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DOG-SEND: THE STORY OF SIMBA
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher The moral right of the author has been asserted British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Revenge Ink Unit 13 Newby Road, Hazel Grove, Stockport Cheshire, SK7 5DA, UK www.revengeink.com ISBN 978-0-9565119-1-1 Copyright Š Gauri Sinh 2010 Typeset in Paris by Patrick Lederfain Printed in the EU
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DOG-SEND: THE STORY OF SIMBA
GAURI SINH
Revenge Ink
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For Chaitanya From providing the title of this book to mapping out the rhythm of my life‌ You have given me so much to be grateful for, words really are inadequate
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FOREWORD
I could never have called myself a dog person. My heart did not readily melt at the sight of a stray’s warm gaze, and I certainly did not go weak-kneed encountering friends’ pampered pooches. In fact dogs were never really part of my life plan… that is, until Simba came into my life. This isn’t a tale of a momentous occasion changing my life forever. It isn’t flashbulb memory. What it does is track the gradual acceptance of a four-legged furry creature into my life, a being that helped me transform my perception of fellow creatures completely. It charts a learning experience, a work in progress. The journey counts as much as the destination. So you could say this book is about life’s little moments, because it is in those little moments that life’s bigger lessons are contained.
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Why write about Simba? He couldn’t be called an outstanding dog in a manner of conventional thinking. He hasn’t been formally trained for bomb hunts, obedience, or otherwise. Nor on the other extreme, is he so bad, that his escapades, his very naughtiness might merit a book. But it is a common assumption when you start out to write out a book on a subject, that subject must be special. And so it is with Simba – certainly, he is special. Because he is different from most dogs: by his nature, his absolute awareness of who he is, of his purpose on this planet. Perhaps that purpose included us – teaching us compassion towards other beings, not in a vague, distant, subconscious manner as we all sometimes manage, but in our everyday life, as an active, constant, conscious force. Was it destined that I, for one, become sensitised in this manner? Did my family need to be shown this on the karmic wheel of life, though we didn’t know it then, because our lives seemed so superficially full? I can’t say. And were we conscious, in the beginning, of just how unreservedly he would change our lives? Not at all. I only know that with his coming, our lives opened up to absorb and grow richer in experiences we wouldn’t otherwise have paid much attention to. This is a story that attempts to discover how it
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happened. How a furry yellow powder-puff transformed my perspective on this world. This is a story that captures our journey together, as well as our epiphanies, both big and small. This is a story that chronicles life with a beloved pet, in the hope that by its very simplicity and ordinariness it might elicit from the reader the wonder and delight that it did in me and in people close to me. This, therefore, at the simplest of levels, is a story of how Simba came to us. And what happened when he did‌ I do, however, believe this book is not just for dog-lovers, that it is for each and every reader who is surprised and not a little in awe upon discovering the extraordinary in the everyday. If you still want a defining overtone, I would call this a book about love. And learning as a consequence of that love. And then, about lots of laughter, because there’s too much that is negative in the world to dwell on, and we all need a way through that, or to be shown a way through that. Simba showed us love again and again, as a guide, a guardian, a gift so precious that we are still happy and gratified to have received it. Hopefully through this narrative you too will share Simba’s spirit of laughter and learning, of growth and fulfilment, of gravitating towards all that is pure and untainted and special. A place
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called love. Because as a beacon, as a star, as a lodestone of hope and light and all that is positive in a world in constant flux – is there anything else?
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1 THE NEW ARRIVAL
“I’d like a dog,” Chait said when I asked him what he’d like for his birthday. It was the monsoon of 2000 and we had been married less than a year. He said it casually, almost carelessly, in the way he often does when he’s actually talking about something very close to his heart. Although we were still feeling our way around each other’s habits, this trick of Chait’s I was already familiar with. I knew as he uttered those words how much he wanted a dog. And despite my own misgivings, I knew with absolute conviction that I would get him his wish. He seldom asks for anything, my husband. So I have made it my life’s purpose to be his personal genie when he actually voices a desire. This was no exception.
