A Dog's Death

It was his very first day (to be precise, his very first night) in the mohallah (neighbourhood); This young dog with taut and tender skin, looked quite handsome. His bright brown skin with equally bright brown yet very fine cover of down looked hairless; only a close look would reveal that his skin was covered with fine hair. His brilliant brown eyes set off by black circles around them gave him a charming appearance. And right there was his unusually big mouth. He must have had a respectable lineage, but from his general demeanour and carriage, he pretty much appeared to be a fortune-hunting street dog. Probably, he had survived some hard times, because his strong muscles did speak eloquently of the physical struggle he had had so far.

Following the scent of a stranger, dogs of all breeds, ages and sizes came out barking from different streets. Soon, the new comer found himself surrounded by a large number of active and restless nostrils and glaring eyes, right in front of the shuttered shops of the green grocers, in the middle of the chowk (crossroad) of the mohallah. Finding a strange dog in their locality, the local dogs were as much perturbed as an eye by a mote. They all started making gestures of protest upon the arrival of this unwelcome guest, each according to his individual communication skills: some by a glare, some by a growl, some by snarling with a terrifying effect, and some (who believed in total freedom of expression) by continuous barking. The new comer felt a little unnerved by the ominous presence of this unfriendly pack, yet he soon pulled himself together. He was unable to get over this feeling of weakness but he at least suppressed its advertisement, and put a bold face on. He exhibited a bit of mastery in the execution of this survivalist gesture. The new comer looked around at the half-circle of the local dogs, sizing them up. Being a street dog, he had found himself in such situations before, and quite often such crises had ended in his humiliation and flight. He feared that history would repeat itself!

A powerful fear born of the past failures began taking charge of him; he felt weak in his legs. His silence gave a loud expression to his weakness, and added to the strength of his hosts. They started barking fiercely in a chorus. As he was about to take a blind leap over and out of this semi-circle to run for his life, a light brown dog who appeared to be the strongest of the pack, seized the moment and attacked the new-comer. The new-comer who did not expect this attack so soon, ducked involuntarily, and the assailant hit the concrete terrace of a shop really hard with his head, and passed out for a split second. And in that split second, the new-comer dug his teeth deep in the assailant’s neck. The pain and confusion took the better of the assailant and he struggled to disengage himself and ran off whining, pushing a couple of his companions down on ground in the process. A couple of dogs joined him in his flight, while the rest stood there frozen.

All this happened so swiftly that on the one hand the local dogs were left looking at this strangely brief bout just as stunned spectators, and on the other hand, the new-comer was surprised at this cowardly behaviour of his attacker. The new-comer also remembered having fled the field in the past but only after putting up a proper fight, and receiving a thorough beating! But, this victory was incredibly easy. However, soon realising that he was now a victor, the new comer, now the victor, controlled his credulity and started howling victoriously. No other dog dared to attack him.

Some dogs sidled away from the scene; others stood there in front of the victor in inward weakness and outward praise. Some even “woofed” in admiration. They had obviously accepted him as their superior. The victor’s loud howling was so convincing of his victory that it entered the depths of all the local dogs’ beings like a faith or like a primal fear.

Now the victor began to howl more and more awfully till he himself winced at the effect. His howl sounded a bit strange to him. He felt as if something had changed inside him. He felt as if his legs grew taller, and as if the dogs that stood in front of him had taken on feline forms. Was it a dream or reality, thought the victor.

The victor now settled down in that mohallah, and all the local dogs began to fear and respect him. His defeated enemy did never return to the mohallah. The run-away dog was probably the leader of the local dogs. So, as he left, his position passed on to this handsome dark brown dog who became the new leader of the pack.

The parts of the mohallah where the rich lived, and the food was in plenty were reserved for the victor. He would wander about and feed himself. He had also picked up a couple of dogs who would keep him constant company. He felt strong in their presence, and enjoyed their obeisance. He somehow realised that he was able to excite the similar feelings of fear and respect in the opposite sex but with a touch of romance. The female members of this small canine community were also well disposed towards him, and he enjoyed the company of the best of them.

