(Inspired by the drawing below by Parvathi Mohan)

When Paru bought the box of combs at the local jumble sale, she was not bargaining to have her life turned upside down. The six combs, all brand new, were laid out in a velvet lined box with its own golden hinges and dainty latch. She wanted the box, badly. The combs, she wasn’t too keen. In fact, she never used combs. She had a lovely brush for her wavy black hair. 

Some of Paru’s uncles were bald, not egg bald yet but getting there on a fast train. She could count on her fingers the hair remaining on their head. Ok, maybe fingers and toes. There’s a thought. She could gift the combs to her uncles and keep the box. Definitely, a good investment of her pocket money. Her mind was made up.  

The stall owner was an old woman with skin wrinkled like a well-worn shoe. She was dressed in a black silk gown. Granny was old. She looked like Granny’s granny. Her hair was not grey or silver but a brilliant white, the colour of new snow. It didn’t look real. But if it were a wig, why would it be white? Her frail body was bent, the shape of a cashew nut.

The woman’s eyes were two little suns shining from her oval face. Dad had once showed Paru how to set fire to paper using a magnifying glass in the sunlight. The woman probably hid a magnifying glass behind each eye. She could burn anything she looked at.

Paru glanced around for mum. She was at a book stall a few metres away. Why was she always buying books? Dad was the same. Every wall in their house was taken up with bookshelves, every corner had a shelf of – what else – books, even the kitchen table had a semi-permanent pile. At last, mum was walking in her direction. Thank God. She will stop the comb seller from turning her ten-year old daughter to cinder. 

“How much is this please?” Paru asked, trying not to show her fear.

“Just a fiver for you, my dear,” the woman smiled. 

Her voice did not match her looks. Paru expected it to sound sandpapery to go with her blazing eyes and eagle beak nose. But it had the soft ring of wind chimes.

Mum arrived just in time and set about examining the combs. She plucked their fine teeth like a harp, bent them every which way, knocked them against the tabletop. It was as if she were the world’s foremost expert on combs. 

Finally, she declared, “Genuine buffalo horn.” Paru handed the woman her pocket money for the month. The woman locked the box and handed it to her. Still holding the key in her hand, she whispered in her ear, “Paru, you will travel to interesting places!” 

What! How did she know her name? What interesting places? But she didn’t dare ask.

Then handing the key over, she said, “I am Cecilia. Look after them.” 

*

Every night, before going to bed, Paru unplaited and brushed her long, soft hair.

“It will start sweeping the floor soon,” mum joked sometimes.

Later that evening, Paru took the combs out of their box and studied them. Running her fingers along their handles, she felt some embossed letters. They were hard to read, however hard she squinted. Thinking quickly, she fetched the magnifying glass from dad’s study. Each comb had something different written on them. She felt like a detective from mum’s TV serials. She carefully copied the words on a piece of paper:

       FOREST, GRASSLAND, TUNDRA, DESERT, FRESH WATER, MARINE

She had no idea what some of these words meant. But she wasn’t going to give away her secret to anyone, not even to her parents. Cecilia should have given her more information. Just then, a cunning plan occurred to her. She sneaked downstairs and fixed the list on the fridge door with a magnet. That evening, mum asked her,

       “Paru, are they teaching you ecosystems at school?”

       “No, mum. I copied the words from somewhere,” she replied truthfully. Then suppressing a fake yawn, and putting on a by-the-way-I-am-not-interested-in-this-stuff look, she asked,

“Mum, what are ecosystems?”

Her parents smiled at each other, looking pleasantly surprised. Although both were Environmental Science teachers, this was the first time Paru had shown any interest in the subject. 

       “Ecosystems are complex, interconnected…” Dad started but stopped himself midway.

“Why don’t we watch a film on Ecosystems?” he said.

Almost jumping up from the sofa and forgetting all about the not-interested look she had put on a minute ago, she said,

       “Please can we watch it now?”

Paru was awestruck by the variety of life on Earth. She was fascinated by how everything fitted together like a giant jigsaw puzzle. The Earth itself was a living story book far more exciting than any fairy tale. Cecilia’s words, “look after them”, came back to her. Did she mean the polar bears, zebras, and multicoloured parrots? How could a ten-year-old look after all of them? 

Paru was impatient to get back to her room and investigate further. But she didn’t want her parents to suspect anything and come knocking at her door. She gobbled her dinner and brushed her teeth. At exactly nine o’clock, her official bed time, she kissed her parents good night and disappeared into her room. 

Opening her box of combs, Paru sat in front of the large mirror in her room. She untied her hair and let it cascade over her right shoulder. Choosing the comb marked FOREST, she started combing in long downward strokes. Within a short time, she was using it like an expert. Her mind wandered. She thought of her friends at school, the jokes they told each other, the pranks they played on their classmates. All the while, she continued to comb. Long, elegant strokes.

