AND THEN THE BUTTERFLY LANDED (A MEMOIR TO DOGGY-PART 4)

Doggy was alright for a few days, barking as usual. It was the mating season, AGAIN, and soon, she was off with the neighborhood loafers. When she came back, she lay down on her gunny sack and slept. When she woke up, she walked in a daze to answer nature's call, came back and collapsed. We noticed that the gunny sack had blood stains on it, and Doggy would only sleep in a particular area of the house. She went on for a few days.
When we tried to lift it, she let out a loud moan. That scared us and we left it on its own. She would eat some rice, drink milk and go out only for toilet. She would not let us touch her. Soon it became apparent something was seriously wrong. Thick green saliva started to drip from her mouth. It gave off an unbearable stench. Initially we taught it was rabies and the circumstances almost led us to believe so. But the symptoms were quite different. Doggy did not lose hair, nor refuse to drink water. But she would stand for a few minutes just staring at her bowl of water, and soon started to lick water from the floor. She soon started to lick car wash from the roads. The saliva would not stop dripping, and she would often have periods of convulsions, and would keep her neck in the air for hours. Soon she stopped taking solid food, then milk and finally water.
For the first time in her life, Doggy sat in the car. Mum carried her into the van and onto the vet's table. The good doctor told us that he would administer some anti-biotics, but it was a lost cause. Her dripping would increase whenever anti-biotics were administered. She would sometimes wander into the field in front of our house and lay there for hours. Mum would wade through the bushes and carry her back, even if it meant mum would end up with skin allergies. This went on for two more days. Doggy who would run away at the sight of tick powder, was quite as a feather (and even light) on the doctor's table. I guess even she knew that her time was coming to an end.
The vet administered some glucose and that was it. Me, mum and dad discussed whether it was best that we euthanize her and end her misery. We decided we would wait another two days. Doggy made one last attempt to dash out of the house, before mum caught up with it. It was decided that no matter what, Doggy would be kept inside the gates. We did not want Doggy to die in some drain and thrown in trash. Mum touched Doggy on her forehead and prayed to God to take Doggy's life. She and dad left for work, while i stayed back at the house.
It was painful to see Doggy struggle to get on her feet and collapse. She would take a few steps and faint. Soon, a strange smell made me look outside. Doggy was near the gate, flat on all fours and had defecated. It was black-greenish in color. Even in humans, once this color of feces is seen, the end is near for sure.
I wore the gloves i had bought and the surgical mask, and cleaned it up. I even cleaned up Doggy's anal part, as flies had gathered there. She did not have the strength to chase them away. I carried Doggy back and placed her near the entrance of our door. Within a few minutes, she started to cough, a cough which i have never seen neither in men nor animals. The hairs on her body became stiff, and soon she was suckling on air like a puppy. Her body became stiff, then relaxed with one deep breath. I did not know what was happening, and i froze in fear.
I placed my hands near her eyes; they did not flinch. Her pulse was still there. I remembered that the same thing had happened for my Granny too. I ran upstairs and informed Dad. He came down and confirmed it. Dad insisted that she be buried in the garden. Call it divine intervention, some problem or the other delayed the burial enough till mum came back from work. Mum carried Doggy for the last time and we passed it on to Shera, who coincidently had buried our German Shepherd too. We placed her favorite sweet, a peda and some flowers and let go of her. It was the last day of Ramzan, and when we saw a butterfly sit after we had cleaned the house, i knew that Doggy was in a better place.

AND THEN THE BUTTERFLY LANDED (A MEMOIR OF DOGGY-PART 3)

Winston Churchill once said "Dogs look up to you, cats look down upon you and pigs are the only ones which look you in your eyes."

We do not know about pigs, but are pretty sure of cats, 'cause Doggy made it her business to chase and hunt them down. This tendency attracted another charming partner, and together they organised picnic/hunts. This partner i called "Mr. Stubbs". Initially, we spent hours on trying to chase it away. But he wouldn't budge. We relented and adopted it. 

From then, Mr. Stubbs and Doggy became a pair, while Big Puppy watched from the sidelines. One comical sight which i remember, was Big Puppy, all 25 kilograms in weight, doing it "Doggy Style" on top of Mr. Stubbs, weighing a measly 15 kilos!

