Rocket-Eelegy on the Death of a Stray Dog

He was a true child of the west wind who flew across the sandy storm and came to me out of thin impatient air, penetrating the thick uncertain clouds of dust. He was too small to leave the marks of claws on the sand of times and spaces, he walked across to come to me.
A handsome with unknown parentage.
A loyal without a master.
Undoubtedly an unusual chemistry.
The ears were erect like those of a well pedigreed German shepherd, but he was too short to invite a comparison with the most glamorous breed of the west now more popular in the sub-continent. However to some few, familiar with the rich variety dog breeds, he reminded of Barkless Besenji, a small hound with its origin located first in the Middle East, and then after some calculation(or miscalculation), in the Central Africa. Further the height measuring 17 inches at the withers and the face expression with care and concern about the whole world (not just mankind) ignited the confusion that he belonged to some superior blood though not within the range of the knowledge. He was neither barkless nor Basenji but a local stuff born of the most commonplace desire of the most commonly available four footed animal.
He came and soon forgot the origin; the origin-of blood as well as space. There was no record of the date and time when he set feet on the planet and rocked that narrow lane of the City of Rocks. He soon became a wonderful amusement for almost everyone in the market and consequently a common interest in the discussions that took place during lunch hours and times of leisure. Every gathering had something for him; every individual had some words for him; some comparisons, some nomenclature.
“See,” Dr. Liao once remarked, ‘he looks very much like the dog of that famous comic character. I took time to recollect. Comics now exist only in the memory of by gone days that seldom invade the frontiers of the present day preoccupations that have little comic. ‘Chacha Choudhary,’ the young dentist revealed further.
‘Rocket,’ I picked up some impatient thrust violating the frontiers of the oblivion and tried to boast. The dentist agreed to my revelation and the name was born to comfort many of us. It was just by a stroke of some chance discussion that took place without any plan or preface that the name was finalized.
‘Rocket,’ Dr. Liao called him. The wandering pet raised his eyebrow to express thanks and wonder. He wagged the tail and furnished a pleasant consent to the nomenclature. The dentist contrived ease for many of us specially Rajeev who was apprehensive about the names that I had put forth with certainty of being objected to. Rajeev had a sigh of relief.
‘I was afraid of some other name,’ he commented.
‘I know,’ I shared his frolic, ‘I think,’ I teased him further, ‘now you are much relieved.’ Rajeev furnished a pleasant consent.
Rocket became an object of common interest for the persons around. The departing century had something for the stray dogs, thus the new arrival might earn some care, some interest and some food. The dog was too small to induce fright. Children played with him and the grown ups had an opportunity to present themselves as dog lovers; as the creature with care and concern for the fellow creature and see the image of the Almighty, the maker of the universe, in themselves. The mirrors performed different functions. They didn’t simply displayed the complexion and the status of the makeup- done or required, but now they also depicted the divinity pervading within and aggravated the sense of being god; the maker and the preserver. Rocket deified none but many residents of that locality discovered a deity pulsating within. Just offer a loaf of bread to the son of soil roaming about unknown destination on four feet and assure a divine pervasion within. Just call him by name once in week or so and let your careful hand go round the coat stinking nothing, and declare yourself the most humble and compassionate person inhaling the sick air of the planet. Rocket obliged many with the rapid proliferation of this illusion and made every second person feel that there is a god within. Rocket was loved. Yes. In a way he was loved as he made people feel a savior within the ill-defined confinements of their spirits. The days went by and Rocket continued to transform simple human beings into part time deities. There were so many gods all worshipped by none but themselves. They worshipped themselves and Rocket ignited the flames of godliness and sponsored redemption.
Innocence is not a long term asset. It is admired and adored until it comes out with some demand in form of time, money or some physical contribution. Animals in India fall prey to this irony and suffer undeserved neglect.
‘I think,’ I was told by the neighboring tailor master, ‘he is going to die soon.’
‘Who?’ I reacted with surprise.