Each evening, after a long day’s wandering, the local dogs would meet in the chowk in front of the green grocers’ shuttered shops. The victor would be the centre of attention, he would spin tales of his real and imaginary adventures to impress them. He had successfully created a heroic halo around himself. He had brought himself to believe in the essentiality of his eternal glory. He was convinced that his regal life would continue for ever. He got quite used to this new life style. Initially, it all was quite alien to him as he had been a common street dog all his life, moving from pillar to post for his survival. He never was able to stay in one locality for a long time as he was often humiliated and made to flee the area. But, for the first time in his life, he found some stability as well as some meaning in life: the glory of being a superior among his fellow canine creatures. He developed new manners, new demeanour and new carriage that suited his new position. He felt he was a natural and that he was cut out for his position of leadership and authority. He would walk with his head held high and wagged his tail in a pompous manner. His conduct now evinced a certain kind of assumed dignity.

The evening meeting of the pack ended in a ceremony that had assumed a certain religiosity: the victor would stand upright, flanked by his coterie of close companions, look at the sky, stretching his neck fully, summon all the power in his lungs and begin to howl at the top of his abilities. This was his way of commemorating his first victory in this mohallah that led to his present status. All the dogs in his company would listen to his howling session wrapped in deep silence and awe. The howling would start gently and then gradually rose to a crescendo of frenzy and ecstasy becoming more and more terrible in its awe-inspiring effect on the audience. The deeper and louder the victor howled, the more powerful he felt. It was during one such moment of deep self consciousness that he realised that a dog’s real power lies in his bark and not in his bite!” His whole being seemed reverberating with a sense of power. This celebration of his first victorious duel had attained the sanctity of a religious rite and his howling a sacrament that he would offer each night to the holy spirit of the god of victory. He promised himself that he would keep performing this rite every night of his living days.

But, one night, this celebration was omitted; a second night passed without it; then a third and a fourth. The victor had all of a sudden disappeared. The local dogs had not seen him for the last four days. His disappearance sent a wave of mixed emotions among this small canine community: there were both relief and restlessness. They felt good about being rid of him (though they all feared his return as well), but at the same time they were confronted with a power gap left by him. Everyone was thinking as to who would be the next leader. They all began to carefully watch each other, especially those who were close associates of the victor. There were many contenders, but none was taking the first step of attacking any other. None was throwing the gauntlet. Daring and challenging was fraught with possibilities: victory or humiliation and flight. And at the same time, there was also among the local dogs an unpleasant feeling of waiting for the missing leader. Hence, they were not clear as to how to handle the new situation. The things were in a state of suspension.

The missing leader, the dark brown handsome dog, the victor, on the other hand, was hiding for the last few days, among heaps of trash, in a dirt depot situated outside the mohallah. The place was steeped in squalor and the air was heavy with fumes of stench and foul smell. This was the place where the sweepers from the mohallah would deposit all kind of muck and trash. The victor had taken refuge among the muck heaps. He did not have the courage to go back to his vanquished companions who had seen his glory and power. His neck showed a wide wound that was festering and looked really ugly. This happened as he was attacked in another mohallah a few days ago where being alone he had been attacked by a pack of local dogs. The fight had ended in his humiliation and he also received a deep wound. He had been licking his wound but this time it did not help and the wound developed maggots. His skin had lost its brilliance; his body was covered in dirt; he was feeling weak inside. He happened to have a look at his reflection in a water pond as he bent by the edge to drink some water, and was aghast to see the great change in his appearance from beauty to ugliness. This utterly shattered his confidence.

He was quite embarrassed with himself. He felt abhorrence towards his new appearance. His loneliness and his constant rolling in dirt made him forget his good manners and dignified conduct. He was much less a dog than he ever had been. I wish I could return to my former good looks and glory! He thought. He was devoured by a strange sense of guilt. He felt as if his physical ugliness and his festering wound had passed to his soul as well. He did not believe that it was all true. He wished it were a dream, just a dream from which he would wake up to his beautiful and glorious life. But reality stood facing him stubbornly. The desire to go back to the chowk to join the canine community he had commanded had been nagging him constantly, but he could not pluck courage to do so. He was too embarrassed and afraid to go back. From his present abode, he was able to see clearly the path that led into the town, to the mohallah where he had been like a king a couple of weeks ago. How many nights had passed without the holy howling! How many days he had been without his entourage. He had not left the dirt depot at all during all this time to go anywhere.