Doggy followed mum wherever she went. When poojas such as Varmahalaxmi vratha came, Doggy accompanied mum to each and every house in the neighborhood, and would bark if she did not come out within five minutes. All three would accompany me to the Seth grocery store and everybody would remark that these guys were my "Bodyguards" or "Ladyguards" as i would term it (with the exception of Mr.Stubbs).

Doggy would bark at strangers who would hound the neighborhood. From salesmen to pizza delivery boys, and the Govinda people who showed up with bowls and chanting the Lord's name, Doggy ensured they did not come for a second helping. When chain snatching became a menace, Doggy's bark reassured us that our neck was safe.

But Doggy was adamant on taking any medicine or powder for her ticks. That became a challenge for us. She started losing weight, and soon we realized that her stomach had to be dewormed. She would smell the tablet in the milk and would refuse to drink it. A neighbor, a lady driver, still learning, drove over Doggy's left leg. Doggy did not budge for two days. On the third day, she took a few steps and was soon running. But the damage had been done. She always had a limp, and her weight came down drastically. But she did not change her habits. She still slept in the middle of the road, went barking literally like a mad dog whenever she heard some commotion, and would jump stairs. But she could no longer jump the compound though. 

But Doggy's sex life was going strong. This granny would give the neighborhood pedigree lasses a run for their bones. Doggy's long term boy friend, Guddu, a handsome Dobermen, would follow her during the mating season. His ferocious looks kept the other dog's at bay, and even irritating salesmen.

And then, all of a sudden, Doggy fell sick. What we taught was just normal soon changed, and even made us take stock of our lives.

AND THEN THE BUTTERFLY LANDED (A MEMOIR TO DOGGY-PART 2)

This little brood of females was soon joined by a male, whom we called Brownie. Initially, Brownie would just sit at the distance and stare. Soon, we started to give him some food and he became a loyal companion to us. He was very muscular and strong. He would fight ferociously to keep the other males at bay, specially during the heat season.
Doggy eventually gave birth to Brownie's puppies. They looked like mini Sumo wrestlers. This went on for another four years and every puppy would be immediately grabbed by someone or the other. No so for the puppies of Small Puppy and her sister. We had to leave them at shelters.
Enough was enough and we had all the females sterlized. Once the drug wore off, Doggy howled in pain and collapsed in mum's lap. For the next three hours, mum did not leave Doggy's side.
Somewhere in Bangalore, a child was mauled to death by a pack of street dogs. The State Minister for something, appeared in front of the press with his Boxer, and announced proudly that all street dogs were to be culled. PETA raised a hue and cry, so did other organizations, but the government method of controlling street dogs continued, until a video was leaked to the press.
Dogs were caught  by an iron wire and strangulated to death, some were clubbed and some (including ours) were poisoned with chicken legs dipped in pesticide. Our neighborhood, with a good number of friendly street dogs, was enveloped into a stench with their decomposing bodies. They were strewn around everywhere. Finally, the government withdrew this "scheme", but it was too late. Brownie was taken when a wound, which looked like someone had poured acid on, did not heal. Small Puppy was poisoned.
Mum fought off the so called "government vets" when they captured Doggy and Big Puppy. Their ears were not clipped even though they were sterilized, and so they were about to be sent to a non-descriptive pound.
We got them back and saved them. For now.

AND THEN THE BUTTERFLY LANDED (A MEMOIR TO DOGGY-PART 1)