Something strange was happening, something that felt unreal. She could see her hair but not her face or the rest of her body. Shrubs and trees were shooting up from each strand of hair.  Big eyed frogs croaked from boulders. Bright, feathered parrots with red beaks shrieked. Koels sang perched on tall bamboo trees. A waterfall crashed down in one corner. Fish of all shapes and colours swam in little ponds carpeted with water lilies. Monkeys swung from branches. Every strand of hair on her head had transformed into something else. It was as if she had disappeared and all that was left was the black comb moving by itself. Up down, up down. She was inside a tropical forest. The air was warm and humid. Paru was part of the ecosystem! Yes. She was enjoying her trip, as Cecilia had predicted.

But wait, who was that giant at the edge of the forest? And why was she wearing Paru’s pyjamas? Why! It was Paru herself. It was as if she had entered a miniature world, a bit like Gulliver in Lilliput. She decided to enjoy the adventure while it lasted although she knew it was only a pleasant dream. There could be no other explanation. 

It was only by chance that she noticed some men prowling about with rifles. She didn’t like the look of them. Fortunately, none of them could see her although she was standing right next to them. She watched them run towards the waterfall. There were six of them and were surrounding a huge elephant. Its tusks nearly as long as its trunk, it was a magnificent animal with large fan ears. Then, one of the men took aim and fired. He missed by a few centimetres. A million birds, startled by the gunshot, flew squawking from the trees. The elephant raised its trunk and trumpeted so loud that the trees shook. It charged up the mountain. The men chased after it. 

Paru knew she had to act. With a sweep of her indexfinger, she knocked down all the men as if they were pawns on a chessboard. She broke a length of vine from a tree, tied them up in a bundle and left them on top of the tallest tree.

Her arm was beginning to hurt. She stopped combing. Suddenly, the forest disappeared. So did the baddies with their rifles. No elephants, no monkeys, no birds – nothing. She was sitting in front of the mirror, black comb in hand, long hair over her right shoulder. The reflection in the mirror was as it should have been. Just an ordinary little girl sitting in an ordinary little room. It was well past her bedtime and Paru dived under the duvet.

She woke up late next morning wondering about the most amazing dream of her life. She went down for breakfast and just couldn’t wait to tell her friends at school. Just then she glanced at the TV. Breaking news, scrolled the headlines, “Six illegal ivory poachers tied up and left on a tree.”

A few years ago, I ended up inside a police van. We had hired a cottage in north Cornwall for the Easter holidays. On Easter Sunday, after a heavy downpour in the early hours, the weather changed. The sun emerged from behind the clouds warming the wet earth. It held the promise of a long and glorious day. Man, they say, lives by hope.

     At around 7 AM, I decided to go for a walk in the nearby forest with Monty, our chocolate Labrador. Now, I say ‘forest’ to save face. It was just a thicket behind the Kilkhampton post office. The intention was to do an hour’s walk, and be back in time for breakfast. We walked into the woods following the sign-posted footpath. Monty chased after damp squirrels and splashed in the streams. I marvelled at the grand old trees and the verdant foliage. The delightful song of blackbirds welcomed the morning. We were having a smashing time, my dog and I. That was until we strayed off the footpath and got lost.

     My sense of direction is not something I’m proud of. I’m painfully aware that my mental compass has a 180-degree error. I have spatial inversion syndrome, if such a condition exists.  When I’m driving, my gut instinct invariably proves wrong. I turn left when I should have turned right. I go north when my destination is south. Landmarks and other useful information slip off my mental register like water on Teflon. 

     As I searched for the exit, some of the streams and fences were becoming all too familiar. I needed anything but a sense of déjà vu that morning. It felt as if we were trapped in the world’s most complex maze. Monty must have sensed it too, judging by his sideways glances at me. His big brown eyes pleaded, ‘Can we please go home? I’m hungry.’ We walked for a couple of hours. Those who know Cornwall also know that one cannot walk for hours in a north Cornish copse without reaching Devon or the sea; this was not the Amazon. 

     Then it started raining. It was not the usual drip drip of leaking clouds, but a late morning monsoon-like deluge. The rainwater cascaded down through the beech and oak trees. Little rivulets sprang up everywhere. My waterproofs and Gortex lined walking boots completely dishonoured their guarantee. I was soaked, all the way, top to bottom, outside and inside. I had neither phone nor wallet on my person as I had not planned to spend my day walking. Monty’s shiny coat was saturated, and he gave up on shaking himself dry. ‘What’s the point?’ he seemed to ask.

     Eventually, after deliberately executing the opposite of what my gut was instructing, we found an exit. Emerging from the woods, we crossed a water-logged field and knocked on someone’s door. A pipe smoking farmer with an Abraham Lincoln beard and well-worn denim dungarees, opened the door. He was nice and dry and so was his home. The aroma of fresh coffee had never been so appealing. 

