Dog. Much insult.

First of all, I shall list out three reasons why I am making this blog post, and that on a redundant topic like dogs, when of course, blogs everywhere in and around the solar system are currently raving about Interstellar. Here are those three golden points:

1) I haven't made an update in quite a while. My last post was when Cooper lifted off from earth and he is now playing with his children inside that weird capsule.

2) I need to write something bullshit, or rather, dog shit. My last few posts have had too much angst and politics.

3) I asked advice from a close friend of mine to write about buffaloes. She gave me ideas, took them back, and asked me to write about dogs, while she writes about buffaloes. So, I'm letting loose these pack of dogs on her. Don't worry. They are nice dogs. They are harmless.

Sorry, I digressed. We were talking about? Yes, dogs. The creatures to whom we extend our innate racism towards (more people have a white Labrador as a pet than a black one). The creatures towards which some of the fractions of human beings in our society enjoy throwing rocks towards, which, apparently, is a display of machismo (how?). The creatures who smell cars, tyres and lamp posts before relieving themselves . This in turn prompted Renault to spend millions and proclaim on television, "No. Dogs pee on Maruti Suzuki's cars. Not on our cars". Which is in fact fair. Maruti's cars should be peed upon. Yes, the owners of Maruti cars, I mean the insult.

I digressed again. So in our subcontinent, and apparently in the Arab world as well, 'dog' is an insult. An unbearable insult.

To look at our country, why would you look beyond Veeru and his expletive-laden rant after Gabbar's henchmen put a few bullets through Jai? Inexplicably, that rant contained 'kutte', which is also part of any Bombay or Delhi tongue before bullets are exchanged. Here's my question: why would you feel insulted at that? If I was Gabbar, I would be all "Aww, such a cutie pie of a master. Now get rid of that tangewaali whom you screw in film and in real life and get me some Pedigree, will you? I promise I won't take a dump on your shoe. ^_^ ".

So much for our land. Now let's board a flight full of Malayalis to the Gulf. Incidentally, the stock cuss word for Malayalis is 'patti'. It means, yes you guessed correct, dog.

Let's accept it, we didn't know much about the Arab world before one Osama bin Laden made some videos which more or less resembled the grainy porn that was smuggled into India by Dawood and company (I HAVE NEVER WATCHED THEM). One curious observation that I made (I'm famous for recording curious observations) was that in one of those videos, Osama used the word 'dog' at least a dozen times, the length of the video being no more than a couple of minutes. He described Indians as dogs, Americans as dogs, Christians as dogs, secular Muslims as dogs, and last but not the least, Jews as infidels and dogs (Jews always have the best Arabic reserved for themselves). I shall also not be seen as anti-Semitic.

Oh Osama (classify this as rhetoric since you have been shot in the head and buried at sea), have you seen a pure breed Labrador? Or a Golden Retriever? A Dalmatian? At the very least a Beagle? Or spare a thought for the Bassett Hound?
Yes, if your Arab brethren need to insult humans by equating them with dogs, maybe you will like to record these henceforth:
-"Indians, you idol-worshipping cocker spaniels!"
Or, "Americans, you war-mongering Alsatians!"
Maybe, "Secular Muslims, you traitors, you pieces of Dachshund shit!"
And if you are hell bent on Jews, how about, "Jews, you land and money grabbing infidel loud descendants of the Spitz!"

Now here's a strange situation. Normally, the end of my articles would leave the same effect as landing a black eye. But dogs are too cute to write hard-hitting conclusions about. So, here. Till then, good luck cuddling him.

The filtered recollections

Quite some years back, my English tutor uttered a golden sentence, "You think what you choose to think". I think he said that while explaining the class the disappointment of the father in a Joyce Cary short story named Growing Up.

I'll be honest. I had to do a Google search to get the name of that Joyce Cary short story. I could not believe that I was actually doing that. Just then I realised that I read that story almost ages back. In 2011. Back in school...

Ah, school. These days in college, whenever I eke out some bit of time to sit with my friends, all the conversation turns to those 'golden' and 'silver' and 'whatever metal' days in school. The tiny bits of mischief, all the sports days and cultural fests- these things tend to bombard conversations. I asked one my friends one day, "Don't you ever feel tired of talking about some goddamned school days?"