"Look mum! A butterfly! isn't that amazing!?" i cried to my mum, and she shed a silent tear.
Never had we seen a butterfly after we had cleaned the portico. It was extremely rare. Especially so given that a few minutes ago, we had put Doggy to rest.
Doggy came into our lives 13 years ago, when we bought our home. Nobody told us that she came with it. When we moved in with our furniture, she was just staring at us in the distance. The next morning, out of nowhere, she came and tugged at my mum's saree. Her big black shiny eyes, with what looked like permanent mascara around them melted her heart and mum straight away gave it milk in a coconut shell. My dad disapproved though. "It's a female. The bitch will give us puppies and we do not want to go through it all again".
True. One reason why we shifted was the passing away of our German Shepherd, Bunty. We could no longer bear its memories in the old house.
But Doggy continued to tug and soon, was an important part of our family. What started with milk soon moved onto ice-cream and chicken soup. She put on weight, and some sexy curves too. Howling replaced the whistles and soon, a pack of testosterone pumped bachelors descended on our gates. We had a tough time shooing them away. But the mating had already taken place, and we did not know where to order doggie i-pills. So, we were host to six puppies.
Taking care of them was initially fun. Doggy had put them in a drain opening. They would rarely emerge, and when they did, the entire neighborhood kids showed up. Doggy was quick to have her fill of chicken and milk and would make a dash back to her den. This went on for a few weeks, until one day the skies opened up.
Never had i seen such water gushing down the drain. We could hear the yelps of the puppies and Doggy moaning. And soon, as we held umbrellas and flashlights praying to God and trying to figure out a solution, we saw one of the pups being washed away.
Mum, i and one of the staff in our house immediately made our way to the entrance of the drain. We took a long stick and started to drag the puppies. Doggy was outside, howling, moaning and barking all the time. It was a race against the clock. We even built a make shift dam to prevent more puppies from being washed away. In the end, we managed to save the rest of the little ones.
When asked about the missing puppy, Doggy would groan and moan. Her pups grew to be strong and healthy, and two of them stayed back with us. They would be named simply as Small Puppy and Big Puppy.

WHEN THE PULAO LOST ITS AROMA

As the rituals indicated, we prepared a sumptuous meal consisting of chicken and mutton, along with two desserts. There was laughter and loud burps. The food was well received. Atta, as my grandmother was known, would have been very pleased. She believed that a well fed family is a happy family. We felt her presence with us.
I could not help but notice that the mutton pulao which dad made had one ingredient missing. The meat was cooked well. It was from the famous Babumiah. The spices were just perfect and the flavor hit our senses. But, the aroma that used to waft whenever the dish was made, was simply not there.
Atta's classic dish was the pale-yellow pulao. It was reserved for her sons and grand kids. Even the neighbors used to salivate and show up on some pretext. Atta nonchalantly showed them the door. No matter how much the daughters-in-law tried, even adding the exact ingredients at the right time, the aroma could not be recreated. It was infused by Atta's own hand. All this was created using a small vessel. I always thought that it had no bottom. The pulao never ran out, no matter how many of us ate.
The raitha used to be her specialty too. Cold, with juicy cucumbers and fresh tomatoes. One could never have enough of Atta's pulao. The desert was mango, cut into equal shapes for everyone by Atta. She ensured only the best pieces were served. She never compromised on quality.
Dad used to narrate tales of Atta's ingenuity and grit. When the family fell into dire times, Atta used to light the stove using newspapers. The sons of Atta fought for meat and rice on weekends, and Atta obliged, even though it meant none was left for her. After Grand dad passed away, she was lonely. But her face lit up on family get-togethers'. She used to join us in our pranks and laugh's. Serving food was what she looked forward to. Even on these occasions she was the last to eat.
Grandmothers. Summer vacations are incomplete without them. Their goodies fill our stomach and touch our soul. You can never have enough of them. And you realise what you have lost, when God takes them away from you.
I...we, shall always remember you Atta. You have filled our memories with love and we cherish them. We keep you alive in our love for family and food.
As for the pulao, its not the same anymore. It has lost its magical touch. It has lost its aroma.