He missed his high life, but most of all he missed his howling, the drunken feeling of power coursing through his blood, and the rapt, awed silence of his audience. He looked over the dirt heaps, and gazed at the full moon shining in the distant sky. The brilliance of the full moon had dimmed the light of the stars in the sky, and they were hardly visible. A few weeks ago he was like this full moon in the mohallah, he thought! And this train of thoughts took the better of him. Images from the past glory transported him to a world of fantasy. The kaleidoscope ran and brought back vivid images of his life in the mohallah, and then the kaleidoscope froze an image, the image of the victor offering the sacrament of howling to the holy spirit of the god of victory.

The muck heaps around him disappeared, the dirt that was clung to his body dissolved, the ugly wide wound in his neck vanished, the sheen of his skin returned, and so did the strength of his lungs. He stood upright, looked at the sky, stretched his neck fully, and began to howl at the top of the strength of his lungs. He howled louder than ever. He felt the ecstasy and frenzy imbuing his soul. And then he started to run powerfully on the path that led into the mohallah. The magic of revival was incredible. He ran at the top of his speed and power and entered the mohallah. He was heading toward the chowk, where he had seen the best days and nights of his life. Racing through different streets, as he arrived in the chowk, he stopped abruptly. He saw a familiar scene. Just in front of the green grocers’ shuttered shops were assembled the local dogs, and in his place there stood a new dog, a black, handsome dog, with shining black skin, and a thick hairy tale like that of a fox. They were all looking at him, though he had stopped about ten to fifteen meters from them. Probably, they had heard him howl as well as catching the smell of his body.

His appearance had so much changed that the local dogs stared at him in the light of full moon as if trying to recognise him. This scrutiny woke him up to his shabby looks. The wounded dog saw a strange light in the eyes of the local dogs. He knew the meaning of this light. The magic of revival left, the ecstasy evaporated, and the wounded dog felt a twinge of pain in his wounded neck. All the submerged terrors in his soul sprang to the surface. He winced a little. The young black dog with shining skin, barked fiercely, and the rest of the dogs echoed in a chorus. The wounded dog opened his mouth for a bark, but he felt as if he had lost his voice. The very next moment, the black dog sprang towards him. The wounded dog turned, took a leap away from the pack and started running in giant leaps. He was sure that death was in his pursuit. All his energies now focussed on running faster than his pursuers. The whole pack was chasing him, howling terribly. He was running blindly. Soon he was out of the mohallah, then he passed by his last abode, the dirt depot. They were behind him like a pack of fell terriers chasing a fox, fierce with the bloody but delicious prospect of killing. A distance of about thirty meters parted the hunters and the hunted. Now, they were out of town, racing wildly over the fields. Their loud howling had sent a wave of terror through the stillness of the night. They were all racing, taking big leaps. They were running as if possessed by an over riding passion. It was a terrifying scene being enacted against the backdrop of a beautiful moonlit night.

All of a sudden, the pursuers sensed a touch of weakness in the flight of the wounded dog. This gave a fillip to their passion and speed. Their howling grew louder; the distance grew less and less. Fearing the approaching death, the wounded dog made a last desperate attempt to get away from the hunters. He summoned all his energy and took a blind leap to gain some distance. He sprang up in the air, and landed some good distance from the pack. But, this time he landed in water. He, unfortunately, fell into a water well by the edge of a level corn field! Before he fell in water, his head hit the inner wall of the well and he passed out for a moment. He fell and soon went under water. A few moments later, he swam to the surface and rushed his head out of the water to breathe. He saw, with his half-closed eyes, his former companions encircling the brink of the well, still barking as fiercely as ever. While barking they were almost kneeling with their mouths inside the well as if trying to reach him. Their eyes were shot with blood; their long white teeth were shining by the moonlight. In his last attempt to hold on to life, the wounded dog tried to find a paw hold in the wall to keep his head above water, but his nails could not do more than scratch the slippery surface of the wall. He was tired, hungry, wounded and weak. He looked at a circle of red eyes and white teeth above, and struggled a smile. They could not reach him any more. Then he felt dizziness coming over him, and the terrible howling noise died.