A story by Christo
As the hot summer sun began its languorous descent, thick-leafed shadows flickered through narrow pathways and over bamboo-thatched rooftops. The bass chorus of awakening bullfrogs was joined, as if on cue, by chattering flocks of roosting parrots.
From somewhere nearby came the rhythmic tinkle of tiny cymbals and the monotonous chanting of human voices. Moving towards these sounds could be seen a slow procession of local villagers and orange-robed sannyasins who had come to join the puja or sit in the shade of the surrounding bodhi tree to chew paan and gossip.
All were greeted by the booming voice of a large bald man, his simple white dhoti covering a large stomach. Above the waist he was bare-chested apart from several beaded necklaces and a thick garland of jasmine around his neck. From the hairline of his forehead to the bridge of his nose was a large red tilak.
This was Swami Acharaya Hariprasad Bramacharaya, caretaker of the little Krishna temple, and village guru. The Swami was for the most part a traditional, conscientious member of his caste. No-one doubted his learning, devotion, and the power of his teachings. His performance of the rituals, however, it was noted with some amusement, tended to speed up the closer it got to mealtimes or when pungent cooking smells eventually broke through the clouds of incense in the main temple. Everyone also knew how fond he was of his dog, Tulsi, whom he had rescued as a puppy, and who shared his enthusiasm for the temple’s rich cuisine.
Swami Bramacharaya was gregarious and liked his fellow humans, provided, of course, that they acknowledged his superior social status. If going to and from the river for his early morning bath he accosted a dalit who strayed too close, unlike so many of his caste who might react with rage and even violence, he simply waved the unfortunate aside with a gentle warning gesture.
In the throng of eager worshippers only those who knew him well might have noticed a certain sadness in his tone that evening as he recited the prayers and mantras. They might also have noticed a vacant space on the corner of the cool marble floor next to the temple pool where his most ardent devotee, the sandy-coloured dog, entranced by the strange smells and the sound of his beloved master’s voice, would normally lie.
Ever since he’d been found by the priest as a tiny puppy, Tulsi had lived in the temple, eaten the prasad left for the Gods, who never seemed to be hungry, and listened enthusiastically to his master’s daily sermons. Tulsi had a compassionate heart and as he lay listening to his master’s words he often dreamed of sharing the wisdom he had imbibed with the lower-caste dogs less fortunate than himself.
As among humans, among dogs also a social order exists. Tulsi was a Brahmin by virtue of his master. The Pack, as they were known, were mostly the same sandy colour as Tulsi, and their tails in motion wagged just as fast, but their lives were very different. They were the ‘dalit’ or scavenger dogs, without homes or owners. They were often in poor, mangy condition and generally spent their days hanging around the chai shops or other food outlets in the village. They were used to being kicked and verbally abused. As everyone else avoided them, they spent most evenings together at the village dump or the ghats, searching for bones.
One evening Tulsi padded down the narrow track towards the disused quarry, farther than he had ever been before. Strange objects – old plastic sheets, corrugated roofing, rusty car parts – appeared among the scrubby bushes, and as his sensitive nostrils were assaulted with unfamiliar, unnatural smells, he began to wonder how the other dogs would receive him. Finally turning off the track into the old quarry, he saw a dozen tails of half-buried dogs protruding as their owners thrust and pulled their way through piles of rubbish.
As he approached, a large wolf-like dog suddenly turned to face him head-on, snarling and growling, fangs bared. This was Ragu, leader of the pack by virtue of his ferocity and cunning. Ragu began slowly, inch by inch, moving towards the intruder, prepared to spring at any moment.
Tail between his legs, head bowed in submissive posture, Tulsi greeted him, ‘Namaste Raguji, I come in peace, and, with your permission I would like to enter this place to talk with you.’
When he recognised the well-fed Brahmin dog, Ragu was dumbstruck. What on earth did he want? For a moment the pack leader stopped dead, as if frozen, then sat.
By now all the dogs, curiosity awakened, had turned from their labours to watch. What could this Brahmin dog possibly want with them? Some, remembering the stones of the temple officials when they strayed too close, attracted by the scent of the rich foods, slunk behind larger brothers or sisters, fearing a trap.
Hesitantly at first, Tulsi continued, ‘For too long we have been strangers to each other, you and I, and I have come, if you will permit me, to share my master’s teachings with you.’
What followed was a few moments of excited yapping and confusion.
‘Has he gone mad?’
‘Is he infected?’
‘Is this some Brahmin plot?’
‘What benefits?’
‘Perhaps the Temple will feed us if we allow him?!’
That night Tulsi told them stories of Krishna and Radha, and of course of their dogs. Although he had to explain at first that securing their spiritual well-being didn’t involve any food, even so they listened spellbound like small children in the village school. Nobody had given them this much attention before, and a Brahmin too! Over the next few weeks Tulsi returned regularly to address his now-attentive audience. When he was with them they forgot the hardship of their lives and became silent and peaceful.