     ‘We’re lost’, I said, ‘We need to get back to Kilkhampton’. 

     He pointed at the field I had just crossed. ‘Just go across there, go back into the woods, turn right where you cross the stream. When you see a stile, jump over and Bob’s your uncle. It’s less than half a mile, if that’. 

     I instantly recognised he wasn’t going to drive us to our cottage in his Land Rover, or offer me a nice mug of coffee, or provide us shelter from the incessant rain. Why would he? My place was practically next door.

     ‘Oh no! I am not going back into the woods, no way. Never!’ Having escaped the woods, Monty and I were like sailors off a sinking ship who had swum to an island of refuge. Farmer Abe was advising us to go back to sea. Thanks, but no thanks. 

     ‘You could take the road then,’ he was clearly taken aback by my vehemence bordering on belligerence. ‘It will be a good couple of miles, though,’ he said and shut the door.

     I took him literally. ‘Couple is two, few is three or four, several is five’, I remembered this from my school days. I didn’t realise that in Cornwall ‘a good couple’ was significantly different from the plain couple. My stomach ached from hunger. Monty resisted the tug on his lead and occasionally sat down to rest. We marched on, the regular squelch of my waterlogged footwear sounding like the drum-beat of an army in retreat.

     We walked never ending spaghetti roads for the next hour and a half, finally reaching the A39. This narrow single-carriageway, snaking all the way from Devon in the north to Penzance in the south, has no footway and is not designed for dog walkers. I saw a camp site and asked some people for directions to Kilkhampton. My gut feeling told me it was just around the corner; I was concerned because I knew my gut was clueless.

     ‘It is a long way’, the camper appeared genuinely concerned, ‘quite a long way mate,’ he pointed in the direction of Devon. The trajectory of his pointing hand was quite steep confirming his estimation of the long distance. I was in deep trouble. Caravans, campervans, cars and coaches, spilling with holiday makers chased the mirage of the absent sun. I made some half-hearted attempts at thumbing down the vehicles. No luck. Who would want two wet mammals in their vehicle? We were walking on the wrong side of the road to avoid getting run over from behind. Even if someone had stopped, it wouldn’t have helped. At long last, I saw a police van approach. I dived dangerously in front of it, dragging Monty with me. The van, bless the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary, stopped for us.

     ‘Can we help you, sir?’ asked the friendly policeman in the passenger seat.

     ‘Oh, yes please! We got lost in the woods.’ 

     Pointing north, I continued,

     ‘I need to get to Kilkhampton. Could you please give us a lift?’

     ‘We have a job in Bude’, he said indicating south. ‘Tell you what, though. You keep heading that way. We’ll be back shortly. If we see you still walking, we’ll give you a lift. How’s that?’

     After some 45 minutes, several near misses, and repeated premonitions of the next day’s headlines of the Cornwall Times, ‘Man and his dog die in tragic accident on the A39’, I heard a loud honk behind me. The good policeman had kept his promise.

     ‘Hello again, sir!’ the constable smiled, ‘you won’t need the gym today, would you?’ It was still raining; he probably mistook my tears for rain water. His wit was wasted on me. Monty was dog-tired in the true sense of the expression. He just wanted breakfast. Opening the sliding door on the side, my saviour gestured for us to get in.

     It was my first time inside a police van, having kept my nose reasonably clean all my life. The van was divided into three compartments: the front one for the driver and a passenger; the middle one where I sat with Monty; and a cage inside the boot. There was a vertical steel grill separating the cage from the rest of the van. Monty quickly settled down for a snooze on the floor after a few random barks aimed at the cage.

      ‘Oh,’ said the policeman, ‘there is a gentleman in the cage. Don’t mind him’.

     As my eyes got used to the relative darkness of the van, I noticed a young lad in his late teens, black hoodie and all, hunched in a corner of the cage. I managed a weak ‘hello mate’. He didn’t acknowledge me and scowled at his finger nails. 

     The police dropped us at our cottage. I have often wondered what misdemeanour the youth had indulged in to be locked up in the boot of that police van. To this day, I think of the policeman’s sense of propriety with a sense of admiration – the propriety that compelled him to refer to his captive as ‘a gentleman in the cage’.

What is special about this card key that occupies a prominent place in my museum of memories? The story may amuse you, but to me it is just one episode from a long list reinforcing my lifelong suspicion that I am the unsuspecting protagonist in a never-ending series of candid camera.

I was in South Tyneside College to attend a course on high voltage electric propulsion, in connection with an investigation. I had rung ahead to a nice hotel located by the sea and asked for a room with a sea view, but when I checked in, was told that all the rooms with sea views were taken. Nothing new there; I rarely got a hotel room with a view.

Hurrying up to my room, I swiped the key against the door. It would not open. Frustrated, I looked around helplessly. I was already late for class. A young hotel maid saw me struggle and came over.

