Dogs of India

by Polly McGee

  He played out the scene again in his mind when the text about the wedding had arrived. They were sitting together, he hadn’t dreamt it. Lola had definitely made the shoulder move on him. Who knows what could have happened. He might have even held her hand. Then the text. Lola had definitely been shocked, too. Like it was a surprise. She didn’t seem happy about it. So perhaps there was still a chance. The thought made Baj rally. Of course he had a chance. This was the test. He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid. In true love, in every film, there was always a test. No one ever just fell in love and it all went according to plan.

  Baj sat up and started flicking through a shoebox of DVDs until he found Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi. That was the film Lola had talked about that night – it would hold the answer to his quest. He got up and made a large pot of tea, rummaging through the cupboard for a packet of milk biscuits. There was some serious planning to do and not much time. It was 8 November tomorrow. That meant it was less than two days until twelve pm on 9 November: Choti Diwali, Baj’s birthday, and the day Lola was getting married. He pressed play.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Hidden in Plain Sight

  The sound of human voices started muffled, became louder, then faded. Rocky tensed all over, gradually relaxing again as the potential threat dissipated. It was very dark in the garden shed, heightening his other senses. Rocky would sneak out to the garden at night when the risk of detection was minimal. He had no appetite, but would hunt for water, lapping endlessly at the puddle from the dripping garden tap. The shed was rarely used, a relic from another time. Gardeners no longer came, reluctant to enter the house of bad vaastu. It was a perfect place to wait for revenge or death, whichever came first. Rocky put his nose between his paws and came as close to a sigh as a dog could.

  The whiff of his scent in the thick of escape from Gaurav had stuck fast in Rocky’s nose. From that moment, he was single-minded in his desire to get home again. This plan of return had been only momentarily delayed by the detour to Baj’s flat. Rocky pined for Yanki. But he knew she needed to be somewhere safe and away from him now. It had been troublesome to trick her. As they made it through the Hastinapuri Estate gate and turned towards number 33 Rocky had stopped, having spotted a fallen coconut on the other side of the high metal fence. He looked at it and whined, pawing at the fence line and pointing at it. Yanki, perpetually ready for a game, squeezed through the rungs and tried to lift it with her tiny arms, puzzling as to how she was going to get the coconut through the gap to play. When she turned back, Rocky was gone. He had waited outside the gate of number 33, just like the first time he was locked out. Just like the last time, a woman ran out, hurling abuse back towards the door. Before the gate shut, he slipped inside.

  ***

  Preity was dressed in a simple but elegant shalwar kameez and flat shoes, her dupatta draped modestly over her head, hair pulled back in a chignon. She had made up her face sparingly, styled far from the rising TV starlet and model she was, and much more like one of the millions of Indian women she was trying to connect with. Poona was wearing a cream-coloured sari shot with bronze thread, her arm and shoulder heavily strapped, face still shaded with bruising. She looked resilient and noble. Sita wore a conservative suit, her hair straight and loose and perfectly styled. She looked every inch the competent TV journalist.

  The three women were delivering the message that it was no longer private or shameful to be a woman in India, that your gender didn’t make you obedient and invisible – and that disrespect would have consequences. Sita gave them the once-over one last time – they were ready. Her phone beeped with a text. Krishna was organising the logistics for the march; everything was in place. She returned the phone to her handbag.

  ‘Ladies, to number 33,’ she said.

  A gaggle of media and throngs of female supporters were waiting outside the gates of Hastinapuri Estate. Chatura met them there and walked with the group down Hastinapuri Marg, his hand gently around Poona’s elbow, not straying far from his beloved. The three women led the group, Sita throwing out well-crafted sound bites on the fly to hungry journalists. Her publicity stunt was about the right of women to walk the streets. Day or night. Alone or in groups. To be free of all violence: random, premeditated, family-sanctioned or worse – spousal.