MURGI BABA AND FAMILY CHALE RAIL GAADI MEIN

There are joint families. Then there are disjoint families travelling together on trains. Gulliver's travels pales in comparison to the adventure i and those around me have when we board the great Indian Railways. Here are some accounts of them.
It has been a time honored tradition that train travel, whether for marriage or a funeral, has to be done with everyone on board. In the earlier days, when steam engines chugged on our rails, my family, so i have been told, used to carry provisions for cooking rice, sambhar and side dishes. This included taking a gas cylinder. Laws were bent because it was ensured that apart from Doctors and Engineers, some were destined to become Indian Railway officials.
As times changed, the "carrying supplies" part stopped. But, at major stations en-route to our destination, food was delivered. It was either a work colleague of some aunt who owed a favor, or a daughter-in-law who was to please the family. Idlis, vadas, chutney and even samosas made it to our carriage. Plus, at major stations, someone used to get down and get the platform's best. It was Vada-pav at Shirdi, Kachoris at Nagpur; our family is blessed with an appetite to crave for. No station was spared. On our return journey, hawkers waited with garlands, and more food.
Now to shift focus on what goes on INSIDE the carriage.
Someone had to be there to distribute the food. The little ones were chosen for this purpose. On some occasions, the children had to cross two bogies, which they did, diligently. The pantry car and the staff were bemused and horrified at our eating habits. They skipped our bogies in silence. No one wanted to face our volley of questions. "What have put in the rice? How old are the vegetables? From which station was the chicken picked up? " Our co-passengers stopped to offer us snacks. But we did not hesitate to stare at theirs.
Our notoriety has spread to the ticket collectors across India. The favors we ask for, even the Railway Minister would not dare to. "Clean the toilet. My daughter is health conscious." "Why is their a whitelight near the toilet? Get me yellow ones", "Call someone to turn the fan towards us", " Move the guy to the next carriage. We want the upper berth".  "Look. The guy next to me has farted. Book a case and throw him out. We know people at Vidhana Soudha and the Red Fort. We are VIPs".
Passengers had enough of us too. "Can you move?" is usually the first polite question. "Look Mister. There are 30 of us and we need to be in the same carriage. We have a seat in the next one. Move it or lose it". Their only entertainment were our tall tales of our achievements and our bitching about distant relatives.
The kids were an embarrassment. Spilling Coke all over. Sitting forcibly in-between newly weds. Vomiting the Kellogg and milkshake. Coming straight out of the potty with an unwashed bum. The loud wailing. The list is endless.
When we did reach our destination, the mad rush to get down was an Indian tradition we were committed on keeping. Such was our crowd and luggage, that even people sitting on reserved seats found themselves on the platform. Our bargaining was so loud, that even coolies avoided us. The burden of carrying the suitcases fell on the young male members of the family, including me.
I've undergone many such trips in my teens. I shall do so when i reach 70 too. But for now, solo trips are my thing. But if you are up for it, and want to experience one crazy ride, just hop-on and leave the rest to us.

TEACHER'S SPECIAL: IDEAL JAWA ROTARY SCHOOL PART 2

One of the most awaited moments was the photo session. Someone, somewhere always used to play spoilsport. The teachers, along with the aayahs'(helpers) had a harrowing time ensuring that a picture perfect frame was not ruined. Even the poor camera guy tried his best to be patient. But it could never be achieved. The group photos i have are a testament to this.
The aayahs' were in charge of the children. Be it serving sandwiches, tending our cuts and bruises or cleaning us up after we puked, they were our unofficial grandmothers. They shared a good rapport with the teachers. The teachers were among the best in their field. Some were strict, some were easy going; but they never compromised on the quality of teaching. Even children with special needs were admitted to the school. They were given enough room, space, support and were never discriminated. I am one of them. Never was my stammer made fun of by friends or bullys'. The teachers ensured this and today, i speak confidently in public.
We did have a music teacher. The good man used to look like Santa Claus in jeans and a shirt. Our tune was definitely out of sync and sounded like the Devil's Choir. But the man of God ensured that we got it right. That's how our Christmas carols were polished and made presentable to our parents. I believe the stage still stands where the functions used to be held. I even had the honor of hosting one such event.
Some of the teachers were Anglo-Indians. Their accent of Kannada used to send the class in peels of laughter. The art and craft lessons, the computer lessons, getting scolded for stealing the rolling ball of the mouse, sticking gum underneath the desk; all these made our days truly memorable. The library had an amazing collection of books, from where i received the gift of reading.
We looked forward to returning to school after summer vacations, especially when we had to go to a higher section. We could boast about being seniors. The teachers welcomed us with open arms, and once the bell rang, we rushed out, screaming and kicking to our cycles, autos and tongas.
We did have our personal share of sorrows. Lost friends and classmates were mourned by the entire school. They will always hold a special place in our hearts.
The  last day i left the school, i never knew it would be the end of a journey. The last time i heard the bell ring, i did not know i will not be returning. Sometimes i wish i never grew up. If i had the chance to be a kid again, i would definitely go back to Ideal Jawa Rotary School.