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My own reaction was mixed. On the one hand, I believe I lean towards adventure. Having never owned a dog, I thought it would be well worth doing as an experiment. On the other I had attention issues. If there was a new arrival in the house, that too a living, breathing heart’s desire kind of arrival, he or she would vie for Chait’s attention with me. And with a prescience I have possessed about issues greater than this one, I felt that my place as supreme possessor of his affection in the house would not survive the combat. So I had a choice. Of either vanquishing the little beast before he or she even entered our house, i.e. not getting Chait what he wanted this one time. Or opening myself to a new experience. Meanwhile I smiled indulgently at my husband as he told me he wanted a dog, and I asked casually what breed he preferred. “I’d like a Lab,” he said. And Chait’s green eyes lit up with pleasure, thinking of possibilities that did not yet exist. “Labradors are easy to train, good with kids…” Looking at his face I sighed, watching my future as the one and only claimant to his affection die a wistful, premature death. With that look he had me. I could deny him nothing. So the hunt began. Of course, knowing nothing about dogs, nor where to obtain them, I launched a
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dog hunt on a national level. Family, our vast circle of friends, the Internet, even chance acquaintances mobilized by word of mouth; everyone was consulted. Yet it was all carried out in a cloak-anddagger kind of way. I wanted to surprise Chait: his voicing a desire did not mean an automatic acceptance on my part yet. But I had not realised just how difficult finding a Lab puppy in the monsoon could be. We were already in August. Chait is September-born. To have a Lab in the house by mid-September would mean my hunt should’ve ended in success yesterday. I was in desperate need of time were I to bring a puppy home for his birthday. As my need was great and immediate, the level of advice from all quarters matched it in intensity. And in true ‘law of averages’ style, most of it was as negative as it was importantsounding. It wasn’t the breeding season yet, apparently. Furthermore, I had, by living in Mumbai, committed a cardinal sin as really, the best dogs were available only in Bangalore. Of course. Importing them took a month at the very least and it was frightfully expensive. Dogs in general were a huge expense, so did we think we could fit one in financially, being newly married? Why did we want a dog anyway? They were messy, pooped all over the house when young, needed to be walked several times a day… Did we have that kind of time and
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could we make that kind of commitment really? And anyway, I would never make it in time for Chait’s birthday. It was three weeks away. All this fatalism was the kind of advice I didn’t need. Had I listened to it I would’ve stopped there and then, defeated. But luckily I have always possessed a certain disregard for how it has to be. I’m more the sort who begins to visualize how it can be, with complete attention to detail. Joan, my friend at the media house where I worked and later became editor, calls this will power. My grandmother called it something far less glamorous though perhaps more true – hattipanaa, which translated from the Marathi means wilfulness. I call it singularity of purpose. I therefore armed myself against a barrage of well-meaning but useless advice. I would find Chait a Lab by September; it was quite plain – do or die. There is said to exist, if you call upon it, a deeply positive cosmic energy, part of a belief subscribed to by many who are spiritually inclined, a belief that goes back to the ancient Hindu scriptures, that underlines how your thoughts can manifest your reality – if you want something, really want it, and you focus strongly on that desire, it comes to you. I find that incredibly sensible, as a belief. In this case, it also transpired to be true. In hardly suitable Mumbai, in the most
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unsuitable season – the monsoon – a Labrador litter arrived in July. I heard of these births in September through a lady heading one of Mumbai’s kennel clubs (having got her number from my mother). Apparently a breeder in the distant suburbs was the owner. Simultaneously, a pet search website I had registered on, informed me of the arrival of a Mumbai-based puppy litter. I decided to check out both options, since we were already perilously close to Chait’s birthday. When I called the breeder referred to me by the kennel club lady, he told me most of the puppies had been sold. There was however, one male puppy left. He could bring the puppy to me if I wished. Of course, there was another party interested, he confided in me rather greedily, and so no bargaining would be entertained. I could meet him on September 15th, not before. It was the day before Chait’s birthday. From the beginning, Simba’s arrival had a fated feel to it. I wasn’t completely aware of it when I met the breeder, with my brother along for moral support, at an aunt’s house. Of course by him coming to meet me, rather than the other way around, I was already breaking a cardinal rule of puppy purchase: before buying, make sure you observe where the puppy has lived, for cleanliness
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and hygiene standards. I did not know this at the time. Nor did I know that whilst buying a puppy, you should check its paws – superior pedigrees are recognised by their paws. Since then, I have often wondered how I chanced upon a beauty such as my dog without having a clue about dogs. Perhaps it was beginners’ luck. But honestly? I feel it was destiny. “So what do you say?” the breeder asked me at my aunt’s house, his shrewd eyes appraising me calculatingly. I knew precious little about puppies. I had absolutely no clue how to choose them, to check if they were healthy, what to look out for. And I wasn’t prepared; all my energies had been thrown into finding the puppy first. I did know to ask if he had been de-wormed, given his shots, courtesy the sundry advice I had received. But little else (again, I wish I had known then about the removal of dew claws). I was a novice as far as practical knowledge went. My brother, as clueless as I, examined the little fellow. He was yellow, furry… and running all over the place. As we watched, he deliberately attacked the flowerpots, then vomited quite thoroughly on the clean floor. My aunt was horrified. He looked up at me, light brown eyes, little wet nose. I can’t say it was love at first sight. Until now, dogs hadn’t
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been part of my life’s plan. But God works in mysterious ways. And the puppy was rather cute. “How much are you quoting?” I asked. The breeder named a figure. “The price is not negotiable,” he said. In hindsight, I have wondered many times how a gift so precious, that we are still in awe of its magnitude today, could have had a monetary value attached to it. Now it seems almost unbelievable that I bought Simba, that it was an act of choice, not fate. But at the time, it was a purchase. And he was far from cheap. “I have another party interested, if you aren’t.” I asked him who the other party was. “A website,” he told me. “They have a buyer.” My instinct buzzed as I questioned him about this other client. And my suspicion was confirmed by his reply, as I had already known deep within myself. My competitor for the puppy was myself. I was the website’s client, his other buyer. I realised suddenly, with blinding clarity, how much the puppy was meant for us. I didn’t cross what was in front of me. Follow life’s synchronicities, the tarot has often told me, and I have never been misled. I took hold of the yellow furry fellow, as he sniffed inquisitively at the carpet, and paid the breeder without protest. Rightly so too. It was to be a lifechanging decision.
