Best Friend
He was a common sight there. The legless beggar, his aluminum bowl, his crutches, the ragged wooden stick (to keep unruly children and dogs at bay) and the brown dog, pale pink skin (with powdery white on the edges) showing where the hair had fallen off, bitten off, who knows.
Every morning, like the sun, this man and animal pair would slowly walk the long (for the legless beggar) walk from the slum dwelling ten minutes away from here. Here was a junction. Spices met textiles and became friends with cosmetics, wheat and rice were neighbors and there was the medicine shop. Men and women, walked up and down the shops, children stopped by at the cycle repair shop, getting their wheels blown for a rupee, while pretty adolescent girls could get it done for free. They would ride away with a scorn mingled with a flattered smile – some boy liked them, even if it were the shabby, smelling of grease (and sweat) cycle shop boy. Their lists began thus.
In the midst of all this, sat the old beggar and his dog. But no one really paid any attention to the old beggar or his older looking dog. I call him old, because he was wrinkled and white haired. He could have been a decent fifty five, who knows, who cared. The bakery (Iyengar’s Best Bakery) beside the chicken shop (Akbar Proeteeins – For your meaty needs) was kind enough to give him a bun and the dog a slice of bread every day. They survived, somehow on buns and bread, this man and animal pair.
For years, this (legless) beggar and the (partially bald) dog, earned their daily bread (literally) this way. No one remembered not seeing them. Shops came, shops went. The junk and old newspapers shop gave way to an internet café, the pharmacy had once been a local DMK makeshift office, the bicycle shop was a relative new comer as was the meat shop. It was Shanthini Textiles and Iyengar’s Best Bakery that had been around for long, but if you were to ask them, even they wouldn’t be able to remember a time when the beggar or his dog weren’t around. Maybe they were right, maybe they weren’t. No one really cared.
Every other week, a kind lady would drop a bag of almost rotting oranges or apples or bread or whatever it was that needed to be given away, not eaten by the household. Or a moral science class inspired ten year old will donate the Lay’s potato crisps he had bought with his saved up one and two rupee coins (Do a good deed a day until it becomes a habit) and walk away with a glow, awed at how good it felt to do a good deed, promising to do it every day; forgetting it as soon as his father beat him with his belt for scoring less in math.
But, they survived, somehow, this man and animal pair on such generosities. No one ever bothered them, for they never bothered anyone. He wouldn’t even call out for alms, this legless beggar. Lost in contemplation, eyes closed, only the slack, open mouth and the gentle snore would give away his guise- he slept. But his hand however, forever, was on the dog. Those who noticed the rags and the bowl dropped in a coin or two, that’s all. The dog, silently sat beside its master, the beggar master, the master who depended on the goers by and the comers in for his daily bread, not unlike the dog. Fiercely protective of its food provider, its master, its only ‘human touch’ (for who would touch a leprous dog?) it growled when the odd stray dog came within its sight, or when the children from the slum, their slum, came to meet their friend (the bicycle shop boy) and would stand jeering at the legless beggar, nondi pichakara (their blooming manhood recharged with gossip of who slept with who and which girl was easy). One of them would kick the tar less excuse for a road and mischievously watch the beggar and his tufts- of- hair- lost dog’s reaction through a film of brown dust. The dog would growl and the beggar, look away. Sometimes, when their testosterones were running high, a pebble or two might be hurled at him. Or them. Whoever. Who cared.
The gentle soul from the bakery, would sometimes care. When the hooligans began their ‘look who is tough enough to break that beggar’ stunts, he would come screaming at them, in his broken Tamil, tainted with Malayalam. Nasally, he would call them and their mothers names, punctuated with a ‘patti’ and a ‘thendi’. The boys would scoot- their little masculine egos hurt. Promising themselves, each other that one day the lungi (lifted precariously high, showing his checked undershorts) clad bastard would meet his death, through them, one day…some day.
Why he cared, even he didn’t know. But to, that lonesome twosome, his heart went out. Away from his home in Kerala (a night’s journey by train and a ‘bumby’ bus ride for three hours he would tell anyone who asked), he felt a stranger in this land of the Pandis. From his shop window, he could see another one who felt (probably) a stranger here too, stranger among those who didn’t have to beg to eat. So, all six days (Sundays closed) he would donate a bun, the cheapest of the lot (50 paisa only) and walk away feeling the same glow of the ten year old mixed with philosophies of the unfairness of life running in his head – a result of age. Only, no beatings for him, he had run away from all of that.