‘Rocket,’ he replied to me in the same tone.
‘What happened to him?’ I asked.
‘Don’t you know,’ the tailor master looked at me with surprise, ‘he has been run upon by a speeding van?
I regretted the ignorance and looked around for the canine masterpiece with bedewed curiosity. I recollected that the sound of my bike was not responded with a mad rush for simple drive of my affectionate palms. Rocket never expected anything more from me, nor did I ever care to do anything more than this.
‘Where did you see him?’ I went to tailor master and asked.
‘He is somewhere nearby,’ he replied, ‘actually he can’t go far.’
I controlled my fancies and my eyes ran about the lane with pain and fear. That was the moment when I realized the power of innocence and the inevitability of the consequent unification with experience. Dry leaves whispered some future in an alarming cacophonous tone. ‘Must be Rocket,’ the tailor guessed and was proved right. I located the origin of the cacophony and found him right. Rocket tried to come past all limitations and looked at me. I looked at him. He looked at me. His face above the muzzle was furrowed with pain and eyes suddenly acquired the serenity of a sage and the depth of death. It was indeed unconvincing. Rocket was deep in pain and I was deep in pathos. We looked at each other. I was sad beyond words and put forth some speechless promises. He wagged the tail and assured resistance to the crawling death. I went to him and drove my palms of the same coat. I looked at him and lost all hopes.
‘Soon,’ I thought, ‘I am going to lose my new friend.’
The first look on the wandering pet was nothing but a gush of invisible tears that had no origin or end. Rocket had both the front legs working but the back was out of hope and action. He centered all his powers on the front legs and pushed the whole weight of the ruptured body like human carrier of the goods to be supplied to some local merchant by the agent. It was pathetic and I repented the escape of the innocence enshrined in many young and grown ups alike. I also pitied the new-born gods who suddenly started worshipping themselves and elevated their souls to a billion notches above their actual spiritual status. Rocket created vacuums in many minds including mine that had so completely identified themselves with the ideals embodied in that small creature. The change was sudden and predictable and the world around the tiny handsome changed just within one rotation of the sun. People looked at him only to avoid the interaction and pretended to be busier than ever before. Women quietly waited for some blessing in disguise; children often gathered around him; showered pathos and offered the previous night remains, while their parents feared the psychological imbalance that the crawling racer might cause. I went to him after every class and he too made it a point to wait for me but I felt helpless as I might do nothing. I was waiting and watching and he was crawling to death.
‘Can’t we do anything Sir?’ I was alarmed by an innocent voice. He was Aniruddha, a student of Christ Church Senior Secondary School who always nurtured latent pride for me as his class teacher had been my student during her post graduation in English and was a regular visitor of the lane for more than a couple of years. Aniruddha stirred my senses. The City of Rocks has Veterinary Hospital of national reputation with students spread across the globe. I recollected with shame and pleasure alike that many famous names have some personal acquaintance with me.
I felt ashamed. I really felt ashamed.
Why don’t we think in terms of medical care for the wandering animals?
Don’t they feel pain after being hit or crushed by a speeding motor car?
Don’t they expect some humanity from human race?
Don’t they yearn for some care and concern for the love and honesty they shower on us?
I think they do and even if they don’t let’s think they do.
We never remember a veterinary doctor when we see an animal suffering beyond tolerance on the road and spit of our claim of being a rocker, a citizen of the City of Rocks, a city with the spirit defined in terms of conscience and heritage.
We never feel the need of some medical care for those mute sensibilities who contribute something so significant that human race despite all invasions on the nature, could never contrive for itself. They allow their bodies to be evacuated everyday and bless us with health, refreshments and delicacy; they bear a child and with great immediacy and sacrifice their motherhood for the services of mankind. We take it as our natural right to make use of the products that the animals produce with as much pain as mankind and sometimes even more and with much less safety and security but seldom the pain they bear is taken to be comparable with that of man. And the idea of safety and security has never been an issue to think about with serious motifs. A pet- however docile and affectionate is feared by most of the mothers for the transmission of the infection through saliva but none in the surroundings ever cares to inject anti-rabies for the dogs of fairly old acquaintance. Sometimes when Rocket barked I, like protagonist of Saul Bellow’s Dean’s December, heard him say why you can’t think little beyond….the world is not just a family of two of or three.