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When I brought Simba home, the name was already in my head. The puppy was yellow and reminded me of the lion cub in a much-loved movie. It had come upon me suddenly, without deliberation, as insights often do, and it just seemed right. Later Chait would be fine with it and so it would be, but I’m getting ahead of myself. First was the homecoming. Chait, who was captaining the Indian rugby team was quite fortuitously away on tour when my brother and I brought Simba home on September 15th. Chait was due back on his birthday, the next day. Meanwhile my mother-in-law, visiting us, had decided to welcome the puppy magnificently. I may have had no clue about dogs, but Chait’s family had grown up with them around. So there was a brand new dog bed and some warm milk (and a diary with feeding schedules for me) kept ready and the puppy soaked it all in. Later, when I got his papers, I realized he was born on July 9th… He was a Cancerian baby, just as another would be, many years later. The next day Chait arrived tired and injured from play, and there, sitting on his bed playing nipthe-towel and looking mighty pleased with himself, was Simba. Chait’s eyes told me my unrelenting endeavours to find his birthday gift had not been in
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vain. “He’s the best gift I’ve ever had. He’s perfect,” Chait murmured, overcome. “Perfect.” I didn’t know about that. Not quite yet. But I smiled.
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2 THE CONVERT
Simba got used to the family fast enough. In a day or so he was tearing through the house, gambolling and sniffing at corners, quite convinced this was his own personal kingdom. Chait had eyes only for him each time he returned from work or rugby. Simba responded by making sure Chait knew he was the sole object of his existence. He lived for Chait – that much was quite clear from his little ears folded forward in attention the moment Chait’s car hit the far gate, as yet unseen in the driveway, or from the sharp defiant squeak let out when Chait dared ignore him on entry. Meanwhile I needed time to get used to Simba. In those early days I was wary, not so much because he was a dog, but because compared to Caesar, my
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mother’s newly acquired Doberman, Simba seemed too cunning. Friends tell me I have always been slightly strange that way – it’s not that I’m wrong in my perceptions, more often than not I’m eerily accurate – but rather, that I use my power to judge. They’re right, perhaps. But with Simba I couldn’t help it, initially. He would look at me with those light brown eyes as if he knew his purpose in life, quite unlike loyal, sweet-tempered Caesar who would do exactly what was expected of him. From the beginning, Simba was wilful and self-determined. Neither traits were virtues for me. Then there was the issue of Chait’s attention, divided as it was, between Simba and myself, with Simba getting the larger share by the happy fact that he was a puppy. Chait has always had a soft spot for small defenceless creatures and Simba was playing his part to perfection. Nor did it help that the little creature turned quite ferocious when I cuddled up with Chait. He would squeeze himself between the two of us, making sure he got as close as possible. Of course, I didn’t hate the little guy. At odd moments he did seem to have some endearing traits – licking me, as sudden affection surged up in him, snuggling up on me to sleep, or just being small and furry. But my behaviour towards him in the early days was decidedly cautious.
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Meanwhile my education in dog ownership had officially begun. After a few days of having Simba around, I realised his face was different from those of other dogs I encountered. In fact, each of the other dogs had distinctly unique faces. Being part of a family which had been largely indifferent to dogs, this struck me as rather interesting. You might even believe it to be absurd, especially if you are a dog lover, but you’d be surprised to find the number of people who actually don’t have this ability to differentiate one canine face from another. To my elation, I realised I could actually tell Simba’s face from those of other dogs! Then I realised I had picked a rather nice-looking fellow. “He has a beautiful face,” Chait had commented casually in the early days, when the excitement of actually being gifted his heart’s desire was still raw. And as my powers of observation strengthened, I realised that yes indeed, Simba did have the face of an angel in doggie looks. But that still did not endear him to me completely. In fact there were times I would look at him coldly, as if he were a stranger, not our furry puppy cuddling close for a snooze. My hostility cropping up suddenly, would just as suddenly subside, but it simmered under the surface. It was unnatural for me to be cruel by deed, but certainly, I was cold. I used to ignore Simba at
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times. And that can be torturous for little ones, animal or human. Chait felt this, observed it in silence. He did nothing, which was the best way, I realised later. In that quiet way he has of knowing things, he knew Simba would work his charm on me, and that when he did, I would have no choice but to surrender. It was I who hadn’t a clue. Around the time of Simba’s arrival there were other things happening. Specifically other worldly activity in the flat we occupied. I happen to live in a unique family. Before you think this is boastful, let me elaborate. With a keen acceptance of the vast rich tableau of life in any form, and generally of an open disposition embracing all experiences, it isn’t surprising that many of Chait’s family have experienced the paranormal in various ways ranging from the spiritual to the spooky. Family members, when reminiscing on past holidays or in casual conversations, would regularly come up with “The time we saw the UFO”, or “Your stomach ache has gone on for too long, I shall ask didi1 to aura cleanse it for you. It doesn’t matter that she lives in another city, she can still see what’s gone wrong, baba2.” It is true that before I got married, I too was open to the vague notion of such phenomena, but to 1. Elder sister 2. Often used at the end of a sentence for emphasis, meaning my friend, my son, etc.