So like father and son, like thick friends, like a couple, this duo would walk (with crutches) and trot (the dog, of course) up, in the mornings, and down, in the evenings, to his shack, beside the sewer, the only place that he could find for himself and the dog. Even for a slum dweller, in cramped conditions, he had no neighbors to boast of. Just he and his dog. Six years ago, he had found a pup, lying in the rubbish, probably beaten by devils own little children or attacked by other dogs. In his scavenge for food, he found this little fellow, whining (that’s what caught his attention). So he grabbed the puppy and the half eaten packet of Parle-G lying next to it. They broke bread together (biscuit, to be precise), this man and animal. And it had been so for six years. Could be since forever. It didn’t really matter.
But it had begun to matter to the beggar. The dog was refusing to eat the slice of bread. It was refusing to drink water (not the sewer water, water from the municipality tap), it even refused the bit of bun. Sometimes, he noticed that the dog would sit staring at him, or something and suddenly its eyeballs would whirl up inside its lids and it would wheeze. The breath of death. His heart would clutch within him, this legless beggar’s. He would pull the dog to him, rub its tummy, its neck, its back, something, look at me, get those eyeballs back. And the dog would stop its deathly wheeze, the eyeballs would come back. Tired, it would bring its paws together; gently lay it’s head on them and sleep. Ears flopped.
Death has a smell. You can smell it, from far. Decay and decompose come later. This is different. It’s a tangible smell. It has tentacles. They swish, the sway. And are cold. Like the fingers of a witch, long, grey and gnarly, they clasp the heart. Tendon by tendon, tendril by tendril, they pull it apart. You know, that its time.
He knew too. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care about death. He didn’t care about the bun before him. He didn’t care about the crowd gathering around him, he didn’t care about the tch tches of the housewives and the wrinkled noses of their children. He didn’t care about the blood running down his back. All he cared was about his dog. He cradled it like a baby. Stiff legs, open, as if to embrace. Bloody mouth. Bleeding. He gently patted its parched back, like a mother her sleeping child. Sleeping the sleep of eternity. He swayed, side to side, a lullaby in his head. Shhhh…cant you see, my baby is sleeping. Keep quiet, please.
The moist eyed malayali, moist hearted, drawn by the crowd, gently (as was his nature) asked for way, through the crowd, to pay his condolences. No broken Tamil this time. Just, ‘Ende deivamey’. There was a white van; there was an almost black man, in faded white, tinted blue uniform. There were a few curses, the dog wouldn’t leave its master, or the master wouldn’t leave his dog. Mother, child. No one knew. Did they care?
No one remained. The dust from the van had settled, people had begun their going ins and coming outs. There was just a junction and at the junction sat an old man, wrinkled and white haired, crutches by his side, an aluminum bowl and a ragged wooden stick. For those who had seen him before, they knew that he was incomplete, like an ocean without a shore. Incomplete. For those who hadn’t, he was just a legless beggar. With red eyes. Drunk maybe. They didn’t know the truth, did they? Did they care?
A few days and everyone forgot everything. Just a passing breeze. They didn’t even remember the beggar any more. Out of sight, out of mind. They malayli gentle man would often wonder. There was a bun waiting. No more bread slices. But he didn’t know that he was better of selling them for the 50 paisa that they were worth, because he didn’t know that there was no one to eat it.
Companionship is like a fountain of life. You draw from it, you drink from it. You play with the waters, you quench your thirst, you sprinkle yourself with it. You live with it and it lives with you. It nurtures you and you grow, blossom. You can’t remember a time in your life when that fountain wasn’t there and you can’t imagine a time in your life when that fountain is not going to be. And like all good things, the fountain comes to an end. And you wither inside. Maybe that’s why, that night, a heart wrenching cry was heard, maybe that’s why after some time (or maybe it was the smell of death) the night soil worker couldn’t sleep and stood outside the shack and repeated his, ‘aiya, enna aachi?’(Sir, what happened) maybe since there was no response, he tentatively walked into the shack and saw the picture of a little blonde girl, with blue eyes, saying shhhhhh…silence please, he saw the aluminum bowl, the ragged wooden stick, the crutches. Maybe that’s why he saw a dead man. Legless, broken hearted and dead.
