Misha

Some creatures walk into our lives, become a dear part of it and leave their marks all over it. She was that type of being.

I still remember when we brought her home in 1989. She was hardly a fistful. Bred by a pet shop owner for only money. She had her body full of lice and worms which we could not get rid of, though we tried every thing. Starting from veterinary to ayurvedic. All failed.

She stayed with us for next eleven years before she succumbed to the monstrous heat of Rajasthan in 2000.

She knew how to win hearts. She was a love hungry soul and no one in the house was able to resist her for long. Though a lot of them tried.

Her final victory was my mother. She was the only canine my mother petted. Ever since I have been able to store memories I have recollection of dogs and my mother’s immense allergy for them.

Misha became obsessed her very quickly. To my mom’s fury (though she was never able to catch her red pawed) she used to climb on her bed. Sit at her feet, sleep under her bed in the night.

During her last one year she was honored by my mother’s quite frequent petting.

She taught me a few very serious lessons.

Love is usually irresistible.

She taught me to walk cautiously, before bringing her home I used to take two steps at a time, and she had a irksome habit of sprawling right where your first step will fall. It was really extremely embarrassing to step down and hear her howl. So I started to tiptoe.

She controlled my temper a lot. She was impossible, so when I failed in molding her I molded myself.

She somehow completed my personality in more than one ways.

Blacky

He was my sibling’s pet Alsatian. His owner was a very possessive and abusive person; As a result he was a thoroughly abused dog who selected me as his owner till the last day of his very short life. .His death was a mystery.

He was one intelligent dog. And one of the most sophisticated dogs I have ever seen. Its funny but he ignored his owner and obeyed me. He used to spend all his day (and preferably nights) in my rooms. Sprawling like a king, not even moving a paw to give us a place to walk. It was his room and he allowed us to use it was his attitude.

He was roaming spirit, whenever he found the main gate open or loose he used to loose free in the street. People used to panic. No one will love a full grown Alsatian roaming around in the street without a chain and an owner. And it was almost always me who had to run after him screaming like silly. He was gracious enough to listen to it.

At that time I was staying at home and my brother used to commute to Kolkata from there. He used to return at night and leave in the morning. We used to take blacky’s food along with ours.

Whenever my brother used to stay in Kolkata (without notice) he used to wait eagerly for the dinner, as I used to skip it myself I used to forget him in the earlier days. Then I changed the pattern after seeing his hungry, pleading eyes one too many times. I used to feed him his dinner the moment his true owners retired and then keep the rest for us.

I still remember those pleading eyes on that black face, whenever I forgot to feed him the dinner.

He once scared the living day light out of me. He was my shadow. So he used to follow me to the roof, my favourite place. There is a pattern in our roof’s walls. The patterns of playing cards. He once stuck his head in the heart shaped hole. And I thought he will die there, stuck. Then he taught me the trick of getting his silly head out of there. For I struggled for more than an hour when I suddenly found out the trick. He was so shameless that he used to do it again and again.

Its really fun to have a dog around.

Maupassant

I have always admired Maupassant, ever since I read his story “The necklace” in my early childhood (translation).

 

I was gifted a compilation of his short stories a decade ago and have been reading it since then, I believe I have already read it more than a dozen times, finished it a fortnight back and am eager to start it all over again.

 

My admiration for him has shot up ever since I have started to write myself. I don’t call myself a writer, I just love to write. M y only alibi is its better to write something than watch movies to kill time. It  keeps the brain active and improves one’s linguistic expertise.

 

Back to Maupassant, if any one asks me to crown my favourite short story writer, I will simply place my crown at his feet. He is a magician. With limited words he can stir any soul which is open. Make them a better person.

 

The more I read his works the more I become mesmerized, how easily and expertly he touches the very soul and illuminates them.

 

His stories are full of human compassion (not for very conservative persons, I should humbly warn).