Thanks a lot Rocket. You considered me worthy of such grievances that you ought to have had against the superior race. You demanded what you most ardently required and never bothered anyone for more than the most essential.
Aniruddha set the thought and the idea was translated into action with the help of my students- transportation was taken care of without being scared of the saliva; the dictates of the doctors were quickly put into action and the result was more than surprising. Rocket survived and the innocence paved way for the survival of innocence.
Thanks to Aniruddha.
Thanks to Dr. Chandrpuria.
Thanks to Dr. Shrivastava.
Thanks to Rahul Prashant and Shreesh-my students who did all that was instructed and required.
Rocket survived and against all odds he now became more muscular and aggressive. Now he had someone with him; someone who would come forward and fight for him. However by no means he could be said to be dangerous of ferocious. Although people-for reasons unknown, alleged so against him with proud threat of poisoning him or leaving him somewhere in the far off place.
Gang wars were recorded too frequently on body of the tiny handsome, new wounds, with old familiar shrieks, (when my palm ran across the body) were discovered with unpredictable frequency. He could never compromise with his dominance on that small lane which made his home as well as his diadem and any invasion was bravely fought against without a second thought to the consequences. The result was predictable. Rocket came to me with slow and wavering steps next morning and shrieked aloud on my initiation. Again thanks to veterinary doctors talked about above. They didn’t simply spare their fee for Rocket but also managed medicine and comforted me. Soon it became a routine for Rocket to organize a war and earn wounds. I was glad to feel his confidence on my love and care. He came with some contrived hesitation; put forth some gestures of pain and shame alike and got the treatment. Things became easier for me when Sameer- the son of Dr. O.P. Shrivastava, came to my institute for learning English and subsequently became a permanent aid for me. Sameer continued to be with me for his medical care ever half a decade after he had finished up with his studies in the institute. The list of his foes goes pretty long. It includes not just the stray dogs of the locality trying to invade his empire but also some well identified human beings; the milkman who hit him with a stone when he was too small and demanding some milk; a Sikkh gentleman who after a couple of pegs never cared to respect his presence by slowing down the scooter; and King the friend of Maneesh and a regular visitor of Zapson Computer Center. Rocket always feared that King is going to eat him up without roasting or frying and barked late after his departure (a Besenji is bound to be afraid of a Saint Bernard); his arrival could never be sudden or surprising for anyone.
Rocket’s sincerity for the shop where I ran my institute was much a matter of discussion in the market. It was not just for me but also for the owner of that shop Mr. Ajeet Nayak whose visits made extra feast for him. It is however astounding that Rocket never cared to step in from the day he heard my talk with Ajeet Bhaiya about vacating the shop. His association with the shop was a genuine anxiety for anyone who thought about taking the shop on rent after I vacated it but none had any problem with him. I was requested by the new tenant to be there for some days (until Rocket gets familiar with him) in the morning though Rocket never cared to look at the new system and surprised all.
Rocket, it was clear from the body language, suffered great isolation and even negligence after I left the place, though it rarely happened that I missed a visit to him. But after all the togetherness of about ten hours a day was reduced to just one simple visit of about fifteen minutes. We both were helpless. I continued to sink deeper and deeper into ocean of uncertainty. Finance and other problems mounted higher beyond all expectations and the isolation in such a matrix of circumstances was, in a way, more tormenting than his. He stayed at the same place obliging continuity of relation with the place that I had left in the beginning of 2004. The departure of Rajeev and Manessh was another major blow on the small epitome of grand human ideals that man rarely possesses. Sunday was indeed more isolated than any other day of the week, though the privilege of non- veg delicacies after Datta Uncle’s call in the Sunday afternoon was the most sought after event that made him forget me and my chapattis and oblige a ferocious look.