Every morning, like the sun, this man and animal pair would slowly walk the long (for the legless beggar) walk from the slum dwelling ten minutes away from here. Here was a junction. Spices met textiles and became friends with cosmetics, wheat and rice were neighbors and there was the medicine shop. Men and women, walked up and down the shops, children stopped by at the cycle repair shop, getting their wheels blown for a rupee, while pretty adolescent girls could get it done for free. They would ride away with a scorn mingled with a flattered smile – some boy liked them, even if it were the shabby, smelling of grease (and sweat) cycle shop boy. Their lists began thus.
In the midst of all this, sat the old beggar and his dog. But no one really paid any attention to the old beggar or his older looking dog. I call him old, because he was wrinkled and white haired. He could have been a decent fifty five, who knows, who cared. The bakery (Iyengar’s Best Bakery) beside the chicken shop (Akbar Proeteeins – For your meaty needs) was kind enough to give him a bun and the dog a slice of bread every day. They survived, somehow on buns and bread, this man and animal pair.
For years, this (legless) beggar and the (partially bald) dog, earned their daily bread (literally) this way. No one remembered not seeing them. Shops came, shops went. The junk and old newspapers shop gave way to an internet café, the pharmacy had once been a local DMK makeshift office, the bicycle shop was a relative new comer as was the meat shop. It was Shanthini Textiles and Iyengar’s Best Bakery that had been around for long, but if you were to ask them, even they wouldn’t be able to remember a time when the beggar or his dog weren’t around. Maybe they were right, maybe they weren’t. No one really cared.
Every other week, a kind lady would drop a bag of almost rotting oranges or apples or bread or whatever it was that needed to be given away, not eaten by the household. Or a moral science class inspired ten year old will donate the Lay’s potato crisps he had bought with his saved up one and two rupee coins (Do a good deed a day until it becomes a habit) and walk away with a glow, awed at how good it felt to do a good deed, promising to do it every day; forgetting it as soon as his father beat him with his belt for scoring less in math.
But, they survived, somehow, this man and animal pair on such generosities. No one ever bothered them, for they never bothered anyone. He wouldn’t even call out for alms, this legless beggar. Lost in contemplation, eyes closed, only the slack, open mouth and the gentle snore would give away his guise- he slept. But his hand however, forever, was on the dog. Those who noticed the rags and the bowl dropped in a coin or two, that’s all. The dog, silently sat beside its master, the beggar master, the master who depended on the goers by and the comers in for his daily bread, not unlike the dog. Fiercely protective of its food provider, its master, its only ‘human touch’ (for who would touch a leprous dog?) it growled when the odd stray dog came within its sight, or when the children from the slum, their slum, came to meet their friend (the bicycle shop boy) and would stand jeering at the legless beggar, nondi pichakara (their blooming manhood recharged with gossip of who slept with who and which girl was easy). One of them would kick the tar less excuse for a road and mischievously watch the beggar and his tufts- of- hair- lost dog’s reaction through a film of brown dust. The dog would growl and the beggar, look away. Sometimes, when their testosterones were running high, a pebble or two might be hurled at him. Or them. Whoever. Who cared.
The gentle soul from the bakery, would sometimes care. When the hooligans began their ‘look who is tough enough to break that beggar’ stunts, he would come screaming at them, in his broken Tamil, tainted with Malayalam. Nasally, he would call them and their mothers names, punctuated with a ‘patti’ and a ‘thendi’. The boys would scoot- their little masculine egos hurt. Promising themselves, each other that one day the lungi (lifted precariously high, showing his checked undershorts) clad bastard would meet his death, through them, one day…some day.
Why he cared, even he didn’t know. But to, that lonesome twosome, his heart went out. Away from his home in Kerala (a night’s journey by train and a ‘bumby’ bus ride for three hours he would tell anyone who asked), he felt a stranger in this land of the Pandis. From his shop window, he could see another one who felt (probably) a stranger here too, stranger among those who didn’t have to beg to eat. So, all six days (Sundays closed) he would donate a bun, the cheapest of the lot (50 paisa only) and walk away feeling the same glow of the ten year old mixed with philosophies of the unfairness of life running in his head – a result of age. Only, no beatings for him, he had run away from all of that.
