In my early forties, for a prolonged period of time I was serving as a clergyman in one of the churches in the Himachal. The serenity of the mountains standing in their own majestic grandeur, the tranquility of the dawns in the oak, pine, fir-inhibited side-roads, the enigma of the chirping crickets in the otherwise chilly, mute nights and the unadulterated heartiness in the simple folks that dwelled these mountains—all blended into one spirited ambience, which smelt of holiness and divinity. Far from the impulsive outcry of the concrete civilization, in a long time, I was finally able to come into the vicinity of my true soul. The soul, that had drowned in the multitude of souls, who come seeking penance and reform in the abode of the Almighty. And I, having taken upon myself the most fulfilling occupation of providing them with the little help, that I can—illuminating their pensive, remorseful faces with optimism and hope by reading excerpts from the Bible—could never afford to complain for little sacrifices like self-obliviousness. Yet, in some leisurely afternoon… walking a desolate pine forest all by myself, when I would suddenly get confronted by my inner being, I couldn’t help rolling out tears of ecstasy.
To sum it up, my days were quite pleasant. The weekdays would keep me busy with teaching the children in the church-affiliated school. In Sundays, I would conduct the customary prayer at the Church, followed by attending to the confessions. There weren’t many of them, as these people were mostly free from evils common of an ambitious society. Yet, I would come across a few striking, condemnable revelations, behind those confessionals, which would throw my entire belief in good and God for a momentary toss in the air! Today such an appalling story, is doing the rounds of my mind, and I intend to write about it, as vividly as I remember it.
One Sunday afternoon, after the prayers were said and the people were merry and stepping out of the church—some with bliss written on their faces, some being the usual playful folk, they were and others being the ever-grim ones—I noticed a young girl still seated in one of the pews. She was about sixteen or seventeen—fair, pretty like a new-bloom—still struggling to shrug off the husk of her adolescence and approaching adulthood with baby steps. But the most arresting feature about her was her sad face, which bore unmistakable signs of such intense, crushing agony, that was uncharacteristic of a girl of her age. She was holding a handkerchief against her nose, which was a flush of crimson now, and weeping silently, I observed.
“Is it the words of the Holy Book, or your inner demons that have brought tears to you, my child?” I asked, sitting next to her.
“It’s my own doings, Father.” She said, still struggling to get her voice straight.
“You are in the house of God, my child. You can tell me whatever is bothering you. I assure you, that you are going to feel better, thereafter.”
“I can’t… I can’t father! My deeds are so deplorable, that I am too scared to even utter them in words!” she continued in the broken voice, “I believe, I am destined to stay miserable all my life, with this hideous secret buried in my heart forever!”
What could a youth of such a tender age have possibly done that had brought her this amount of trauma and tribulation? I wondered.
“Calm down my child. There is no such crime or wrongdoing in this universe, which cannot be forgiven if there is repentance in your heart for it! And what best place to repent than in front of the Prince of Peace Himself? Come with me. Come to the confession chair and pour out all your heart; come and unburden yourself.”
She followed me despondently, to the confessional, and we positioned each other on either sides of the wooden partition. There, with much hesitation and guilt, she started narrating her extraordinarily agonizing story.
My name is Florence. I was eleven years old, when my grandfather and I had come here. My mamma and papa died in a car accident while returning from a wedding at Delhi. Earlier we were a happy family. Me, mamma, papa and my Grandpa. My parents were both working, so most of the time I was left at the care of my grandfather. And he never ever did let me feel, that I was missing out on something. I can proudly say that even if my mamma would have raised me, she wouldn’t be able to do it better than my Grandpa. He would walk me to school, pick me up after school and buy me marshmallows and ice-cream, take me to play at the park in the evening and even sing me lullabies when I went to bed. So, I can’t really claim that even after my parents’ tragic demise, I missed them too badly. Yes, at times the dining table would seem far bigger, with only two souls occupying it instead of four. The mornings would be awkwardly quiet, without the regular clamor, my parents used to create before leaving for their respective jobs. Worst would be the weekends, which had turned uneventful all of a sudden. Earlier, my mamma would cook new dishes from her recipe book on Sundays, and my papa and Grandpa would together water the flowers in the garden. After their death, I would often find Grandpa standing in the garden alone, looking at those flowers with a blank expression. Though I wasn’t so grief-stricken as I should have been, I felt perhaps he was quite shaken. He wasn’t quite the same jolly old man, after the accident. He would do the chores fine and look after me to the best of his abilities, but the ever-lasting smile on his face had disappeared. That was the only one thing that got me concerned during the whole tragic episode.