Probably he had known that I am a vegetarian and couldn’t serve him anything more than boiled eggs of omelet.
Still the emotional distress was more than obvious. He might have had some satisfaction that I didn’t forget him though might be having some grudges of being too busy to spare more time with him. I am happy if he didn’t know much about my own isolation. He came wagging the tail and crammed his muzzle into my lap and spent some time before starting with his dinner. He was wise enough to delay the feast when he wanted more time with me as he knew it well that I won’t leave before he finishes off with the stuff. And if ever I am late his anxiety was evidenced that he first waited for me out side the narrow lane and then sat in front of the cyber café that I used to visit after spending the most beautiful moments of the day.
My love and care for Rocket was always appreciated with excess of applause for me and for my love for him and pets in general but none ever succeeded in locating the truth that unravels some very ignoble facts of life and world in general. However the detailed description of all that went by during that time span is far beyond possibility but Rocket for me has been instrumental not just in making me feel that I am alive but also in reinventing and rediscovering myself when I had nothing but a kind of primordial dark around me. The days of crisis have tremendous pedagogical value that doesn’t simply tell us about the world but more importantly it tells us about ourselves and the extent to which we are human in real sense of terms. Financial predicaments oblige isolation that results into hyper sensitive reaction towards the events that have been a part of the routine in the softer days of life. Thus self exile becomes inevitable. I, when deceived by an age old friend who was about to start with a new school and make use of my name for the same, was dragged in the matrix of such situations that seemed insurmountable as the sources of livelihood had sudden recession and the pockets began to struggle for weight. . I never meant that the world is full of wickedness or selfishness but the eyes curtained with insuperable darkness fail to see anything positive and relies more on the darker side of life and world. If action represents life and inaction is metaphorical to death, then it is unambiguous that Rocket kept me alive for months when I had no other work but to go and feed him. If the object of life is to please others, to make them happy then I could live my life with an aim only because of Rocket. There were times when vacuums around me grew tormenting to the extent that only the emptiness of the day reverberated around and no rhythm, no tune ever seemed composed. Crises, especially regarding work and money, have unique tendency to isolate a person from the surroundings; your pains are very strictly yours and they seldom go past the well demarcated frontiers of your actual being and touch the alien senses and make the isolation inevitable. It seldom happens that the one thinks of being with you when we need or demand a company. We think more about our preoccupations and predilections when we come to know that we are needed somewhere else. We suddenly become a caring husband, a curious father, a sincere professional hurrying towards the goal or a woman too bothered about the reactions of the family or surroundings when it comes to our knowledge that we constitute the need someone who has been with us in similar circumstances. And when exposed to such circumstances we start questioning the worth and function of our existence in relation to the immediate surroundings that turn its back towards us. However the need of the sufferer is not the money but a genuine and caring company. The question marks raised at the identity of the man drags him in the prison of identity crisis and an escape from the confinement thus becomes a challenge. The emancipation from this confining matrix, in my case, is attributed to none but Rocket as he was the only center of action, the only source of gravitation. And when the cacophony of my ill-maintained bike reverberated in the narrow lane making many new tenants frown and making old acquaintances laugh, Rocket came like a west wind wagging and panting and made it a day for me. I realized that I am needed. I realized that I am doing something. I realized that, despite 23 hours of inaction, I am alive.

The death of Rocket has no less pedagogical significance than his life. It was March25, 2009. I was in the college. My mind was full of apprehensions about the tiny monster as the previous night had been unusual in many respects. I reached the narrow lane of Kuber Market but there was no moment for me.
‘Where is Rocket?’ I asked tailor master.
