Dogs of India

by Polly McGee

  ‘Rama, we’ll do it.’ Poona’s voice was laced with excitement.

  Rama looked up, his puppy face curious. He wagged his bushy tail, agreeing with everything she said. Rama led them down another backstreet, tugging the lead as he tried to chase a pigeon. Poona had no real idea where they were – she had been caught up in her reverie and had lost track of Rama’s meanderings. Poona was disgusted by her surrounds. The rubbish piled up along the sides of the road had become a refuse barricade. A small cloud of pigeons rose up and flapped noisily, irritated by the sudden intrusion.

  A few emaciated cats slid in and out of the mess of garbage bags. Disease and malnutrition had left parts of their pelt frayed to no more than leathery skin and scabs. The narrow street appeared to be a dead-end. One side was the rear of a long, tall, roughly rendered brick wall, dividing the backstreet from the road. Along the wall, lines of plastic rope hosted flags of colourful washing. The street was terminated by another partial brick wall, the side of a precariously built block of apartments that had evolved from squats to now be declared some kind of a colony.

  Colonies randomly sprang up all over New Delhi. They were a game of pick-up sticks and concrete, each level stacked higher and higher, waiting to collapse. Spaghetti power cables came from every angle overhead, sucking out a portion of the legitimate electricity supply like wiry leeches. The tangled wires were a mid-air mess of impending death and danger, poised to kill an unsuspecting prospector trying to draw one more amp out of the city.

  The end of the dirty concrete wall was decorated with black spray-painted stencil graffiti depicting an emaciated child’s face, its hands motioning to its mouth for food with the words ‘Mother India’ sprayed above it. Poona hesitated, debating whether to go any further up the street towards the bricolage of discarded timber, bricks, plastic and tarps or turn back and rejoin Hastinapuri Marg. The grey that dulled the afternoon was about to slide into limited pre-evening light. No more sun would make an appearance now. Poona had to make the best use of what time she had left. As she turned to leave, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move behind a pile of split and disgorged garbage bags. Rama’s ears pricked up and he strained at the leash, making excited high-pitch puppy barks. Poona started her song again: ‘Rocky, puppy; Rocky, puppy; puppy, puppy; Rocky, Rocky.’

  Poona wondered for the first time what she was going to do with Rocky if it was him. She should have brought an extra lead. Rama was nearly ten kilograms now, and too heavy for her to carry home. Rocky was a fully grown dog. Rama was leaping forward in restricted little bounds on the leash as they neared the pile. Then she saw it: a flash of butter-coloured fur behind the bags, a handsome muzzle and one ear poking over the top. It was Rocky.

  ‘Rocky, here boy, come to Po …’

  From out of nowhere, an arm snaked around Poona’s throat. A hand clamped over her mouth, the palm and fingers rough and calloused. Rancid daaru breath assaulted her face. Under her left eye, a knife pressed flat against her neck. She could feel the sting as the blade sliced her skin. She let go of Rama’s lead as she fought back against the assailant. Unaware of the reason for his release, Rama bounded off towards the rubbish, leaving Poona alone.

  With the knife against her throat and the chokehold around her mouth and jaw, Poona was immobilised. She could hardly breathe. She only had dog biscuits and her mobile in her pocket. No purse or cash. From the filthy dialogue slurring into her ear, the man wasn’t after money. He was going to show the bitch a thing or two. Keeping his hand around her mouth, the attacker lifted the knife, He would slice her face in two if she made a sound. In one swift movement with the blade, he cut the back of her outfit from top to bottom, severing the cord in her pants so they fell around her ankles.

  The unexpected feeling of air across her back was both cooling and nauseating. A clenched fist struck her head brutally from behind. She fell forward, disoriented and unable to protect herself as she fell. Tearing pain radiated from her shoulder as she hit the ground.

  Poona opened her mouth. She was too damaged to scream. Just the whisper of a prayer remained: ‘Ram, Ram.’

  Those words may be her last, she reasoned, but they were the most potent she had.