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have them discussed as if they were real, rather than mere possibilities, unnerved me in those days. So it was with a mix of amusement and disbelief, a few months before I got married, that I listened to my future mother-in-law and sister-in-law painstakingly outline for me the existence and manifestations of our flat’s poltergeist, that not only lived in the space we were to occupy, but had the annoying habit of knocking on doors everyday at noon. And there was also the fact that it moved furniture at night – sometimes as late as 3 am – and that although you couldn’t see the furniture being moved, you could hear it. “We thought it best to tell you,” began my motherin-law, her soft, precisely measured tones conveying dead seriousness. “When the knocking starts, you might open the door like papa used to. And you might just be frightened to find no one there.” “The building has been built near a former graveyard, it is said. The room that you will occupy is the worst in the house,” my sister-in-law added helpfully. “Chait locked me in once when we were kids and I was terrified.” “So far it hasn’t harmed anyone, but you never know. It’s best to get a puja3 done, beta4.” This last 3. Ritual done on various occasions, often to usher in a new life-stage, even a new purchase 4. Little one
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counsel by my mother-law was meant to be soothing. I didn’t share any parts of this particular conversation with my parents until most of the wedding preparations were over, when cancelling them was not a real option. Afterwards, I had a havan5 performed, four formidable priests chanting lilting verses entreating the Gods to exorcise the resident spirit. Those mantras were so mellifluous that Chait was lulled to sleep, sitting cross-legged during the havan. But the resident poltergeist had other ideas. To be honest, even before this conversation with his family, I had heard the knocks on many afternoons leading up to the wedding. But being of a practical nature, I had simply attributed it to overzealous neighbours. But after that conversation, saying that I was totally spooked was putting it mildly. It is not rare that one’s in-laws should sit one down to explain a family secret, but one of such a nature seemed to me both eerie and confusing. And when true to prophecy, the noises started late at night after our wedding, I began waking Chait up in a mad panic, clinging to him lemur-like in terror. Chait, on his part, was resolute in his denial of its existence each time. “I hear nothing,” he would 5. Fire ritual
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murmur, half-asleep. “Go back to sleep.” I knew he was saying this out of love for me, to keep me from fear – the noises too obvious to be ignored. But his denials didn’t put an end to the noises. They went on for many nights and each time Chait’s presence was the only thing that kept me from losing control in insane terror. In the afternoons I was at work, so it didn’t matter. Then came the rugby tours. And the boys’ nights out. And me in the flat, alone. For me a test of willpower, for the poltergeist, party time. The first few times Chait was away, I went and stayed at my parents’. But when his travelling increased, I realised this was not a viable option. “I can’t be running away from my own home,” I told him once. “I just can’t.” The notoriety of our supernatural guest had reached our extended circle. My friends were sympathetic, but refused to stay with me. Resolutely. To my credit, no one disbelieved my story – my reputation of being absolutely truthful having always preceded me. “You’re really brave to be doing this,” one friend told me, her voice quavering in horror at my ordeal. “I do love you G, but really, I have hypertension already...” I knew bravery had little to do with it. It was just obstinacy on my part. My much rued hattipanaa reared its head in defiance. I had had enough of
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running. So I stayed put. But it took a lot out of me, even with all the lights and the TV on at a reasonable volume. There were nights nothing happened. And then there were nights when I lay in abject terror, as the banging and shaking went on, alert, ready to bolt, the phone next to me, calling my mother on the hour, every hour until dawn. Such times were exhausting, with me barely lasting through the work day. Faced with a near hysterical spouse, sobbing for him to get home immediately during a particularly terrifying evening on his boys’ night out, Chait had said, “We need to get you a dog. As a companion.” So when Simba arrived and was settled in, it was certainly on our minds that the nights Chait wasn’t at home would not be so friction-filled now. I had a secret weapon. “So you two are alone,” Chait grinned, as he got ready for a night on the town with the boys for the first time since Simba’s arrival. “Now you’ll be fine, baby.” When he left, Simba was busy chasing his toy ball. I put in a movie. All was serene. Till 11:30 pm that is. When the banging and scraping of unseen moving sofas began, Simba, who was almost asleep, went rigid, alert. His ears bent forward, he listened, staring at a particular spot. I watched nervously. And then it happened. Instead of barking as I