‘He was here only few minutes’ back,’ he replied. I became apprehensive about him. I knew he might not go anywhere too far and if he ventured to go he would not come back. I heard a cry of pain. I followed the direction. Rocket was trying to come to me but was hit by a motor bike. Rocket failed to cope up with the movements of the bike and suffered an injury. He came tottering to me and returned. I was surprised. He went to a distant corner and I went close to him, patted him on the head. He looked at me; the look that reflected no desire, no hunger, no grievances but a serene thankfulness.
Rocket,’ I called him, ‘Mummy sent these chapattis for you.’
Rocket looked at me again. Probably to thank my mother for all the cooking she had been doing for him for only little less than a decade. He didn’t look at me again. I forced him to eat but he didn’t feel like looking at me. I remembered Raja near Wardhamaan Tower whose egg preparations he used to enjoy with great fun. I bought an omelet and added some painkiller and antibiotic. But now he was in no mood to look at me. I rememebered Sameer
‘Actually Sir,’ Sameer stumbled on every syllable, ‘nothing can be done now.’ His father’s juniors had told him all about the incurability of his decease.
‘I can’t see him in pain.’ I told Sameer.
‘Then there is only one way out,’ Sameer told me, ‘but you won’t agree.’
‘What?’ I asked him with vibrant fear.
‘The injection of silent death.’ Sameer told him with great hesitation.
‘Yes,’ I told Sameer, ‘I can’t agree.’
I looked at Rocket but he didn’t respond my look. I made more than a score of attempts but he neither ate nor cared to welcome. I left chapattis and took medicated omelet back for the next day.
‘What happened? Mummy asked me when she saw my face.
‘Nothing,’ I remembered his indifference and replied, ‘I think I won’t meet Rocket again.’
My mother was also quiet that day. She was short of words of consolation. I went to bed but could not sleep. It was only after 4 in the morning that I had a siesta that made me late for the college. I remembered Rocket many times on the way and planned a verbal application for Prof Arora- the Director. I finished up with the exam and there was some knock on the thighs through the mobile handset. I was the number of tailor master. I summoned courage for the talk.
‘Sir,’ I heard the old familiar voice of the tailor master, ‘Rocket expired.’
‘O.K.’ I had nothing to say. The phone call ratified the intuitive perceptions pervading within the mind for last fifteen hour or so. I informed the principal and rushed to the spot.
The death of Rocket also left behind a lesson for me. Whenever I thought about his death I always thought that some day I would reach the opening of the lane with chapattis or omelet and I would be informed that he had died and had been taken away. But what happened was indeed much better than what I always thought to be likely. Before I left the college, I received another call from with the cell number of colleague, Prof. Manoj Tiwari, my colleague and friend.
‘Yes Manoj,’ I thought he would be the owner of the number.
‘Sir,’ I heard a female voice, ‘I am Sameeksha, Pooja’s sister.’
‘Yes Sameeksha,’ I replied, ‘I have got the information.’
I kept the cell back in the pocket and sped fast to the spot. On the way there were many calls; some from my students who knew about my daily visits to Rocket and got the information about the event. Some who knew me and my routine rang up my students of either of the colleges to inform me about the event. Last to ring me up was Mr. Gyan Prakash.
‘Rajesh,’ he straightway told me, ‘don’t worry I am waiting for you.’ G.P. Bhaiya’s voice and words released much of my tension as someone would be with me in those difficult moments. I reached the spot at about 2; 30 in the afternoon G.P. Bhaiya availed a half day leave from T.T.C and rushed to bid farewell to the departed soul. Now we were two for a respectable farewell to that dwarfish monster that was now sleeping not to get up. The cacophony of my bike was heard by all but one; the one who has been most familiar with that sound; even more than me. It was the first time in a decade long association with the dormant king of the small diadem that my presence was totally ignored; there was no panting after a long rush from some unknown place; there was no wagging of the thick equi-angular curvature that amused all who saw him. I parked the bike; Rocket was sleeping.