‘Let me help you, Sir’, she offered and I meekly handed her the key. It didn’t work for her either.

‘Hmmm. It may be damaged,’ she said, ‘so finicky, these plastic keys. I’ll get you a new one. Sorry about this, sir.’

I did not tell her that it was the story of my life and gave her a doleful look instead. Within minutes, she returned with a new key, and voila, the door opened.

It was a room with a sea view! Not only that, it was spacious with plush leather furniture and polished oak floor; a large bed with goose down pillows; and glorious cotton sheets. A sweet smelling orchid was laid across one of the pillows. Even the maid was surprised at the look of disbelief on my face.

I had expected the usual: a dingy room overlooking a moss laden concrete terrace; polyester fibre pillows that guaranteed insomnia; and mangy, smelly carpets.

‘My fortunes have changed, I have escaped from the clutches of the candid camera man’, I thought as I thanked the maid, dumped my suitcase and ran to the class.

It was a good day of learning and I thoroughly immersed myself in the class forgetting all about the lucky start to my day and the room with a view. After class, I decided to walk back to the hotel. The salty smell of the sea, the throaty lament of the seagulls, and the golden afterglow of twilight – all transported me back to my youth when I sailed the oceans as a marine engineer.

Lost in reverie, I reached my hotel in a state of calm and well being. After a quick shower, a cold beer and dinner, I was ready for bed.

I sank into the soft pillows and scented gossamer sheets. Gently, I transitioned to a make belief world between wakefulness and sleep where I always got the things I wanted, where rooms and restaurant tables with views were written into my life’s contract and where my journey on Earth was not signposted by one mishap after the other. I yielded to sleep as my rumination on this lucky day mingled with my dreams.

Then I woke up. A big burly man was singing sea shanties in a booming voice as he staggered around the room switching on all the lights. He stood by my bed swinging a little suitcase and balancing himself as if he was on the deck of a ship at sea. He sang ‘Heyho the lazy sailor’. I saw that the giant was ready to collapse on top of me and screamed. The man froze, stopped singing and let out a deep growl like a tiger disturbed while mating. Then, realising his mistake, he turned and headed unsteadily back towards the door.

‘Sorry mate, wrong room, wrong room,’ he mumbled in confusion.

‘No worries, just switch off the lights’, I was magnanimous.

I slipped back into my orchid scented dream and woke up in the morning feeling fresh and rested. I was positive the episode of the drunken sailor had taken place in an unreal world.

The woman at the breakfast hall asked me for my room number.

‘235’ I spoke over her head eyeing several empty tables overlooking the sea. It was getting late for my class and I wanted her to get on with it.

‘Mr Warburton? Edward Warburton?’ she queried, with a slightly incredulous look.

‘No, Chandroth, Gopinath Chandroth’.

‘No problem Sir. I think they made a mistake on the list. It has Mr Warburton in 235 and yourself in 234. Not to worry love!’, she was apologetic.

The penny dropped a little later. Edward Warburton, the inebriated singer of sea shanties, was not the intruder. I was. To this day, I wonder where Mr Warburton spent that night!

My dearest Monty G, 

You left us today. If there is a dog heaven, you must be there already. If you did not get in, then I do not know who will. A sweeter dog than you there never was.     

Will I walk you tomorrow? Who will notice a man walking an absent dog? I will have your brown lead dangling from my pocket. I will carry your favourite biscuits and I will whistle for you. I will do this every morning, rain or snow or Christmas. For you insist on your walks and now I cannot just stop. I will not remember you are no more. I will shout your name in the woods and other dog owners will roll their eyes and smile ‘Labradors’, they would say. “Yes Labradors!”, I would concur and roll my eyes in reply and ever so surreptitiously, wipe a tear. 

I will not paint the wall or polish the floor at home to erase the dark patches where you snuggled. I will not throw away your bed or remove it from the landing – the bed that you chewed to make your own. I see you contorting your huge body into the little space under my desk, the space you claim as your own and insist on occupying. “Go write somewhere else”, you say.

I will keep you alive. To me, Monty G, you are not dead. You have just gone missing and you will answer my whistling. It is time to pick up mum from the bus stop. Come on. Let’s go. You will raise your moist nose and wag your tail when you spot her at a distance. You will then ignore her when she is close. Such a wind-up artist you are! 

Your brother is weeping, mum is weeping too, but I have no tears because to me you are only missing. Gone to find that tasty piece of sandwich someone has jettisoned in the bush. You know you have to return to me when you sense I am too far away for comfort, when your metric of separation is exceeded. You will abandon your tasty morsel and return reluctantly, casting wistful backward glances at what you had to forego.

