Simmering tea vapours cut through the fragile mist of the morning. It was the usual clang of steel utensils that brought Chutki to the tea stall. Gopal’s tea stall had always been her favourite place to be; especially when it brought a welcome charcoal warmth to cold winters. Every day, Gopal would take the train across two stations to open shop at the end of her lane. Today he was in a cheerful mood as he prepared his first batch of tea. Chutki watched him intently, her tail wagging every time he seemed to notice her.
“You realized I am happy today, right,” he spoke, “You are clever, indeed. Do you want to know why I am happy?”
Chutki tilted her head to a side and wagged her tail.
“My son got a job today,” Gopal gleamed, “It is a nice office job, you know.”
Gopal’s happiness was meant to be shared. Indeed, as customers tumbled in on their way from the station, they did not leave without hearing the news. Some of them were curious, some of them shed some expertise. There were talks of the recession and the youth and politics. A new customer appeared to have a bit more experience in conversation and aggressively wedged in his opinions, but when he fetched his plate of bun-maska, two paws pressed against his thigh. Chutki looked up at him with gentle eagerness.
“Give her some of your bread,” an older customer commented, “She likes that.”
The newcomer obeyed.
Chutki was happy. She had made a new friend. The new friend had given her a gift. Nice, sweet bread. She jumped around from one friend to another, each giving her gift-breads. A sudden snapping of fingers caught her attention.
“Aye Chutki,” Gopal called out softly, “Time for breakfast!”
Every day, Gopal would spare some of his profit in giving a small packet of Parle-G biscuits and a bowl of milk to his canine buddy. He placed these on a raised platform beside the footpath and watched Chutki dig in.
“She came to me when she was a young pup,” he explained to the newcomer, “Gave her food and water. She came to me again the next day. At first, I would just snap my fingers to speak to her. Then when she became a regular, I decided to call her Chutki (snapping of fingers).”
“You are doing nothing but entertaining a pest,” an old woman snapped, as she walked down the road.
Chutki cowered as she passed by.
Gopal laughed a little, and waved at the woman, “Say what you may, Kaku, she is always welcome to my stall.”
“Tell your friend to mind her manners then. Keeps barking and whining all night,” the old lady complained, “Not a moment I have slept the previous night!”
“But that does not make her a menace, Kaku!”
“Oh, you take it from me, this will be a quiet neighbourhood once she leaves it!”
She hobbled away, mumbling under her breath.
Chutki knew not when she had come to the lane, but she had got herself to call it her home. The people there were not friendly, much less, they would throw stones at her or kick her away. She had become used to this; would keep her distance. Gopal and his customers were her only friends. She would come to the tea-stall daily for meals and get her wounds dressed. Then she would take a small nap unto the late morning, whence it was time for Gopal to shut shop and move onto his job at the automobile shop. She would then roam around the neighbourhood. Once in a while, she would meet other dogs; some would wag their tails and talk to her, others would merely bow their heads. She had made it clear to them what her territory was, and no one dared venture into it. Chutki, though small, was a fierce being. She had a sharp bark and a sharper bite. After inspecting her little kingdom, she would trot off to Kasai Chacha’s mutton shop. There she would pick on the scraps thrown away. It was a delicious meal indeed!
No one knew where Chutki wandered off to then. Sometimes, she would be napping at the temple, sometimes she could be seen parading around at the park. But what everyone was certain of was that when Gopal would return to his tea-stall in the evening, she was sure to be there. The morning office-goers would stop by the stall on their return journey. Chutki had another chit-chat with her friends. And this went on until night had set in firm.
This was the time Chutki felt free. She was alone on the streets. She would patrol them during the dark hours; warn passers-by and strange cars that they were being watched. Most of them just ignored her, some frightened merely by her presence, some would nod slightly to inform her they meant no harm. Chutki was just glad that she could look after her street. Sometimes, she would pass the time chasing rats or insects, munching on bones from lunch, or indulging in a brief snooze.
Tonight, she was doing just the latter when a stranger walked into the streets. A startled Chutki jumped with a questioning bark. The man ignored her. She growled. He did not respond. Chutki stepped forward, he smelt funny. She was confused. She noticed a bag in his hand. She barked again. This time the stranger shooed her away.
This happened often. Chutki would find some people funny. Most of them were cleanliness workers; the scents in the dustbins and garbage bags they carried were overwhelming. Usually, she would bark for a couple of rounds before they managed to shoo her away, after which she would move on to tend to another business.
This person was not acquainted with that technique. When she approached her again, he kicked her away. Perhaps offended, hurt or still curious for the funny smells, Chutki did not give up. She gnawed at his bag. The man hit her straight on the head with his walking stick. This was a battle now!
Chutki jumped and dug her teeth into his leg, the man screamed in pain. But Chutki’s barks were louder, she grabbed his leg again. This time, the man threw a successive burst of lashing at her. The little ball of fur was torn at places, blood trickling out. The man was strongly-built, and would not yield easily. The dog would tear him into pieces, he thought. Chutki showed intent. The man continued his attacks with the street. Some to the head, some to the chest, some to the legs. Chutki collapsed to the ground, nearly immobilised, but did not give up.
Chutki was barking madly, her teeth clenched into the bag, refusing to let go. The man jerked the bag away, flung it into the dustbin outside Kasai Chacha’s shop, and ran for his life. Chutki hobbled after, but could not follow more than a half-step after.
Chutki’s fight had not ended. She kept barking and growling. Her voice more aggressive, but failing in volume as she went on. Fatigue was setting in.
“Why won’t you shut up, you stupid dog!” an old lady screamed from a nearby balcony. She picked up a pebble from a plant pot nearby and threw it down.
Chutki could not dodge the pebble, and it hit her hard. Chutki let out a loud, groaning whine, and was silent.
The cold air began weighing down upon Chutki, her soul taking away the warmth along with. The welcoming air felt nastier that night. There was a loud explosion in the dustbin at Kasai Chacha’s. The next moment, the whole neighbourhood was up in flames, crumbling down.
Gopal had taken an earlier train that morning and had arrived in a street full of broken structures and flying ash. The police and fire-brigade were pulling out of the scene by then, the area cordoned off. Ambulances were reduced to being hearse vans that day. Office-goers found no tea that day, but a silent crowd of onlookers; amidst them, Gopal, clutching a small pack of Parle-G biscuits in his hand. He idly snapped his fingers. The neighbourhood was quiet.
Cover Image Credit: Alexas_Fotos from Pixabay