  The cameras shot their promenade as a large and growing column of supportive angry women snaked down the street behind them. The group stopped outside number 33. Sita, Poona and Preity climbed onto a small raised platform Krishna had rigged up so they had a clear street stage from which to be seen and heard. Policewomen were standing along the perimeter. Sita had called the chief of police personally and invited him to join her, along with his best female officers, sending a career-building message of unity and zero tolerance, she insisted.

  As Sita had become a person of interest, all of New Delhi’s major and minor media sources had shown up to the street in front of number 33, her feisty press release teasing that something big was about to happen. And they wanted to be there, to capture the moment firsthand. The quiet revolution Sita had begun with her story on Poona and her rescue by a pariah dog had grown from a bark to a roar. That story had asked simple questions of her readers that had not been answered yet: why were tens of thousands of women still being raped and abused every year in India? Could India, as a nation, ever reach its global potential when half its citizens were treated like dogs?

  Sita wasn’t the only one who wanted to know the answer – from the prime minister to householders, naming the problem and emphatically supporting the need for change had swept the country and beyond. The frown on the gaze outside India was mobilising, as women in other jurisdictions shared their tools and resources for empowerment with their global sisters.

  Sita coughed discreetly and made sure that the microphone was on. The voices quieted and she began.

  ‘Last week, in fact the day a man attempted to rape Poona Sheena in the street, I interviewed the New Delhi Municipal Council’s Acting Acting Director and political aspirant Gaurav Kamboj for the New Delhi Times right here, at his home. These were his words when I asked him about a photo of a woman in his lounge room.’ Sita held up her phone to the microphone and pressed play. Gaurav’s voice was disembodied: ‘No, she was my wife. I recently lost her unexpectedly.’

  Sita switched off the recording and continued.

  ‘Lost her unexpectedly, he said. He even had a little tear in his eye. But she wasn’t dead, as he had inferred. It was by chance that someone recognised the woman in the photo. That woman is not lost or dead. That woman is Preity Sahni. That woman is right here.’

  Sita stepped aside, and Preity stepped up to the microphone.

  ‘Hi. I’m Preity Sahni. You might have seen me on TV or in magazines. That’s my job, and I love it. But I’m like a lot of women who fall in love and get married and expect to be with their husbands forever, in good times and in hard times. I’m also like a lot of women who get regularly abused by their husbands and are too afraid to do anything. Abuse can be physical. It can also be verbal. It can be by threats and being demeaned, it can be harm to the things you love.’

  Preity stopped and took a deep breath. She looked across the women in front of her and continued.

  ‘Several weeks ago when I was offered a spot on a new reality television show, my husband called me a whore and put his hands to my throat. Much like dear Poona here. But my attacker was someone I loved and trusted, who was in my home. I finally ran for my life that day with only what I could fit in a bag. I left behind my beloved dog, Rocky, who had often been my only defender against my husband, Gaurav. Rocky was abandoned and left to die once I left. And would you believe that dog was the same one that saved Poona’s life. Now that’s karma.’

  Sita handed Preity a bottle of water. The gathered crowd were spellbound by the tale and the twist of the hero dog’s origin. Many of them in tears. If it could happen to a TV star like Preity, it could happen to anyone.

  ‘My husband told a
major newspaper that I was dead. Now I see a video where he has told the citizens of New Delhi to kill dogs, that they are part of the problem, that all the evidence showing monkeys are to blame for the recent death and aggravation is false. We all know there are too many monkeys in the city of New Delhi. We all know something has to be done to make the balance right.’

  Preity’s voice began to rise – filled with anger and emotion.

  ‘Well, I’m here to tell you that I’m alive, despite Gaurav Kamboj. And women and dogs, hear this: we’re not to be blamed. Silence is to blame. Complacency is to blame. And most of all, shame is to blame.’

  The crowd cheered, calling out their support.

  ‘If we keep listening to the chattering of monkeys, believing them because there are more of them, because they are powerful, then the voices of the dogs will never be heard. So thanks everyone for coming today. I’m going to pick up some of my things, the ones I had to leave behind.’ Preity paused. ‘It’ll be great having a few extra hands.’ She pointed at some uniformed women. ‘Those police officers standing with us – they’re going to arrest my husband for spousal abuse.’