  She felt her legs moved apart, and the weight of the attacker’s body pressing against hers. The pain in her shoulder was excruciating, distracting her from the unspeakable violation that was being attempted. She felt a floating detachment from her body, as if it were happening to someone else. Something flicked her face, bringing her back into her own skin. Her cheek was wet and warm – Poona couldn’t tell if it was her blood or tears. The weight pressing on her suddenly shifted, and screams ricocheted across the concrete walls. Poona couldn’t feel her mouth opening. How was she screaming? Perhaps she was unconscious and dreaming. She forced herself to focus. Summoning all her strength she opened her eyes and managed to elevate herself enough to look around.

  Her attacker was lying near her, his knife on the ground nearby. He was clasping his throat with blood gushing through his fingers. His screams became a gurgle. Rocky had one paw on his shoulder, still pinning him down. His maw was close to the man’s face, lips trembling in a deep, terrifying growl. The attacker went limp, resistance seeping out of him onto the dirt. Rocky stepped back and observed, making sure the man was not moving, then sat down between Poona and her attacker. He started licking around his face, removing all evidence of the blood from his fur. The tiny monkey Sita had spoken about flitted close by, keeping one eye on Rocky and the other on Rama, who was gambolling around her in play, fascinated.

  ***

  Once Rocky was clean, he came close and licked Poona’s face reassuringly, then trotted off to the entrance of the street, as if he had somewhere important to go. Commuters were beginning the evening migration home from work, a steady stream of people passing the mouth of the street off the marg. Rocky suddenly leapt and barked at them like a mad thing. He was spinning in circles and running backwards and forwards. Some of the passers-by looked at him with fear, others with curiosity. He was like a dancing circus dog. Yanki and Rama were back with Poona. Rama had found Poona’s dropped pants, and was wolfing the dog biscuits out of the pocket. Yanki was playing a game with the abandoned knife, spinning it around so it glimmered and dazzled as light caught its blade.

  Rocky continued his dance until a crowd had gathered around him. Mobile phones flashed as citizens captured the scene. Like a pied pariah, he pranced and spun inch by inch back towards Poona. The crowd followed his strange performance. Then they saw the woman and the body lying on the ground. Rocky ran towards Poona and sat next to her, barking and whimpering, showing them who he was protecting.

  ***

  Rama, Rocky and Yanki were an odd group of rescuers. Poona managed to communicate to a young woman that her mobile phone was in the pocket of her fallen pants. Chatura was on a flight to the UK, so he couldn’t be reached. She knew who to call, and whispered Baj, pointing at the phone.

  ***

  Rama barked with joy at the arrival his owner, and Baj held him tightly for a moment as he tried to take it all in, horrified at the details he didn’t want to know about. Beautiful, dignified Aunty lying bloody and bruised in the street. The shame for her situation and rage at her attacker burned in his stomach. Concerned women at the scene had draped Poona with their shawls and jackets to return her modesty. Propped up and enrobed in fabric, she looked like an elegant, slightly broken patchwork quilt. Baj gently held her hand and couldn’t find a word to say.

  Poona squeezed his hand hard. ‘Get the animals. Call Sita.’ It was a hoarse whisper. Her voice box had been badly bruised by the savage arm that had held it. A curtain of dark was falling on the alley. Rocky and Yanki were sitting nearby, waiting, as if they had been given instructions. Rocky’s collar was tattered but complete. Baj clipped Rama’s lead to it. Poona was being loaded into the ambulance. The police had put a sheet over Poona’s attacker, pulling it up to cover his face.

  Baj heade
d to the car with Rocky trotting alongside on the lead. Rama followed his master. Yanki kept pace in the shadows. Baj opened the car door, and the three heroes hopped into the back seat. He slid in the front behind the wheel and took a deep breath. Something truly momentous had happened tonight. He wasn’t sure what exactly, but he knew there had been an intervention of sorts. He scrolled through Poona’s phone and dialled Sita. No answer. Message bank asked for a brief message.

  ‘Hello, Sita? It’s Baj, from Hastinapuri Estate. It’s Poona, come quickly.’