 Your smell lingers at home. The water bowl is full. There is a full meal in your plate. All you need to do is turn up now. You may tap me with your paws and threaten to climb into bed if you don’t get your walk on time. Please, just once you need to bark in that complaining whining sort of fashion. Neither angry nor nasty, just impatient. 

 It is not even the weekend. You will not allow me a lie-in like you do on weed ends and bank holidays. You know a lot more than you let on. Your barks get increasingly more frequent, stubbornly insistent. You drool through the gaps in your teeth and eventually, I accept defeat and succumb to your bullying. 

 So, yes. Monty G, you are missing. That is all. We are walking in the woods. Just me and your brown lead, and a missing chocolate lab. You smile down at me from dog heaven as I whistle shoooeee phoooeeee shoooeee. The metric of separation has long been overshot. You need to return. You must. Please

In Gorkha district of Nepal, halfway between Kathmandu and Pokhara, is a 17th century temple called Manakamana, which literally translates to heart’s wish. It was one of the scheduled stops in my itinerary. The cable car ride up the Himalayan mountain was famous for the spectacular views and the deity at the temple was believed to grant the wishes of those who visited her. Good value for money, I thought as I queued up to pay for my ride. I was tickled by the fares table that announced a two-way ticket for goats at 240 Rupees. I assumed it was a joke.

After boarding, I noticed that the car in front of mine was carrying several goats. So, it was no joke. Anyway, the scenery, as promised, was heavenly. The mountain range in its pristine glory cradled the fast flowing Trisuli river shimmering in the sun. As the cars ascended, the verdant flora changed rapidly. The icy peaks of the Himalayas, like sculpted crystal, refracted the sunlight into the azure sky. Little hutments clung on impossibly to vertical slopes.

As they stepped off the cable cars, people collected their goats and pulled them along with short lengths of ropes looped around their neck. The goats appeared reluctant. Some people carried large roosters in plastic bags. The birds poked their heads out and swivelled them left and right, observing the world with their unblinking eyes. The bright red cockscomb on their head, like antennae, perhaps received premonitions of imminent misfortune. The crowd trudged up the long flight of steps.

I followed them and finally reached the temple. In the courtyard outside, shops sold flowers, incense, oil lamps and other accoutrement of worship. Strangely, one of the shops offered a barbecue service. A large banyan tree with benches around its base, offered some respite from the sun. Those who couldn’t find a place under the banyan, sat on the pavement outside little makeshift food stalls.

Goats, big and small, their skins like patchwork quilts of black, brown and white, were tethered to lamp posts and the legs of plastic chairs. Children played on the cemented floor and the devotees wore a look of grim determination. I thought I saw on their face, fleeting shades of remorse. It was as if they wished the animals no harm but were about to harm them out of religious compulsions. A brown goat nestled its head in the crook of its owner’s arm.

The line inched ahead to gain access to the temple. It was only then that I saw another line emerging from the opposite end. Foreheads plastered with vermilion and turmeric, the devout clutched carrier bags containing the butchered remains of their animals. Fresh blood dripped from the bags. Four black hooves and a severed head stuck out of one, like a post-modern painting. They left a trail of blood in their wake as they made their way to the barbecue shop. The pious were strangely quiet and subdued, perhaps also carrying a mild sense of guilt.

The excited chatter of those waiting to go in competing with the noise of booming drums and wind instruments, desperate bleating of goats and the frantic cluck-cluck of roosters, together reached a crescendo. The smell of blood melded with that of incense, jasmine and marigold.

People waited patiently for their turn, wanting to pray for their own desires to come true. New arrivals rushed to take their position in the long queue as it inched forward. The goats, never eager to keep up with their owners, slowed their progress. Feeling nauseous, I left my place in the queue. I knew that my heart’s wish, to protect all living things, would not be fulfilled at this temple.

I went back down the hill to take the cable car down. A deep sadness clouded my view of the Himalayan scenery. I didn’t see the glorious ice peaks or the majestic picture postcard scenery. All I saw was a recalcitrant goat trying to brake with his hooves while the faithful dragged him to the sacrificial altar. Above the whirr of the cable car, I heard his trembling bleat. I hear it now.

Dear goat, I seek your forgiveness for the wicked foolishness of my species. I bid you farewell and caress your gentle forehead while you wait for your end. Why they charge you a two-way fare, confounds me.

“999 – what’s your emergency?”

“I need an ambulance”, is what I planned to say, but didn’t. Sometimes, the best ideas in life come in a flash. In that brief interlude between hearing the operator’s voice and opening my mouth to speak, I was struck by a thought that changed my life forever, and threw me in prison.

In 2008, I was charged with the first-degree murder of Charlene Smith, a street walker in her early twenties. The jury was unanimous in their ‘guilty’ verdict and I got a life sentence.