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thought he would, to frighten away the intruding party, Simba reacted another way. Whining in fear, he got up and raced to the door. The door being shut, he slunk back to the bed. I watched with foreboding and rising hysteria. Simba was scraping the bottom of the bed trying in vain to get underneath, still whining. That was enough for me. I got on the phone, trying to get through to Chait with shaking fingers, insane with fear. I kept him talking to me through his mad dash back home, absolutely refusing to hang up lest I face the fact that apart from a very scared puppy, I was alone in that room with an unknown entity. So long as it was just us and Chait stubbornly denying its existence, I could still bear it. But Simba’s reaction had confirmed our predicament in too absolute a manner. According to my parents, dogs can sense the paranormal and this was why Simba had reacted that way. Who can tell? I only understood that he knew, as I already did, that we weren’t alone in the room that night. He hadn’t dismissed my fears. He hadn’t been sceptical. He had been right there with me, in fear yes, but also in knowing. From that day on, there was a tenuous new bond between Simba and me. We were fellow wayfarers on the same journey – conquering terror. Especially on those long nights when Chait was on tour for days on end
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and we were awaiting his return together. Simba, me... and that thing. Over those days, my wariness of Simba slowly ebbed, to be replaced by affection, the kind you begin to feel for a fellow soul who has seen you at your worst – hysterical, distraught – as you have seen him, both of you having survived a test of nerves together. In the coming months, this affection would be replaced by a fierce love, deep and absolute, as Simba grew. But again I’m getting ahead of myself. As for the preternatural presence, I wish I could say the episode ended in victory for me and Simba, with the poltergeist moving to a new playground. That didn’t happen. But in time the noises quietened down, occurring only once in a while. Perhaps it had got used to me; perhaps my energies had brightened up the place. Who knows? Even today, the activity occurs but intermittently. It still unnerves me. But Simba and I – we face it together. He stopped scampering as he grew older. Now he just stares at one spot, then goes back to sleep. I stopped wishing it away, although it really is a nuisance. But I live in hope.
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3 DISCIPLINE YOUR PET‌ OR YOUR PARENTS?!
Once Simba and I decided to observe a truce of sorts, or rather once I decided I need not be wary of him, life took on a more pleasant turn. I actually started enjoying him being around. He was being house-broken so little newspapers dotted our home to help this along. He had to learn that he could pee or poop only on these newspapers which would then be brought out once he was downstairs, on his walks, so he would be conditioned into learning that downstairs was the appropriate self-relieving area. As he learned doggie etiquette, he also flaunted who he really was. Simba was not stupid, I realised that early. He was alert, quick to obey commands, and showed a willingness to learn that
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made me appreciate how right Chait was about Labs being easy to train. My parents had acquired Caesar, their Doberman, almost immediately after I was married (causing my brother to remark snidely that they had replaced me quite easily, and what’s more, Caesar was as high-maintenance as I had been) and he, though just a little older than Simba, had not been so acquiescent. Perhaps that also had to do with the fact that my parents would deny him nothing and Caesar learned early who was boss in my parents’ home. Simba meanwhile, would sit, stay, fetch with obedient alacrity, and my parents were very impressed with him, which by proxy, was a feather in my cap. Simba was also a good-looking dog, I came to realise, and freshly washed, after his weekly bath, looked the stuff of doggie models in adverts: cuddly, fluffy, yellow, sweet-smelling… and always friendly. I was proud of the attention he attracted, pleased at his social temperament. He would cuddle up to me when he felt affectionate, an absolutely adorable fur-ball, soaking in and spilling over with love as if he couldn’t get enough of it. He was certainly beginning to grow on me. But if my description suggests a dog that followed rather than led, then perhaps I am not explaining enough. For if anything, our newly
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acquired Furry was as self-willed as they come. He was wonderful with commands and effusive in his affections, but Simba was no push-over. He let on early just how unyielding he could be if he had decided on something. If he didn’t want to come to me to be kissed when called, he wouldn’t. If he didn’t feel like taking a ball offered by me in an effort to play, he wouldn’t. With Chait he seldom disobeyed. But with me, his will dictated the outcome. In his mind I was a poor third in the family pack hierarchy, of that I was convinced. First came Chait, the alpha male, then came Simba, second in command, then I, a slave rather than a master. Once, after having observed Simba’s occasional liberties with my commands, Chait amusedly agreed that indeed in Simba’s eyes I was the last on the Sinh family food chain. Then there was the fact that Simba never let an upbraiding get him down. If we disapproved of his barking or his far too effusive conduct at times, and said a firm ‘No’, Simba wouldn’t rebel too much. Nor would he bark crossly if punished (the extent of his chastisement was to be told to sit in a corner, like a small child). He would endure his sorrow quietly if necessary. Or then trot out of the room as if there was something else he needed to do. Alternately, judging the situation as grave, he would look appropriately penitent, come sidling along for a lick,
