He had the deepest voice I have ever heard. He spoke to me very, very unpleasantly. "Again! I catch you again!" I didn't reply. Just stared at him. He had waylaid me the night before and the one before. I had obliged his questions then. "Where were you this late?" he rumbled, way deep in his chest. As a matter of fact it was pretty early. Early in the morning, that is. "Office," said I, through gritted teeth. Who the heck was he to ask me that? "Office!" He didn't like that one bit. "No office works till now." "Mine does," I countered. "I am a journalist." "Hah, journalist!" he snorted. I thought he would ask for my press identification card. I dug into my pocket and came up with it. He sneered nastily. I decided I would have no more nonsense from him. Question was, how could I get rid of him? Punch him in the nose, perhaps? I considered him doubtfully. He was a hefty fellow and I wasn't very sure that I could take him. Leg it home fast? No, he looked like Ben Johnson and I was pretty certain that I couldn't out-race Ben Johnson. "What's in the bag?" "Books, magazines etc," I said. I looked around carefully. There was no other being on the road. Not that I expected anyone to roam around at 0230 hours IST except muggers, madmen and journalists. "Let me see!" he growled, advancing. I took a step back. It was obvious that I needed to do something fast. But I am not at my bravest early mornings. "I said give it here!" He made a grab for my bag. That settled the matter. I drew back my right leg and let him have it, praying feverishly that he was a bully and would back off. He was a bully. The kick lifted him in the air. With a yelp and his tail between his legs, the son of a bitch scampered off as fast as his four legs would carry. That, I think, was some two years ago. With it began my conversations with dogs in dead earnest. I hold a job that reaches me home quite late in the night. And in the night, there are only two power centres -- the dogs and cops. Since I invariably choose to walk, preferring that to being tossed around like a sack of potatoes in a rickshaw and then short-changed, I encounter either of these two. Most often, it is the former variety -- and, man, are they a pain! I think the SOB I had kicked spread the word. I mean, till that day I had trouble only with that particular specimen. Now the entire locality seems to be after my bleedin' heels! It would start with just one dog. He would see me approaching and let out one or two barks. Then he would make a mad rush for me, baring his teeth and growling enough to give Devil, The Dog Who Walks, a complex. He would escort me through his area, teeth and all, while his mates -- there would be three or four -- bark up enough row to wake up the dead. When I am about to cross his border, he would let out one or two real loud ones. "Here he comes, here he comes," he would bark to The Dogs Across. "He's yours from this point." Sure enough, there would the next batch, ready for a go at me, on the other side. And thus would we proceed home, me in the middle, waving my bag around by its straps like a kalaripayattu warrior, they around me sorta having a ball. Luckily for me, my neighbourhood has become immune to such ruckus. Rarely do the residents now open their bedroom windows and curse our energetic little procession. The other night, by the effective method of travelling home a couple of hours before midnight, I succeeded to escape the attention I usually receive. In the process, I witnessed an incident that I wouldn't have missed for the world. Passing the market, I came upon a small group of children digging around in the garbage. One of them came up with something. He inspected it for a moment and threw it away. "Pick it up," came the order from the tallest. I stopped to watch. The offender picked it up. And, holding it close to his chest, waited for the remonstrations that were about to come. They came. Measured, ringing clear. Here's the translation: "We are poor folks," said the older boy, his back straight, head up. He must not have been more than 10 years. "The luxury of throwing away things is not for us. That's for the rich. We live on the stuff they discard... Do not do it again." Life, we have heard it said, is a great teacher. True. Especially life on the streets. To wind up, a couple of my observations about dogs. I have come to the conclusion that most dogs in this great metropolis are bloomin' cowards. I am qualified to make that statement for two reasons. One, I have wandered quite a few Bombay localities at odd hours and thus encountered many a son of a bitch. Two, some 12 years ago, I had owned the biggest coward of a dog in the whole of South India. My pet, as per my parents' wish, was christened Hercules. What was behind such an ambitious name, I really can't tell. Maybe they thought the name would infuse some valour into his otherwise valourless existence. Hercules grew up brown and healthy. Must say he looked quite imposing. A hefty chest tapering down to a sleek belly, nice powerful legs, a fierce bark... He came with all the trappings. But of valour there was nary a sign. If the cat sneezed, Hercules jumped. If there was a visitor, Hercules lost his bark. If the visitor looked at him sternly, Hercules answered both the calls of nature simultaneously. Such was Hercules. His cousins in Bombay, I find, are no less valourless. One testimony to this -- besides their history of non-violence to any pedestrian, including even me -- is the tizzy they work themselves into when there is a blackout. I tell you, a night without lights invokes in them the kind of howls that only Count Dracula is credited to be capable of. Here I should mention a certain gentledog that sleeps in my building. Every time the lights fail on my landing, which is quite often, he descends one floor to sleep under the tube light! On reflection, I think Hercules was braver than his metro cousins. He never howled his heart out or ran in search of light when electricity failed -- just retreated to the furthest corner and whimpered. Chindu Sreedharan considers himself a cool cat. Hence his allergy to dogs. Tell us what you think of this diary
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