Life before prison was filled with trivia. Facebook notifications, Tweets, WhatsApp forwards, emails, text messages, movies on demand, 24-hour news, serials I had to watch … intruders who came in to my life as polite guests but soon became masters. I was unable to concentrate on anything. My mind was a monkey jumping from tree to tree. I had the attention span of a moth.

I have spent the last ten years in prison, mostly in solitary confinement. I was not allowed to have a phone or connect my laptop to the internet. In these ten years, I have completed my life’s work. I have written the trilogy that I only dreamed of writing all my life. I have read all the books I wanted to read. I think I am now ready to demand a retrial and prove my innocence.

So, what’s the story? I was walking home one evening after a particularly unproductive day at the office. It was late January, and as I negotiated the icy patches on the streets of Soho, I lamented the futility of my life and I knew that I had to change my life if I wished to continue living. I entered a quiet service lane without shops or cafes.

As I reached halfway down the street, I saw a young woman lying motionless on the street. Instinctively, I ran to help her and saw she had been stabbed. Her blood gushed out and formed little rivulets on the tarmac turning the ice on the street, crimson. The smell of cheap perfume melded with that of fresh blood.

As I looked around in panic, I saw someone – a man – running away. I wanted to help her and the first thing I did was feel her pulse. She had none. Her eyes were wide open, the pupils dilated and fixed and she wasn’t breathing. I knew she was dead and I could see she had a kitchen knife buried deep in her chest. I reached for my phone and dialled 999.

‘999 – what’s your emergency?’

‘I have just killed someone.’

In case I had forgotten, I am reminded. I am back in Delhi, the city of my childhood. “Be careful”, cautions Maya, the caretaker who I had known as a young school girl and is now a mother of three daughters in their twenties. Two of Maya’s front teeth are missing, like absent milestones of time, marking the passage of some 40 years. “Be careful of the dogs, big brother”, she warns me.

I go to the balcony and look outside. Hordes of stray mongrels roam the streets. Some have colourful winter coats on. Occasionally, they settle some canine scores with sporadic fights, but are peaceful on the whole.

I need to withdraw some money. As I open the gate and step outside the apartment building, the younger of the three chowkidars (security guards), asks me, “Where are you going, big brother?” A direct question, which anywhere else in the world would have been considered too direct. “To the cash machine”, I reply because I know his question is only a preamble to providing me with some unsolicited, but free advice. With a look I couldn’t quite place and a nod that said “Wait, don’t go away”, he disappears behind the building. He brings me a staff, roughly the size of a walking stick.

“If you keep this with you, the dogs won’t bite”, he said handing me the staff. “Hide it when you see the black and white dog,” the second chowkidar cautions, “she attacks people with sticks”. Resembling a biblical shepherd, I venture out. I see some dogs sleeping on the roof of parked cars, and some under them. I walk tentatively, stick in hand to ward off dogs who are afraid of sticks while scanning the streets for the vicious black-and-white dog who would attack me, for carrying one. I return home without incident and sleep off my jet lag.

I wake up to a clamour outside. A good Samaritan has come to feed the stray dogs, but a local resident objects and they argue loudly. Several others join in and soon it is a full-blown shouting match between the pro-dog group (dog-walleh, as Maya calls them) and anti-dog group. The dogs gather around and watch curiously. They are silent as if not wanting to add to the racket. A man tilts his head sideways at a black-and-white dog, not daring to point at her directly. “She has bitten 24 people so far”. She wags her tail at those who dare glance in her direction. Who? Me? Bite? Never!

I don’t find out who wins the argument. My friend arrives to take me for dinner. He explains the reason for the proliferation of dogs in Delhi. The government minister in charge of animal welfare has banned the killing of stray dogs. Her solution is to neuter them. My friend tells me how everyone drives, even two houses down the road, because of their fear of being bitten. That is, everyone who can afford a car, not the little people.

The little people, he adds in parentheses, include maids, chowkidars, drivers, cooks, gophers, ironing people, vegetable sellers, gardeners, hangers on, and visiting relatives of the little people. I remind him I am no foreign tourist and have grown up in Delhi. I know who the little people are and why they remain little. I am incensed by the social disparities in my native land, I tell him. “Ok, ok! Let’s stick to dogs”, my friend stops me midstream.

I conclude day one. Lots of running around, more wise counsel than I could shake a stick (staff) at, broken promises, circular arguments and dog fights. And, a fight about dogs too. Yes, I am home!

My wife and I are back in Delhi some three months later. Nothing has changed. The sterilisation programme seems to be effective; well, almost. I see a litter of six pups in the community garden opposite our apartment. They appear hungry and cold, and sleep on top of each other for warmth. Tiny heads, paws and tails poke out from the ball of dogs inflating and deflating as they breathe. They could be an art installation at Tate Modern. I hear horror stories of an entire litter being run over by a car causing the heartbroken black-and-white mother to bite passers-by. It is too horrific to even imagine and I console myself it is a fabricated tale.