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staring deep into our eyes with a light brown laser look that magnetically commanded forgiveness. I sometimes felt that Simba knew who he was, in a way most people only dream of doing, or spend a lifetime trying to do. Punishment or disapproval didn’t matter – his calling was of a different nature, known to him only. His eyes held a rare conviction of selfhood that I haven’t seen enough even in twolegged beings. Typically, Chait believed Simba was an evolved soul. I however, interpreted this as cunning, especially in the early days. My parents too, found him wily, if wonderful. “Chant hai”6 they remarked, a Hindi word that lacks a complete English translation. Caesar, even if he didn’t master commands the way Simba had, wasn’t like that. Nor indeed were any of the dogs I was acquainted with at the parks we went to or at friends’ homes. Caesar, at his most disobedient, was a transparent soul, with clear eyes and a clean heart. Simba on the other hand, at his most obliging, gave an impression of guile. Other dogs somehow lacked Simba’s purposefulness, his absolute faith in himself, such that neither praise nor blame appeared to matter too much. I think I knew early on, and not with a little anxiety that Simba wasn’t ordinary in the way dogs usually are. 6. Cheeky, sneakily sharp
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But for all that, I was beginning to love Simba. Of course, this did not happen all at once, there were moments of exasperation as well, especially when he was more self-willed than usual. Of the greatest trial to both me and Chait was the issue of the bed. When Simba first came to us, I told Chait that Simba mustn’t sleep with us. He must learn to sleep on his own fabulously fluffy mattress which lay just alongside our bed. Chait said nothing. Deviation from this plan started harmlessly enough, with the poor little furry fellow crying at night. We both felt he needed comfort, was possibly missing his siblings and mother, so he was allowed to cuddle up on the bed, at our feet. Days turned into weeks. He tore up his bed as he teethed, with claws and paws. We got him another. He tore that one up, continuing to sleep with us in the meantime. To be honest, when Chait was away on rugby trips with the poltergeist kicking up a storm, I was quite happy to have Simba cuddle up as close as possible, the idea of him sleeping elsewhere being jettisoned quietly over time. But in it lay a greater test for us. It was not Simba sleeping with us that was the problem. It was how he slept. The furry creature’s entire existence was Chait, we knew this early on. But the passion with which he guarded the object of his affection was getting to
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be difficult to endure. If I so much as held Chait’s hand, a volley of protest in the form of short snappish barks would begin. Simba wouldn’t allow that we cuddle without squeezing himself in, twisting and gyrating like a trapeze artist, if necessary, to gain the advantage of space. And at night, instead of sleeping at our feet, Simba began to creep up between us. This went on for a while, even with our exasperated indulgence. But when he began to sleep horizontally between us, almost knocking us off the bed on either side, it wasn’t cute anymore. I tried to train him to go back to our feet. He would ignore my gentle pleas. Sleep time began to border on the traumatic. When I was growing up, one of my friends had told me that I must learn to ‘discipline my parents.’ This meant they had to be tricked into giving you what you wanted, amicably too, rather than you rebelling against silly rules which were no good to anyone and which upset the peace at home. I had been brought up in a generation which believed rebellion to be an incredible waste of time and life to be much easier with parents on your side. This advice had served me well. I took to using it in other trying circumstances, ‘disciplining’ various people I came across so that they willingly, even good-naturedly, bent to my will. Now I believed I would need to try this on Simba.
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So I took to cajoling him at first. “Simba, you must sleep where we tell you to,” I told him solemnly. He looked at me with those intelligent eyes as if he understood my pain at his bad behaviour. And continued to sleep exactly where he was before. Finally after a week of entreaties I decided I must be firmer. So using a nononsense tone I said to Simba ‘Sleep there!’ whilst pointing at our feet. Simba appeared mildly curious at my tone of voice, sympathetic even. He didn’t budge though. I realised it was time for the masterstroke. Much as it hurt him to have to play bad guy (I was designated driver there), Chait was persuaded by me to command Simba to do our bidding. “Simba!” Chait’s voice sounded appropriately stern. “Sleep there!” Always deferential to Chait, Simba, to our delight, got up to obey. As he settled at our feet, I was elated at the apparent ease of the coup d’état. Chait felt guilty, but sleep was precious to him, very precious. We rejoiced at our good fortune at having most of the bed to ourselves. When we woke up in the morning, perilously close to keeling over the side, we discovered that Simba was between us, horizontal as usual, content and fast asleep, his legs up in the air. He had crept in there while we slept. I knew I was beaten. I also knew that in the true manner of family traditions I had passed on an
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important bit of advice, advice that had served me well enough, onto the next generation. Simba was always a quick learner. Certainly we were very well trained now, so well trained we even curled up into ourselves so Simba could lie on our bed in horizontal comfort. Simba, quickly, effortlessly, and with a lot of charm, had disciplined his parents.