Pat (and angrily) came the reply, "Oh come on. If you tell me school tales are boring, I'll rap you on your face".

Of course, no one wants to be 'rapped' on the face. And I walked away from that conversation. But then again, the fault, dear Brutus, lies in our own selves, not other men or stars.

I sat down and wondered, well how was my life in school? 

"Life in school, sure", Memory sniggered, "Ever wondered why I never bring to you your schooldays? I've buried them for good measure", said Memory to me in the manner of a doctor. An epiphany occurred to me. Of course, I never chose to think of my schooldays. Because no, it wasn't plated with any precious metal. Those days were dark. As hell.

I despise complaining with whatever evil Providence had showered upon me. I didn't mind the TB, the dengue, the numerous hospital visits, the end of my singing career, the end of my ambition to join the army, or the insults I received from my extended family. Yet I just could not help being tinged green with jealousy whenever I saw kids of the same age as mine talking excitedly among themselves, as if everyday for them were a bed of roses. I would feel like punching a lot of faces when I heard all the plans being made for some new film or for the days during Pujo, sans me.

Of course, you need friends if 'plans' need to be made with you in confidence. I didn't have any. I'm not wallowing in self pity. I just did not have any. I even know the reason why. "Who the hell would wanna go out with you Shila? You know how boring you are?", said one of my classmates, a female one that was. I guessed right. 

Suddenly Memory cropped up at the back of my head and bellowed, "Nice ploy huh, Boring Guy? Dug up a lot of my hard work just because you wanted to write some stupid recollections of yours- don't make me work so much ever again. The digging and those days pain me", and he turned around and went to sleep.

You know, those days absolutely killed me from the inside... And Memory turned back towards me and looked at me with his most angry face, "Filter. Your. Memories. It pains me otherwise".

I think I felt a stray tear rolling down his cheek.

When the thunder struck...

...he woke up with a start. "I shouldn't have been sleeping in the first place", he thought. He looked at his watch. 1:30 p.m. Sunday.
He looked at the window behind the bed. It was menacingly cloudy and raining and thundering as if there is no tomorrow. It was the early August day that Calcutta is all too used to. He could smell that delicious khichuri being prepared in the neighbour's house, with an amount of butter that makes hearts stop. There, came that aroma of the hilsa being deep fried to be eaten with the khichuri, and that with extreme dexterity to avoid the fish bones. Mom knew how I liked it, he thought. And sighed. Somehow, he was surprised when he did not tear up at the thought of his parents. "An year is a long time, maybe", he said to himself, with a sad smile.
He could barely get up. Not getting to eat for a couple of days has its effects. Summoning all his strength, he let go of that thin sheet he had around him. He staggered to the refrigerator in the hall. Empty. All the shelves. Empty.
He could only look around. There lay that creaking table. And that cane chair. Where he would sit hours and hours and crumple up sheets of paper with his words he deemed inferior to his own standards. The books of those Russian authors that his father had parroted to him to gobble up- Dostoevsky and Gorky, Solzhenitsyn and Chekov- lay scattered all around. His umbrella, his only inheritance from his father, lay on the floor. That ashtray lay stuffed with the cigarette buts, tens and more of them. He remembers extinguishing each and every one of those dying embers. Only if those embers could strike a spark in his brain.

His wandering eyes over the table noticed the wallet. He grabbed it like a famine victim makes a dash for anything edible. The folds opened, and alas.

He made a search for all the compartments in the wallet. Albeit hopelessly. A visiting card came out of one of them. 'N.C. Kumar, Literary Agent'. He remembers meeting that man when chatting with a friend of his at a book shop. "Write something inspirational", he said that day, "tell me a story, and I'll see the rest".

He looked at that card, and then at the wallet. Instinctively, he tore up that card into a hundred little pieces, and stuffed it into that ash-tray, an addition to the thirty odd disappointments over the past two days.
Supporting himself on the door, he slumped to the floor. He cupped his face in his bruised and hardened hands. And all the memories came running back.