My wife, devoid of any fear of dogs, strokes their forehead and talks to them. She refuses to carry a stick. The deadly black-and-white dog seems to have changed her character or is just overwhelmed by the kindness. Her brown eyes smile. She nuzzles up to my wife wagging her bushy tail in grateful appreciation.

Some dogs are allowed into the dog-wallehs’ homes to spend the night but are ejected at daybreak so as not to upset the anti-dog- wallehs. A passer- by stops and talks to one of them. It sounds like he is cooing to a baby. The dogs continue to be fed, surreptitiously and in darkness.

There is an NGO (non-governmental organisation) who takes care of their welfare. They are funded by a section of the community who believe that the first chapatti of the day should go to the cow and the last to the dog. At every nightfall, a young employee of the NGO arrives on a bicycle laden with tiffin carriers. He lays down newspapers at the side of the road to feed them rice and chicken. They are happy and come alive, energised by the meal. My sleep is punctuated by their collective barking. Their synchronised moan makes me uncomfortable and I pull my blanket over my head.

The sound of the chowkidar’s bamboo staff crashing on the tarmac every few minutes, and the piercing screech of his whistle transport me to my school days. ‘I am awake. I am alert’, is his message to thieves and other undesirable elements of the night. The dogs sleep, probably dreaming of warmth and food. They don’t do him the courtesy of opening their eyes. It is the Delhi I know. Nothing has changed, yet nothing feels the same.

Day breaks. A chauffeur, bored of waiting for his employer to emerge from his mansion, goes around beating random dogs with a stick. He has a sinister smile on his face and the dogs yelp in surprised pain. I scream at him from my balcony and ask him how he would feel if I were to go down and beat him with a stick. His wanton cruelty is exposed and he is embarrassed. His brief illusory world of a tiger-hunting Maharaja is shattered. He drops his stick. I go and cry in the bathroom.

Like everything in the country of my birth, things are not as they appear to be. There are layers of meanings to everything. Every story recounted has a moral, but their complexities confound linear analysis. Before long someone will build a shrine, on our street in Delhi, dedicated to a black-and-white dog. Truth and myth will merge and dog-wallehs and anti-dog-wallehs will pay obeisance to her, ring a bell and say a prayer. Of this, I am certain.

Paul,

I owe an apology to Sonny. On my evening walk yesterday, I saw him halfway to Tesco, looking lost and forlorn. An elderly couple was engaged in conversation with him. He was instantly recognisable: a mix of tabby and white with tortoise shell grey, playful kitten approaching full cathood, no collar, and slight to moderate belly. It was your cat and he was lost.

Sliding my headphones off, I said to the couple,

“It’s my neighbour’s cat”.The assertion must have come across mildly belligerent, for the couple quickly moved away.

“Sonny, what you doing here? Go home”, I chided him.

He responded by rubbing his head against my trousers. This was typical Sonny behaviour. The cat’s identity was confirmed without doubt.

I then uttered the magic words you had told me about when we last discussed Sonny: “Food, Food”. The hope was he would then follow me home. But he didn’t respond and, in fact, looked rather cross. He probably resented anyone other than his owners speaking the magic words. This was turning out more difficult than necessary. I made a couple of quick calls to both you and Doreen but they went straight to your voice mails.

The next step was brave and, in hindsight, foolishly Quixotic. Laying down an empty shopping bag on its side and holding it open like a cat flap, I pleaded with Sonny to get in. Passers-by looked on with amusement. Some even rolled their eyes but didn’t interfere. They probably thought it was a matter best left between a man and his cat. Sonny gave me a look like I have never had from anyone, let alone a cat. It was one of undisguised contempt and disdain, roughly translating to,

“Are you real?”

Thinking about it now, there was no way any cat would have willingly walked into a bag. But at the time it seemed a good idea. I inched the bag closer, mentally assessing the risk of my intended actions. Having been immunised against rabies after a dog bite last year, I was quite sanguine about a potential animal attack. Just then an approaching dog barked and Sonny, who (I thought) was nearly in the bag, bolted. I ran after him, bag in hand.

“Sonny, Sonny, stop. Please.”

Finding him behind a bush in Monk’s Brook, I walked on to the precarious looking bridge. Whipping out the phone, I called our mutual neighbour Angela and switched to video mode. She confirmed it was indeed Sonny. She agreed to knock on your door and alert you that your dear pet was hiding in the brook, half a mile away.

Meanwhile, I decided to hold Sonny’s attention and not let him out of sight. Whistling, meowing in several different tones ‘Meeeow’, ‘Meooow’, ‘Meowww’, and chanting the magic words ‘Food Food’ in the exact intonation you had demonstrated. I balanced dangerously on the bridge. Sonny wasn’t having any of it and stayed well away. This continued for a few minutes as I stood there waiting for someone to call me and resolve the situation. There we were, man and animal, locked in an endless stare-down. The benevolent rescuer of a lost pet and a cat minding his own business until I came along.