‘Rocket!’ I called him but there had to be no response. He had prepared me for the situation a day before. It was a working day for the shop keepers; everyone was busy in his own work. Pooja came out to share my grief; Sehgal aunty also invested some time for me and my foster child. I went in and called GP Bhaiya. It was after an hour long search for the proper persons who might dig the grave, that the burial might be planned. I kept Rocket in a cartoon and covered it with some cloth that I had taken from Pooja’s boutique. It was a colorful shroud for the warrior. We started off for the last journey of the son of the soil who was now going to be one with the soil. We were only two and the journey began. I was pained to see that even when we were leaving with corpse of the pet who had been there in the lane for only little less than a decade, none had heart and soul to stand with us.

Is it not surprising and shameful for the whole mankind that the creature, who has lived with us for a decade, can’t be given a minute when it is leaving the planet?
We located a place nearby the railway line, the laborers dig the grave. GP Bhaiya bought salt as Sehgal aunty instructed to splash salt on the body as he was domesticated by me. The instructions were followed Rocket was put in the grave by both of us and now I was having the last appearance of the small body that I cared for with unusual fondness and passion. I was filled with deep pathos; sincere apology, painful regrets and the memories of the irrevocable past with the creature on the grave that made me feel alive, needed and humane.
‘I really love you Rocket,’ I murmured into his lifeless ears. Probably I had fears that his last days of pain and isolation have made him suspect my love. GP Bhaiya stood by my side and belittled my guilt. I stamped the last kiss on his muzzle. The grave was ready with the new guest and Rocket was ready for the perpetual sleep. My palm ran across his stiffened body. Tears rolled down and fell on him. But he didn’t react. The laborers looked at me seeking permission for the fall of the curtain. I said nothing neither in words not through eyes but they got the message. I was the first to throw dust on him and then the G P Bhaiya and then the laborers did the rest I kept on gazing him until I could see the last hair of the coat. And the curtain fell. Rocket was invisible now. I put my palm on the pregnant womb of the ground that had a dead child, and returned.
‘Come whenever you have time.’ GP Bhiya told me. He knew that it was the last day of my regular visits to that lane. I went in thanked the tailor master and Pooja for informing me. Everyone was busy with his work. One death seldom matters. I sensed some echoing silence penetrating the deafening disorder.
‘The lane has been deserted,’ Sehgal aunty told me and put her palms affectionately on my shoulder. I knew it was a gesture of speechless valediction. I stood there with nostalgia. ‘Now why will you come here? Aunty finally verbalized the emotion pervading both the minds and hearts.
I could not put forth even a formal abnegation and geared my bike into motion.

Excerpt from Death Be Not Proud- My Long Short Story

Memories mingled into one common existence (or inexistence) and began to blur. I tried to pick up the memories without selecting or editing them. That was the only thing I could do. Soon the memories merged into a vacuum and died. I tried to grab the memories without selecting or editing them but the memories merged into one common existence (or inexistence) and flew away from me. The congestion of the memories was replaced by a vacuum; the vacuum that might not be filled again. Memories flew away and made way for the vacuum and worked out the replacement. I remembered the memories but I got nothing I was there with my palms open to nothing. I was gaping to chew the escaping memories but I had nothing between the teeth; nothing on the tongue and nothing sliding down the throat. I was gaping and gazing without an aim or object. I don’t now whether it was the roof or the window; the departing stars above the sky or the young, invading sunrays. I don’t know whether it was the grey landscape. I don’t know if it was the drowse of the brown sodium light or the reawakening of the grey rocks towards my left spared for a local museum for history and entertainment. I don’t know if it was the awakening of the slumbering mass with stink stored within much cared frame of the body or the death of hope and memories and all that makes one man. I don’t know what it was; the congestion subsided and the vacuum survived. I know nothing further; nothing. I was afloat in the vacuum swimming across some nothing from nowhere to nowhere. I was afloat. I was in vapors. I was nowhere. There were no memories; no vacuum; no evaporation. I was afloat on some nothing in some nowhere.