to congregate at Khrew for the great occasion. Most of them were visiting Kashmir for the first time after the mass exodus. It was a dream come true to escape the heat and dust of Jammu and bask in the cool breeze under the shade of chinars again, even just for a couple of days. Kashmir was in her pristine glory at this time of the year—blue sky and green meadows, gushing streams and limpid lakes, orchards with ripening fruit, flower gardens and vegetable farms, and the sweet fragrances that hover everywhere in the mountain-grit Valley.
In the huge congregation was a small group of five young Battas who had travelled together to participate in the festival. The group was camped in the open in the precincts of the Jwalla temple complex that included a sprawling orchard and a saffron field. On the festival day, they washed and changed into new clothes. Bushan Bhat, the team leader, sporting a short beard, put on a shalwar and kurta, the signature dress of Muslims.
Room in our Hearts and Other Stories Page 17