So like father and son, like thick friends, like a couple, this duo would walk (with crutches) and trot (the dog, of course) up, in the mornings, and down, in the evenings, to his shack, beside the sewer, the only place that he could find for himself and the dog. Even for a slum dweller, in cramped conditions, he had no neighbors to boast of. Just he and his dog. Six years ago, he had found a pup, lying in the rubbish, probably beaten by devils own little children or attacked by other dogs. In his scavenge for food, he found this little fellow, whining (that’s what caught his attention). So he grabbed the puppy and the half eaten packet of Parle-G lying next to it. They broke bread together (biscuit, to be precise), this man and animal. And it had been so for six years. Could be since forever. It didn’t really matter.
But it had begun to matter to the beggar. The dog was refusing to eat the slice of bread. It was refusing to drink water (not the sewer water, water from the municipality tap), it even refused the bit of bun. Sometimes, he noticed that the dog would sit staring at him, or something and suddenly its eyeballs would whirl up inside its lids and it would wheeze. The breath of death. His heart would clutch within him, this legless beggar’s. He would pull the dog to him, rub its tummy, its neck, its back, something, look at me, get those eyeballs back. And the dog would stop its deathly wheeze, the eyeballs would come back. Tired, it would bring its paws together; gently lay it’s head on them and sleep. Ears flopped.
Death has a smell. You can smell it, from far. Decay and decompose come later. This is different. It’s a tangible smell. It has tentacles. They swish, the sway. And are cold. Like the fingers of a witch, long, grey and gnarly, they clasp the heart. Tendon by tendon, tendril by tendril, they pull it apart. You know, that its time.
He knew too. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care about death. He didn’t care about the bun before him. He didn’t care about the crowd gathering around him, he didn’t care about the tch tches of the housewives and the wrinkled noses of their children. He didn’t care about the blood running down his back. All he cared was about his dog. He cradled it like a baby. Stiff legs, open, as if to embrace. Bloody mouth. Bleeding. He gently patted its parched back, like a mother her sleeping child. Sleeping the sleep of eternity. He swayed, side to side, a lullaby in his head. Shhhh…cant you see, my baby is sleeping. Keep quiet, please.
The moist eyed malayali, moist hearted, drawn by the crowd, gently (as was his nature) asked for way, through the crowd, to pay his condolences. No broken Tamil this time. Just, ‘Ende deivamey’. There was a white van; there was an almost black man, in faded white, tinted blue uniform. There were a few curses, the dog wouldn’t leave its master, or the master wouldn’t leave his dog. Mother, child. No one knew. Did they care?
No one remained. The dust from the van had settled, people had begun their going ins and coming outs. There was just a junction and at the junction sat an old man, wrinkled and white haired, crutches by his side, an aluminum bowl and a ragged wooden stick. For those who had seen him before, they knew that he was incomplete, like an ocean without a shore. Incomplete. For those who hadn’t, he was just a legless beggar. With red eyes. Drunk maybe. They didn’t know the truth, did they? Did they care?
A few days and everyone forgot everything. Just a passing breeze. They didn’t even remember the beggar any more. Out of sight, out of mind. They malayli gentle man would often wonder. There was a bun waiting. No more bread slices. But he didn’t know that he was better of selling them for the 50 paisa that they were worth, because he didn’t know that there was no one to eat it.
Companionship is like a fountain of life. You draw from it, you drink from it. You play with the waters, you quench your thirst, you sprinkle yourself with it. You live with it and it lives with you. It nurtures you and you grow, blossom. You can’t remember a time in your life when that fountain wasn’t there and you can’t imagine a time in your life when that fountain is not going to be. And like all good things, the fountain comes to an end. And you wither inside. Maybe that’s why, that night, a heart wrenching cry was heard, maybe that’s why after some time (or maybe it was the smell of death) the night soil worker couldn’t sleep and stood outside the shack and repeated his, ‘aiya, enna aachi?’(Sir, what happened) maybe since there was no response, he tentatively walked into the shack and saw the picture of a little blonde girl, with blue eyes, saying shhhhhh…silence please, he saw the aluminum bowl, the ragged wooden stick, the crutches. Maybe that’s why he saw a dead man. Legless, broken hearted and dead.
Comments
Love the way u write.....Now that I've seen and read this place....I decided to visit regularly....u'll be seeing me more often :P
BTW< if u get time....do pay me a visit too!
Keep them coming ..
Thank you Mario, appreciate you taking time to read them! And thanks for your compliment :)