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4 JULIE, I LOVE YOU
The Oval maidan7 is one of the few green spots in South Mumbai that still exists untouched. It nestles amidst tall swaying palms, is walking distance from the Arabian Sea that hugs Marine Drive, and is a haven for cricket enthusiasts, lovers who have few such places for private moments, and joggers who resolutely pound its pathways day and night. And yes, dogs. Surrounding residents walk their dogs there every evening. You’d be surprised at how much bonding can occur over a few shared anecdotes, some scrapes and scratches acquired in being greeted by overfriendly pets, and a healthy 7. Large open ground
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dose of Glucose biscuits8 shared all around, among adults, children and animals. Over time, a community of pet lovers has formed here. They come from different walks of life, varied professions, and assorted income and age groups, but are bound by love for their pets and a belief in fresh air and exercise. In the heart of snotty South Mumbai, where acknowledging a fellow being is difficult, this group creates its own class. There are retired 60-year-old businessmen with Alsatians, sharp 30-something advertising executives and television producers with Labs and babies in tow, wily corporate lawyers with their mixed breed broods, an affable music channel VJ, also with an Alsatian, gossip-hungry housewives with Dachshunds, garrulous event-organizers with Bulldogs, mini-clad fashion store owners with golden retrievers and trophy boyfriends playing bepretty-to-the-pooch, even the grizzled maidan guard in smelly uniform who turns friend or foe with equanimity depending on which dog is abusing the freshly watered commercial cricket patch. They all meet, they all share news and food, and more importantly, they laugh. Stresses induced by the city melt with the sun as it merges seamlessly into the sea here, down by the maidan, every 8. A popular type of tea biscuit in India
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evening. It is an open space of acceptance for animals and humans both, an all-embracing zone full of promise – of possibilities, of unconditional inclusion. The strength of this bond has crept up without fanfare, acquiring roots so deep that after a few months of meeting each other daily, with pets, many among this motley group proceed to meet each other on weekends, go out together for dinners and sundry events, as friends would, without pets. This break-away ‘Oval gang’ remains firmly entrenched in each others’ lives, through highs and lows, a huge extended family, loud, loving, inclusively boisterous, a living anomaly, an example of the pleasure and great positive energy derived from actual physical interaction, however restricted, in a city increasingly driven by, indeed enamoured of the wondrous impersonality of the cell phone and the world wide web. It was during the birth of this setting, still a few years in the offing, that Simba was introduced to the Oval. Even though my home was a good distance from the Oval, I didn’t hesitate to take Simba there. Later, colleagues would tease me about how my beloved doggie would actually ride a good half hour in a car to get to his walk, but at the time and indeed even now, I have never found the need to alter my opinion on how good the Oval is for a
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dog’s emotional well-being. It doesn’t do too badly for the owner’s well-being either, like I just said. Simba simply loved the Oval. When first introduced, as a puppy, he had to go through the rites of passage like any other new dog initiate. This experience, while continuing my lesson in dog ownership, frayed my nerves considerably. For, to me, it seemed as if the other dogs were looking to kill my poor puppy when we first approached. They all leapt, in one go, from all directions, right onto Simba. That’s when I first learned about the pack dynamic. Dogs, as a throwback to ancestral hunting instincts, follow a pack mentality. One dog is the leader, the dominant or alpha male. The rest must be subservient. When they meet, they establish who is top dog. And that takes a bit of sniffing, scuffles, sometimes more. Dogs, like most animals, are also territorial; they mark their homes as their domain. “Don’t pick him up,” Chait warned, just in time. Picking Simba up at that time would have invited the Oval canine community onto me. So I refrained, but I was frantic. “Leave him alone, leave him alone!” I screamed at them. Chait, with more experience of owning dogs, and certainly more presence of mind, just led the little fellow away by his leash, trailing the other dogs behind even as their owners came up to retrieve them. Upon later visits, both Simba and I settled in,
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and our approach wouldn’t warrant such effusive attention from the dogs or nervousness in me. What was of not a little consternation to me was Simba’s absolute and utter lack of class consciousness. I would’ve been happier had he befriended the pretty, sleek golden retriever Maggie or the fat, lazy yellow Labrador Jimmy. Both were loving and sunny and undoubtedly of good pedigree. But Simba didn’t care much for any of them. Instead he ran circles around Julie, a bedraggled, mangy stray. He loved playing with my mother’s Doberman Caesar, yes, but since Caesar came to the Oval at a different time, very often Julie was Simba’s playmate. Now I’m the last to discriminate. But Julie, apart from her intelligent eyes and trick of rubbing herself around your legs so you melted, had a less attractive side – a coat infested with a gleeful array of ticks, fleas and more. And every time she gambolled with Simba, she lovingly dispatched a liberal dose into his fur. Which I despairingly tried to do away with on every return from the Oval. Flea collars, flea powder, fancy combs, antiseptic shampoo for ticks… Simba was thoroughly cleaned every time he rendezvous’d with Julie. But as is the case with ticks, unerringly there would be the odd one that fell onto the bed, stubbornly refusing to be exterminated, causing me to go into an orgy of
