When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!):
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone – wherever it goes – for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart for the dog to tear.
-The Power of the Dog
by Rudyard Kipling
Stepping into the Coimbatore District Collectorate as a young journalist to gather news for the first time was a thrilling experience. Not the news, but just entering the ambience gave a rather relishing feeling. I had been there in the past to gather news, but only as an intern. The monsoon of 2015 will always be remembered for I became a journalist professional in Coimbatore.
I walked past the policemen guarding the gate like a god and my royal walk ended at the press room down the two-wheeler parking lot. Introductions and smiles did the rounds for a few minutes and I quietly, yet complacently sat on the steps near the gate of the Eastern entrance to the main building of Collectorate. This part of the building is considered the second room for press people for there would always be one or more journalists sitting on those steps.
As I was engrossed in the thought of being a journalist, I felt an inhuman panting on my left ear. I did not make haste to look back and as I still sat there with my heart beat rising, a black and long snout sneaked out parallel to my face, gazing and breathing sharply. My heart stopped. It was a Dog. An un-dog-like huge mongrel was standing inches away from my face. He stood there for a few seconds and walked passed me as if I was nothing.
My journalistic ego immediately sprung up, but what can I possibly to do a creature that big standing above my head while I was sitting? Even my Press ID card cannot do anything. I preferred not to care, perhaps, not to bother this hound of sorts.
A rufous coat (brownish red), white under patches near the belly and a tall stature, a pure South Indian breed!
He then gave a loud bark that echoed through the long hallways of the Collectorate and sprinted towards a beggar. That was his usual tactic, scaring those who can do him no harm. I wonder from where he learnt this tactic, he was obviously found outside the pressroom on most occasions.
I enquired a few fellow journalists about his name. Strange, he had no name. No one bothered to give him a name, but he was loved by every journalist in the vicinity. He was a common friend to everybody in the journalistic community regardless of their political, ideological, policy oriented, associational, and societal and business differences. Everybody fed him. Marie Gold biscuits – though he did not say so – seemed to be his favourite, for everyone bought him a pack of the biscuits. He would wag his tail seeing his regular purchasers and newbies like me also contributed now and then. I loved the way he snatched the biscuits from air. Though I later felt it was a dishonouring act throwing food at a creature, it was a spectacle nonetheless.
But he was loyal to all and gave a wet kiss to anyone who patted him. I liked having him around whenever I was there, but I was not a regular visitor to the Collectorate, nor did I spend ample time with him.
Though he scared off people just with his stature, boldly blocking the way, we knew he was no harm and would give way when somebody patted him aside. Visitors were obviously scared of him.
He was a winner of hearts in the campus. Not just among the journalists but also among women. A true Casanova who always had bitches wagging their tails around him but, should I mention he was a coward. So embarrassing for someone of his stature to run away when two bitches fought!
He too had a love story. Not with dogs, but with a street-dwelling old woman who lived on the pavements opposite to the Collectorate. The duo was inseparable and no one knew how much he loved her until one fine day when she was taken away to an orphanage. He could not understand what happened and was found howling and barking with wet eyes near the place where the lady usually sat. It was heartbreak for him. Nobody knew if he ever forgot her, but though he returned to being happy with others, he could have still missed her.
Being with media persons comes with an advantage of learning the lens sense. Be it a protest or any gathering inside or outside the campus, he was always found right in front of the protesting party and the lenses. He seemed to enjoy being on televisions and news papers. None remembers how many times he was featured. He had even befriended a few cops from the Intelligence section who are found in the Collectorate.
At times when I entered the Collectorate late hours to get my vehicle, he would run to my side and escort me till my vehicle. I am a little scared of the dark and I never told him that. Yet, he seemed to know. He even allowed to me take selfies with him whenever possible and though I was not good looking (fat too!) in the selfies taken so far, I always thought I could click a picture whenever possible. I never thought he was not immortal!
Recently I happened to go to the Collectorate after a long time and my job has taken me far away from the place as I am often roaming in the outskirts of the city. I checked, double checked, but could not find him. Maybe he could have been sleeping somewhere, but there was a strange silence in the Collectorate.
I enquired a senior journalist about him and then came to know that he was no more. The strong hound had succumbed to a strange wound on the back of his torso. I could not get past the moment. I did not love him like the old woman, but I knew him and he left, without saying a “goodbye”!
It hurt me more when I started to write his story. How careless I had been of a relationship God gifted me with? I took him for granted and now I cannot even look at him. We journalists call ourselves the watchdogs of the society; needless to say, he was a loyal watchdog of our pressroom; of the Coimbatore media fraternity. He united all of us in a way.
Yet, two things would always remain a mystery. Where did he come from and where his mortal remains lay.
Many a mongrel can guard the door of the pressroom in the Collectorate, but none can replace this nameless knight, who meant friendship, loyalty and love.