  ***

  Gaurav and Paksheet stood at the window, watching the crowd below. Gaurav thought the woman speaking looked like Preity, but she was long gone so that couldn’t be right. He wondered what they were doing there, all lined up in front of his house. He hoped he wasn’t supposed to be making a speech today and had forgotten. Gaurav was bone tired and had felt increasingly unusual over the past few days.

  Hanuman wasn’t being overly clear with Gaurav about the battle plans to eradicate the dogs. He’d had a string of annoying phone calls from the council and his dad, and escalating harassment from animal-rights groups and angry feminists since the press conference. He wished they would just leave him alone to sleep. The bed looked very appealing. He sat down on its edge, wondering if the monkey god would mind if he reclaimed it for just a minute or two. A small string of drool fell from his lips. Gaurav wiped it with his hand.

  Maybe I need some water, he thought. He felt hot and feverish. Even the thought of water made him feel nauseated. No, he didn’t need water. Definitely didn’t.

  Gaurav tentatively looked at the wound on his side from that filthy dog. It was disgusting; he should see a doctor. No wonder he felt ill. But he didn’t want to be a baby; and anyway, how could anything happen to him when he was the companion to Lord Hanuman? Hanuman was shrieking and banging on the shut window with his fists and pointing. Gaurav had locked all of the windows in the house tightly. He didn’t want anything getting in to disturb them, even air. Hanuman banged so hard on the brittle old glass, Gaurav thought he would smash the window. Gaurav wearily lifted himself up again to see what Hanuman wanted this time.

  ***

  Rocky heard Preity’s voice. Lying in the dark, he thought he’d imagined it. He nosed open the shed door and stood partially exposed, his eyes adjusting to the light. The voice of his owner began again and Rocky’s tail started to wag vigorously. He knew she’d come back for him. He knew they would find each other again. He emerged into the garden, not caring if his cover was blown. He barked once, and then again. Calling to Preity, I’m here, I’m here. Rocky trotted down the garden to the gate. He scratched and scrabbled against the wood with his claws amidst sing-songy barks of joy and excitement.

  ***

  Poona and Preity heard the sound of Rocky from the other side. They looked at each other in amazement.

  Poona had had her people scouring the neighbourhood searching for him since he had escaped, to no avail. She feared the worst: that he had become the scalp the New Delhi Municipal Council was after in the war on dogs. And here he was all along, right back where he had started. Preity fished out a pink ribbon tied around her neck. On it was a locket with a picture of Rocky in it, and next to the locket was a key. The key was to the house she had to flee from to get away from her husband – 33 Hastinapuri Marg.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Monkey Business

  Gaurav gazed out the window again, this time with an anxious sense of the immediacy of the situation unfolding below. The crowd appeared to be outside his house with a purpose. They were turned facing the wall now, and the woman at the front of the pack was looking more and more like his wife. With her was that attractive journalist from the New Delhi Times. Gaurav was confused. What was she doing with Preity? There were a growing number of TV cameras, booms and microphones bobbing around like metal giraffes outside the gate. The street was partially blocked off with protestors, and police officers were trying to make sense of diverting an already overloaded artery about to have a serious traffic heart attack.

  Gaurav eyed Hanuman once more – he was seeing double, unless now he was serving two Hanumans. Keeping up with the demands of one was quite draining, how would he manage two?

  ***

  In a gold Mercedes parked a discreet distance away, the chief of police and Ajay Kamboj sat in the back seat together. The darkly tinted window was wound down enough for both men to hear Preity’s impassioned speech. Ajay turned to his companion and rolled his eyes.

  ‘That banderchod Gaurav.’ Ajay took a large pinch of paan. ‘Useless since the day he was born. This is going to ruin me.’

  ‘Children. They can be such a disappointment.’ The chief was touchingly empathetic. ‘My officers are armed,’ he said, ‘just in case there should be trouble.’