During the day Tulsi enjoyed watching over all his master’s activities. He particularly enjoyed the early morning yoga practice after the return from the ritual bath. First the Priest would remove his dhoti, allowing his belly to sway freely over his loincloth, then, lowering himself onto the mat with a grunt, he would twist and weave his arms and legs around like a giant spider. Finally, and this was the part Tulsi particularly enjoyed, he would somehow manage to place his head crown-first on the ground, lift first one leg then the other, and stand upside down on his head. (Tulsi had long ago learned to resist the temptation to lick his master’s face at this point.)
The Pack were not the only other dogs in the village. There was another smaller group who belonged to the kshatriya or warrior caste. These were the guard dogs, hunters and cattle herders who all had owners, were well fed, with duties to perform. Chief among them was the Deputy Collector’s powerful long-necked Great Dane named Khan, who guarded his master’s elegant sprawling bungalow with its apple orchards and mango trees.
For some time, rumours had spread among these dogs about strange meetings between the Brahmin dog and the much-despised outcasts. They had also observed a disturbing new cockiness in their old enemies, who recently seemed more willing to provoke and tease them when they were chained.
Eventually curiosity compelled them, or at least those who were free that evening, to follow their leader down to the dump.
It took several minutes before the tumult their sudden appearance caused subsided. It would be hard to say if it was mutual respect between the snarling evenly-matched Khan and Ragu, or the impassioned pleading of Tulsi, which eventually led to an uneasy truce. The intruders slunk over to one corner of the glade and watched and waited menacingly. However, as time passed, enthused by Tulsi’s stories of Gods and Dogs, both sides began to relax in each other’s company.
The animals however grew restless, as Tulsi did his best to explain to them what he had learned from his master of the great and ancient philosophy of yoga. Ragu alone seemed attentive and enthused, both ears cocked, nose in the air. Everyone in the original group was impatient to try out the exercises.
When the time came, the members of the pack with no inhibition threw themselves onto the ground, writhing this way and that. The younger ones especially enjoyed rolling over and under each other, snapping at tails, and occasionally shamelessly mounting each other. Ragu alone applied himself seriously, and even managed to remain upright on his head for a few seconds, supported by a tree.
Meanwhile the warrior dogs remained aloof in their corner, sullenly watching, occasionally whimpering. Suddenly Suki, the postmistress’s elegant white poodle and sometime consort of Khan, could resist no longer and dived in. Others followed. Soon only the Great Dane remained outside. It was in this melee of twisting and tumbling bodies that the cobra of fate struck when a young pai dog attempted to mount the white poodle. Khan suddenly leapt from his solitary corner, snapping the young dog’s leg in a single bite. The victim howled with pain and fright.
An instant later, with a terrible roar, Ragu flung himself at the Great Dane… and the two rolled over and over, tearing at each other’s flesh. Tulsi’s frantic appeals for peace were lost as the poison of ancient hatred rushed through the veins of all present. Only the little white poodle escaped unharmed, immediately running home.
It was the horrified Deputy Collector himself who found his majestic dog spread-eagled outside the parlour door piteously whimpering, blood pouring from a huge gash in his neck. At the approach of his master, Khan briefly raised his head, then lowered it for the last time.
The Deputy Collector yelled with fury, ‘Bandits, goondas are in the village!’
Soon an angry crowd of villagers gathered, carrying clubs and machetes, all shouting at once.
‘Wild animals! A tiger’s got in!’
‘No, it’s those scavenger dogs!’
‘They’re all infected by that vicious wolf-headed demon!’
‘They’re all thieves and vermin!’
The Swami, surprised that Tulsi had not returned as usual to share his evening meal, and startled by the shouts of the villagers, followed the sounds down to the tip – and couldn’t believe what he saw.
Snarling and snapping, the exhausted and terrified dogs were being assaulted from all sides by the angry villagers. To his horror the Swami spied his own Tulsi in the thick of the throng, running from one injured dog to another, and called out to him. When Tulsi heard his master’s call, for a moment he hesitated, turned and started running towards the voice he loved most in all the world. Suddenly however he stopped, turned back, disappearing for a moment from view, then reappeared next to the wolf-headed dog, both hurling themselves desperately at their attackers.
It was all over in a few minutes when the huntsmen arrived with their guns.
After everybody had left, only the heartbroken Swami remained. He found Tulsi lying by the side of the wolf-headed dog. He folded his dog gently in his arms, trudged wearily home, and dug the grave himself in the temple grounds, placing on the filled-in earth an ochre-daubed stone, as ritual demanded.
Next morning, after a restless disturbed night, as the last star disappeared in the early dawn, Swami Bramacharaya, unsure what he was looking for, found himself drawn trance-like back to the scene of the previous day’s carnage. One vulture had already arrived, others would follow. The dead dogs had been flung haphazardly onto the dump. In a daze he wandered among them and eventually recognised what he had been seeking, as he stumbled over the crumpled body of Ragu the wolf-headed dog, who had stood side by side with his Tulsi the previous night. His huge skull had been split with a rock. Staggering under the weight, he took the limp body back to the temple.
Later that day visitors to the temple might have noticed, as well as the vacant space near the water pool, two freshly-heaped mounds side by side under the shade of the gulmohar tree in the temple garden, both garlanded with rose and jasmine petals… and each surmounted by a large and ochre-painted stone.
Featured image by Sandeep Handa from Pixabay
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