  ***

  Gaurav sat in his room, staring blankly at the shrine in front of him. Ghee lamps were lit, incense was wafting, evening puja was in process. A large picture of Shiva stared back at him. Shiva’s face resembled his father when he was giving him one of his you’ll-never-amount-to-anything lectures. Gaurav turned away with a familiar feeling of insignificance. To the side of Shiva, a gilt-framed image showed Hanuman kneeling in front of Lord Rama, offering devotion. Outside Gaurav’s window, the large frangipani bloomed abundantly. He had put some of its flowers on his shrine, along with a bunch of bananas and a bowl of leftover sweets. He closed his eyes and began flicking round the mala as he worked through his mantra.

  As he mumbled out the words, the wound in his side throbbed. He imagined all kinds of infections setting in. The moisture-laden air was too heavy for the breeze to move through the open window. Gaurav took some deep breaths into his stomach, eating the air, searching for some nourishment, physical or spiritual.

  It was so hot and stuffy, sweat poured down his face; perhaps he was getting a fever. His mind struggled to stay focused. He felt no joy, no uplift, just empty and unfulfilled. Exhausted at the thought of continuing, he opened one eye, trying to establish if the image of Shiva would give him a night off his worship. Shiva looked back, his trident appearing poised to sever Gaurav’s head if he stopped.

  Poor me, he thought, enveloped in self-pity. He reviewed his life, hunting for a clue to lift his misery. The images that whirled through his head were a show reel of mediocrity and disappointment. He knew he was destined for great things. And yet, here he was: nothing, nobody, alone. In the depths of his despair, he missed Preity. He mainly remembered their recent fighting, but before then, surely there was happiness. Gaurav wondered if he had imagined their love, another script in another failed movie audition. He tried to think of the good moments. The dog in the photo kept leaping into his memories. Mocking him, always lurking in the background. Damn kutta.

  ‘Please, God, I’m so alone.’ Gaurav prayed desperately, trying with all his strength to make someone with a higher power listen. ‘Send me someone to love, I beg you, give me a sign I’m on the right path.’

  ***

  Paksheet strutted along the frangipani branch. He took in the situation framed by the open window: the man with his eyes shut, the flickering candles, the bananas. He was hungry. The trip in the van had left him bruised and sore. He had spent the day in the tree, sulking. Stung by being outsmarted by a dog of all lowly creatures. Where were his troops when he needed them? The monkeys of the park were a foolish, disappointing lot. Where was the outraged mass of macaques coming to his rescue and exacting their revenge? He didn’t need them. He wasn’t scared of any other species, or his own kind. He looked at the man from the garden again – so completely vulnerable – idiot. Paksheet leapt nimbly and grabbed the window frame, swinging through like Tarzan. He landed with a soft thump at the crossed feet of Gaurav, whose eyes snapped open with shock and disbelief at the intrusion.

  Paksheet picked up the bunch of bananas. He peeled one and ate it, slowly, pleasurably. The human was trembling in front of him, breathing shallowly. The smell of fear was the same across both of their genera.

  Paksheet picked up a couple of the sweet balls. He devoured them, their taste reminiscent of the piles of food left in the park of late. With each mouthful, he felt stronger, more confident. The man was still staring at him, looking right in his eyes. He picked up the remaining bananas with one leathery hand. With the other, he delivered Gaurav a stinging open-handed slap to the face.

  With a screech and a flurry, Paksheet scrambled onto the bed in Gaurav’s room. It was a large four-poster, the mosquito net pulled back with thick silky cords like vines hanging down from the heavy wooden frame. Paksheet finished another banana and threw the skin towards Gaurav, then he sat back, leaning against the pillows, legs spread arrogantly. The pillows were soft and comfortable on Paksheet’s battle-weary body.

  ***

  Gaurav edged closer and picked up the banana skin. Gaurav could feel where the monkey’s fingers had burned into his cheek with the slap. Like Preity’s had when she left. He looked up at Paksheet sitting in his bed as if he tucked into king-size luxury Egyptian cotton every night. As he knelt on the floor holding the discarded peel, the picture of Hanuman and Lord Rama fell to the floor in front of him. Gaurav knew beyond doubt that it was a sign.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The Scoop

  Sita banged at her keyboard with intent, fingers flying as she tried to get words onto the page. This story was like a jigsaw, without the picture on the box cover to even the odds. Once the crazy coincidences and connections were on paper, it would be easier to work out which parts to attack.