  A look passed between them.

  ‘Whatever force is necessary to apprehend the abuser of pretty ladies, then,’ Ajay said.

  The chief laughed and shook the councillor’s hand. He opened the door, checked he was unobserved, and got out. The window slid closed, and the vehicle slunk away.

  ***

  Paksheet was beside himself. In every way. He hopped from foot to foot – pointing and screeching at the outside world. He regarded Gaurav with uncensored hatred. Would every one of his foolish army let him down at the last minute?

  This was the moment! Paksheet realised he had to go it alone. He had somehow, with his brilliance, lured together all of these human targets, and now was the moment to strike. Even better, lurking stupidly at the bottom of the garden was that one-eared dog that had stolen his monkey and humiliated him in front of the world. He should have killed him when he had the chance. The weak fool stood drooling and paralysed next to him. What was he doing to help? Nothing. Paksheet had to instigate the battle. This was war.

  ***

  Preity took a deep breath, opened the gate and entered, followed by Sita, Poona, Chatura, assorted police officers and the media. She felt like she was undoing her earlier flight for freedom, retracing her steps back to the horror of those final days with Gaurav. What had happened to him, she wondered, from the sweet, slightly arrogant, aspiring actor who had literally charmed the pants off her, to the jealous, paranoid abuser she had ended up with?

  There he was, the true love of her life. Preity barely recognised Rocky, once her carefree companion, now a skinny street dog with a lopsided face. His jaunty, feathered tail and the tattered collar and tag were the only reminders of the dog she knew. Preity pressed her face into his head, scratching the remaining ear, while she wiped tears on his fur. A policewoman with a loudhailer directed her voice at the house and informed Gaurav she had a warrant for his arrest and he was to come outside immediately.

  ***

  Gaurav thought he heard his name, and through the window saw the uniformed officer. Thank God there was finally someone here to take control of that rabble. He waved regally at the officer, signalling he would be out in a minute. Hanuman had disappeared. Gaurav went downstairs. He was a little nervous about seeing Preity again. The house was such a mess. He wished he had had time to tidy things up before she arrived.

  Downstairs was trashed. Photos were smashed, antique rugs were soiled, the kitchen had been ransacked and food remnants were ground into the lounge. Mould was growing on some dirty pots in the sink where the maid had run from th
e house screaming after Hanuman had attacked her from behind.

  Gaurav checked his appearance in a shattered antique mirror propped against the wall and dragged his hands through his hair. He had a few days of growth on his face, which in his mind made him look ruggedly handsome. Gaurav was hit with a realisation like a thunderbolt: Preity wasn’t here to make trouble; she had come back. To be with him. Of course – that’s why the cameras were there with her. The reconciliation would all be captured on film for what would no doubt become a blockbuster new reality TV show about their life together. Upcoming politician-cum-actor and actress-cum-model start their new life in New Delhi. He shook his head fondly. Some saliva flicked across his face. That Preity – she was a minx, surprising him like this. What could he do to make an entrance worthy of his own reality TV show?

  Gaurav looked around the fragments of the room. On the wall in a miraculously un-smashed display box was an antique Enfield Rifle preserved from the sepoy uprising. Perfect, thought Gaurav. He could come out brandishing the weapon, like a gallant war hero rescuing his woman from all who would seek to harm her. Gaurav lifted the gun down. It was heavy, and he buckled a little under the weight. He slung the rifle over his chest, careful not to let the rough leather strap rub against his wounded side. With a surge of excitement he strode towards his reality reconciliation.

  Gaurav wrestled with the locks then flung open the doors, staggering onto the terrace in front of the waiting crowd and camera crews with a flourish. Gaurav was a sight to behold. His white kurta was torn and soiled and he was missing his pants. His face was unshaven, with glistening streaks of dried drool across thick black stubble. More confronting was his prominent erection. He was apparently unaware of his condition, but through the thin cotton kurta, little was left to the imagination.