The playlist on the phone started playing Jimi Hendrix and almost instinctively I repositioned my headphones over my ears without losing eye contact with Sonny. I continued my meowing and cajoling not realising that I was compensating for the volume of Jimi’s guitar. I was shouting. A small crowd began to gather, seeing this man with a black hoodie and an unruly beard imitating a cat at full throttle while balanced on a dodgy bridge. It didn’t help they couldn’t see the cat.

The expected phone call never came. Sonny, bored with the staring game, leapt across and disappeared into the industrial estate on the other side of the brook. After some feeble attempts to follow him, I gave up on the rescue mission. I felt for you and Doreen while continuing the evening walk, burdened with guilt and disappointment. In my mind, I was already helping you post notices about your missing cat.

Looking at the phone on reaching home, I saw two missed calls and a message from Angela, “Paul’s cat’s at home. Enjoy your walk!”

Please warn Sonny – there is an imposter about.

Dear cycle thief,

Hope you are enjoying my bike or parts of it that you couldn’t sell. If you’ve sold it in the nether market, the money must have bought you a few pleasures. But, I am straying from the point now, digressing, if you understand the word. That was no aspersion on your education, but just a thought that occurred to me. In your profession, you cannot afford to digress. You cannot head for the bike shed with your chain cutters and suddenly entertain an alternative thought, like “Let me check out the Magnolia tree. Its blossoms are so overwhelmingly beautiful this time of the year”. No. You will be the master of concentration, one-track minded, a Zen of bicycle thievery.

I am being given a replacement bike, having won long and tedious arguments with the insurance company. I really wished I had your phone number because the insurance wanted a photograph of the stolen bicycle and I could have asked you to text me one. You could have been part of the photograph, complete with your hoodie masking your ugly face. I am assuming you have an ugly face because your hoodie would be doing you a double favour then, wouldn’t it? Granted, some thieves are good looking. But they are way above your league. They wear ill-fitting Saville Row suits, crocodile skin shoes and millstone necklaces. They don’t steal small things like bicycles, they steal an entire nation.

I meant to ask before I placed my order for the replacement bike: would you like a mountain bike or a cyclo-cross or a road bike? I mean, it is better you state your preference now because the last two bikes I provided you were obviously not good enough. Would you prefer one of those folding bikes? Much easier to steal, but sadly, like guide dogs, they are allowed inside office buildings. So, you are screwed there. Anyway, let me know. Would you like lights as well and some mud guards? I hate spinning muck off the road onto my clothes and going around as if I had been lashed for some heinous crime I hadn’t committed.

Oh, by the way – the police are not interested. Looks like they have struck bicycle theft off their list of crimes. So, continue to steal without fear, with impunity. In fact, I am seriously considering your profession. It is nearly risk free. Very little effort required. As long as I put my black hoodie on and don’t smile for the CCTV cameras, I am sorted.

‘See, it could be anyone’, the police said. ‘We don’t have a camera pointing directly at the bike shed’, our building security said. ‘My neighbour’s £3,000 bike was stolen just the other day,’ my boss said. It was supposed to make me feel better. After all, my bike was only worth a third of that. Never mind. Like they (I) say, look beyond words, look at intention. Please don’t think I am number dropping to wind you up or to make you feel you have wasted your efforts on a cheap bicycle when there was a much better one for the picking or, dare I say, unpicking? I am telling you all this with an ulterior motive. Read on, I have a plan.

‘You have an excess of £250’, the insurance company said. ‘Collect it from my thief’, I responded. I couldn’t quite figure out why the line went dead after that.

You won’t believe this. The insurance company was offering me a bike which was 30% cheaper than ours. I hope you don’t mind my using the possessive plural here. The least you can do is share the ownership with me, at least on paper. Granted, you own it now. But we didn’t exactly sign an ownership transfer form like the DVLA’s V5C. In fact, this could be a good business model, come to think of it. Knowing that the police, the building security, and everyone else that matters don’t really care, it’s something worth thinking about. Yes, this idea is developing legs (I wanted to say wheels, but then you stole my wheels, didn’t you?)

Do you offer any training? Have you got a website on the dark web or a YouTube channel? If you don’t, start one now or publish an instruction manual. ‘How to steal a bike from idiots for idiots”. See, I even got you a good catchy title. Seriously, shall we start a partnership? I could be your frontman. Your agent, so to speak. You give me a percentage for every bike you steal, and I give some of that to the insurance company to pay for the excess. Now that would really work.

Anyway, enjoy my bike if you still have it. Do not worry if you’re getting tired of it and are ready for a change. A brand spanking new one is on its way. Yes, the locks will be stronger this time. But hey, like they say, locks are for gentlemen.

Sincerely,

Gopi