  Her phone vibrated, again – she’d muted it to minimise distractions. Someone was really trying to get her attention tonight. She stopped abusing her keyboard. Two missed calls, one message, one text with an attachment from her rookie cadet, Krishna that read: Dog rescues woman from rape, great footage. Sita was impressed. It sounded like a story with the full complement of emotive triggers – and visuals. Krishna was delivering on his cocky claim that he was the best future journalist in New Delhi.

  She opened the video and hit play; it was blurry at first, with lots of background noise, and seemed to depict a dancing dog. The image came into focus, and Sita gasped when she saw the one-eared Rocky prancing around. The footage followed the dog and there was a clear shot of Poona lying on the ground, an out-of-focus body in the background, and another dog playing with the tiny monkey.

  ‘Oh, my God, Poona!’ Sita saved her work, and pulled on a jacket, texting Krishna with one hand, Get final copy to me tonight. She ran out of her office into the street. It seemed like every person in New Delhi was on the road tonight. A taxi could take hours. She raced to the metro station, elbowing through bodies, not even stopping to apologise to the disapproving aunties and scowling uncles. As the train made its way, she listened to the message from Baj. He’d called just after six pm; that was nearly two hours ago. Sita hit redial.

  ***

  Baj was balancing the delicate politics of two dogs and a monkey in a small apartment. He picked up his phone on the third ring.

  ‘Where is she? What happened?’

  ‘Hello Sita-ji, she’s at Sant Parmanand. No visitors allowed tonight; we are the waiting for news.’

  ‘I’m on the metro – are you at Hastinapuri?’

  Baj just managed to get a ‘yes’ out before the line buzzed in his ear as Sita hung up. What he was about to say was that tonight was not a good time for him to be receiving visitors, actually.

  Yanki was swinging from a curtain. The floor beneath her was strewn with recently stripped fruit peels. Rama jumped and barked at the monkey overhead, excited about his new companions. Rocky sat at the front door, tense and alert in the strange surroundings. As fatigue overtook him, he gradually dropped into a prone position. The eye opposite his missing ear remained half-open, watching the smaller animals, the other closed in transit to sleep. It gave him a very strange look on his face, like an asymmetrical sphinx.

  ‘Miss monkey, I am asking you to come down nicely, kripya.’ Baj hoped his voice sounded firm and authoritative, rather than rising towards hysterical, as he felt. He checked his watch. Now Sita was arriving imminently. He needed to get over to the main house and help Lola clean up after the dinner service. His surprise date with Lola tonight was d
efinitely off. He stared at the man in the mirror. He didn’t look or feel like a Bollywood hero who could sweep a lady off her feet. More like a stress-wallah right now.

  Maybe it was a sign, he mused. Maybe he watched too many films, imagined romance was around every drama-filled corner. He ran a comb through his thick hair and dabbed a touch of coconut oil over the front to keep it from flopping forward. He combed it one more time … almost a Salman Khan. A crash from behind him roused Rocky into a barking frenzy. Rama had chased Yanki into Baj’s small shrine, knocking incense, pictures, candles and flowers onto the floor.

  ‘Kutte ke poot,’ Baj shouted, his nerves frayed.

  The animals froze, surprised at the tone of voice.

  Baj cleared away the mess. ‘Rama, sit!’ He pointed to the newspaper-lined bed. Rama obeyed.

  ‘Rocky, stay.’

  Rocky slid back to his spot near the door meekly and resumed his passage to sleep. Yanki had her head tipped to the side quizzically, waiting for her instruction.

  ‘You, you mini-badmash …’ Baj stared back, scowling. ‘Just do nothing.’ God alone would have to control the consequences of that naughty monkey tonight. Baj backed out the door, eyeballing the animals until the latch clicked shut and he was outside the apartment. He gazed back with a sinking feeling that the quiet, tidy home behind the solid wooden door would be gone for good on his return.

  ***

  Lola wiped down the kitchen benches. It had been a good night of cooking, despite the dreadful situation. Lola’s abandoned dinner sat on the edge of the stove. She tried to swallow a couple of tepid mouthfuls and gave up, feeling sick with worry about Poona.