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cleaning, scouring, and vows that Simba and Julie must never meet again. I cannot ever be accused of not trying. At the Oval, I would regularly attempt to make Simba see the virtue of friendship with cleaner dogs. But to no avail. It was Julie and Julie alone that Simba had eyes for – were he human he would’ve been singing the still popular lyrics of the cheesy 1970s hit Hindi film song that went ‘Julie, I love you’. Chait, true to his sunny, uncomplicated nature, was pleased at this friendship. He liked Julie. “Street dogs are independent-minded, fiercely loyal and very loving,” he told me once, in that careless fashion that meant he was paying very close attention indeed. I had been distraught, watching Simba and Julie chase each other as if no one else existed, exhausted at having been besieged by Simba’s ticks earlier on. “Pariahs are more loyal, more protective than any other dog once you win their affection,” he continued. Chait’s family owned several pariahs, in fact his parents, living in their hometown at the time, owned seven in addition to their pedigreed brood. “And they can take care of themselves. Simba will learn a lot from Julie. Would you rather that he learns from him?” And Chait gestured to a rat-like dog, seated in the far corner. The dog was a fairly new entrant to
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the Oval. We never saw his owners, not ever. The dog, escorted by his minder, did not ever mix with other dogs, nor did he play by himself at all. He came and sat in one place, and when it was time to go, got up and left. Around his neck winked a personalised collar. He was pristinely clean. He was undoubtedly expensive and by way of pedigree definitely prized. Others in the Oval thought he had airs, were sure his masters did. I thought his eyes looked sad. My own dog, meanwhile, was snapping playfully at Julie’s heels. He was black from rolling in the mud, wet from having chased the gardener as he hosed the grass and scratching himself intermittently, courtesy a new batch of fleas, undoubtedly Julie’s. He was dripping saliva from his mouth, having run hard. Julie had littered, some of her pups having joined the fray. Simba was chasing the group, and then was chased by them. Affectionate little noises filled the air. “Simba,” I shouted, in sheer exasperation at his muddiness. Simba looked up, then at me. His eyes were shining like two bright stars. He was gloriously filthy. He looked vibrantly alive. He looked happy. Suddenly my heart was full. I looked at Chait, but he already knew. “Let them play, baby,” he said softly. In time, as Simba grew, he acquired other
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playmates. Over the months, both he and we entrenched ourselves into life at the Oval. As our visits were less frequent than those living closer to the Oval, we were more onlookers than insiders to the Oval gang as it gradually took roots. But as it flourished, so did Simba’s relationship with the Oval’s Furries. They grew side by side, nurtured by the Garden Gods’ beneficence. Julie was still there, but the others Simba befriended over time weren’t strays. He was indiscriminate in his attention to both the pedigreed and the pariahs. He would play with the one as zestfully, with as much unfettered abandon, as with the other. It only mattered that they enjoyed the same things – chasing each other, a spot of harmless mischief (which sometimes included teasing the gardener by getting soaked under the hose or tearing across the forbidden cricket patch) barking at scary-looking strangers, enjoying the sun-drenched outdoors and the glorious expanse of grass that was the Oval, so fortunately nestled amidst the city’s concrete canopies. Watching him, I felt dogs understood essentials much better than people. Dogs know what’s important, they find joy in simple things: fresh air, sunshine, a good run, at times a good chase! It doesn’t matter that the companions you run with aren’t like you; that they don’t share similar backgrounds or upbringing. Just
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that they enjoy the run, just as you do. Their sense of fun matches yours bark for bark, breath for breath. They are kindred souls in the way it matters most – by shared sensibilities. Much later, I wrote a column on what I had learned from Simba. What I didn’t mention in it was what I had learned from my husband’s casual comment. But it stayed with me – how for happiness sometimes, all it takes is to get in there and get your hands dirty, or rather, your paws…
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5 CAESAR AND SIMBA
Here I think I should elaborate on my mother’s Doberman, Caesar, and his presence in our lives. Caesar formed an integral part of Simba’s early influences and they helped shape each other’s characters. Observing their interaction, my parents and Chait and I believed Simba and Caesar helped each other evolve too. I write ‘my mother’s’ Doberman by force of habit, because that is how Caesar came to my parents. He was a gift to my mother from relatives who lived very close to a holy shrine away from the city which my mother’s family frequented. In that, I believed Caesar was as much fated to my mother as Simba was to us. The very timing of his coming was extraordinary.
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Baby Simba on the day he was gifted to Chait: 16th September 2000, all of three months old.
Tariecka, Chait and Simba -Trio at home, Mumbai 2009.
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Baby Tariecka showed no fear of him - Simba kissing Taru, Mumbai 2006.
Caesar and Simba, playing in puppyhood, Mumbai 2000.
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Simba et moi, Awas, April 2003.
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Smiling with me, Mumbai 2008.
They shared everything, including infections! Tariecka, one year old, kissing Simba, Mumbai, 2007.
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Simba trying to get onto Chait's lap on vacation in Khandala, 2005. Finding impossible ways down mountains to swim in rain ponds, Khandala 2005.
Relaxing on the bed he believed his own, Mumbai 2008.
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Rugby boys, Simba, his Labrador pal Dino et moi, Khandala bonding, 2001.
Simba and Caesar with Gautam, Chait and I at the Oval, Mumbai’s green relief, 2001.
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Simba chilling with Chait (Former Captain, Indian Rugby team), Muka (Former Vice Captain, Indian Rugby Team) and Nasser (Current Captain, Indian Rugby Team) in Khandala, 2005.
Simba with Gautam, Caesar, Mummy and Papa, Talegaon, May 2002.
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On the beach, ensemble, Awas 2008.
Chait, Tariecka and Simba - Mutual love of water, Awas 2009.