THEY ARE CREATURES LIKE US, WHETHER WE AGREE OR NOT
My mom, who is 83, lives with my elder brother’s family in our native
place, Mangalore. That’s the place where she is very, very comfortable… That’s the place
she built from the scratch… That’s the place she lived with her husband, in-laws
and all her five sons… That’s the place she feels deeply connected to, and,
yes, that’s the place where she wants to spend her last years, too.
I and my youngest
brother, Vivek, have settled, here, in Mumbai. Rony, my fourth brother, has
settled in Kuwait. A couple of times,
when mom was more energetic, she had come over to our places and stayed with us
for a few weeks. But, despite our ‘royal treatment’, she never felt she
belonged here… She hated the idea of being confined within the four walls of
these Mumbai houses – the ‘match boxes’. She couldn’t communicate in languages
other than Konkani, Kannada and Tulu; and, here, she would never feel at ease
meeting people who did not speak those languages. So, these days, she is simply
unwilling to visit us… no matter what special event we want her to attend here.
She politely, lovingly and respectfully says, “Son, it won’t be possible for
me.” And, we all have learnt to accept her ‘No’ gracefully, and
compassionately.
Back home, in
Mangalore, the new house, which my elder brother has built, has a ground floor
plus 1st floor. Mom and brother’s family live on 1st floor. Mom has
been lucky not to have health issues like high B.P., Diabetes etc. She never
liked to sit idle… Despite the washing machine at home, she would wash her own
clothes, and, often, others’ manually on the washing stone… Putting those
clothes for drying up on the terrace, bringing them back, folding them up
neatly… there were a dozen chores like these that gave her a sense of control
and belonging. One of the very, very important activities of our mom was - feeding
our house dog. Wherever she was, attending whatever functions, she would worry
about the dog’s food!
I remember my
growing up days in our village. Every house had some land around it, and each
house had its own dog. Some had one and some had more than one… These dogs were
the local breed – not the ‘branded’ ones that we all love to raise, now, as
pets at our homes. They were simple village dogs just like their simple
masters. A dog was a must for every house for security… Dogs were very loyal
and did a commendable security job. They ate our food, mostly, the left over.
But, they were so happy with that… They had their own corner to sleep and,
never ever, came inside the houses, leave alone sleeping under our blankets…
But, they were very happy… And, importantly, we never felt guilty about
treating them so…
But, as the living
standards improved, with their stylish houses, people began to keep stylish dogs
– an Alsatian (German Shepherd), a Pomeranian, a Doberman, a Poodle, A
Labrador, a Boxer, a Bulldog, a Lhasa and the like. The village dogs, now,
became ‘street dogs’ – the pariahs!
Why am I remembering, of all the things, dogs, today?
I read a news item
yesterday, that a housing society in Navi Mumbai had dragged one of its
residents to court for feeding the stray dogs within the society premises. As a
resident of my own society – both, where I reside and where I work from – I
have been conscious of this issue. There are stringent laws against cruelty to
stays. We cannot dislocate them from where they are. So, even though we may
face discomfort due to their presence in our societies, we all have slowly
learnt to accept them as our own… And, some of us have a melting heart – and,
we like to feed them.
It’s difficult to
convince someone who cannot feel for these homeless dogs – that, they, too, are
creatures like us… that, they, too, have hunger and thirst… they, too, have
their sexual desires… they, too, have a deep need for affection… Yes, it’s
difficult to make someone realize this.
I am not a typical
dog-lover. Nor I am a typical dog-hater. I, only, feel very bad when Buzzo, the
favourite dog of the society where I work from, comes and stands outside my
office glass-door for a few Marie Gold biscuits. He is hungry and he is old and
sick, too… He can’t speak as we do… So, he just comes and stands outside my
door, and waits. What are my options? Scream, “Get lost from here?” Or, give
him a couple of Marie biscuits and see him a little happier?
I am lucky, that
almost all the residents of this society have embraced Buzzo as their own.
Earlier, he would turn up, maybe, twice or thrice a day for the biscuits. But,
now, I see him outside my door very frequently… He breathes very fast and his
mouth says, “I do not have a lot of time left”. Well, he cannot speak, but I
can understand his feelings… So, every Marie biscuit I offer to Buzzo goes to
him with a silent prayer in my heart: “May what goes around, come around.”
GERALD D’CUNHA
Pic.: Internet
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