That year, when my school’s term ended, he sold our house at a dirt cheap price, packed both our bags and brought me here. By then probably he was at the end of his tether. The old house, along with the memories of his loved ones was getting the better of him, and I would often hear sobbing noises at night from my room. So, when he decided to move, I was more than happy. I loved him, and wanted to see him in joy and peace.
And joy did finally make its way into our residual family, in the form of a two month-old male sheepdog! Grandpa was returning from the market, when he saw a young white man, who seemed to him like a hippie, sitting on the street with a basket filled with five extremely adorable, shaggy puppies with a huge coat of grey-white fur. Curious, he stopped to ask the man, what breed they were.
“They’re called Old English Sheepdogs, sir.” replied the man, “We call them Bobtails. Very good temperament, sir. Care to take one? They’re free!”
The bonny-looking puppies with their thick fur coat and their little black eyes gingerly peeping out from the basket melted my grandfather’s heart, instantly.
“I’d rather pay. How much?” said he and stooped down to face the puppies, “Now, which one of you is gonna come with me?”
One of them gave out a meek bark and leapt on to his arms, which he had held out in warm invitation. My grandfather paid for him and carried him in his arms, all the way to home, playfully rubbing his back, imitating his shy barks to amuse him and slowly sowing the seeds of an intimate kinship that was about to develop.
That was the first time Martin came home. Yes, my grandfather named him Martin, after the revered American leader. Probably because the way Luther King Jr. had ushered hope and motivation in the minds of countless African Americans during the Civil Rights movement, Martin too had brought new zeal and color to his bleak life. And not just his, even my life was transformed by Martin’s advent! For the first time, I got a taste of how it felt to have a sibling! He made up for all the emptiness and dejection that had shrouded us since my parents’ death. The mornings were again clamorous from Martin’s vandalization of the living room and Grandpa shouting at him. Now, both of them accompanied me to my new school up here and hence the fun was doubled! The weekends would keep both of us occupied with brushing Martin’s long furry coat. Now, however endearing and cute these shaggy creatures look, a herculean amount of effort has to be put behind keeping them clean. You skip a week’s cleaning, and the coat starts trapping dust, debris, urine and moisture! However, Martin’s fooling around and amusing antics would make even this arduous task joyful for us and we’d be splashing water in the garden, with Grandpa running behind the little puck and by the end of the session, all three of us would have had a fair share of the bath!
Within a couple of years, Martin had grown into a huge bundle of fur! He was over two feet tall and weighed more than forty kilograms! When he walked on the road, swaying his big furry body from side to side… he looked more like a plump, noble bear than a dog! Owing to the severe climate, Sheepdogs are not a common breed in India. As a result Martin was quite famous in the locality and the children would come out of their houses to fraternize with him, when he was out for his evening walk. His friendly and unruffled ways also made him an instant attraction among the kids. They’d throw Frisbees for him to fetch and make him chase them around the park and have a great time together. These dogs having a natural instinct for herding, are excellent caretakers as well. I remember, a young married couple who would leave their infant new-born at ours’, whenever they went out for dinner. More than me or my grandfather did, Martin would be looking after the baby and straightening him up with loud woofs, from time to time, if he tried to move out of his designated territory.
Apart from being good with kids, Martin was good with thieves too. With him around, the whole neighborhood was assured a sound night’s sleep. Though theft and burglary were not quite common in this place, I remember one instance, when a thug tried to enter our house through the skylight on the attic. It was a cold day. Grandpa had been reading some papers in the attic all day long with the window open, and had perhaps forgotten to shut it before coming down. This ruffian had taken advantage of that to come inside and climbed down the stairs and had just made his way into the living room… when we woke up to Martin’s bawling cry! When I followed Grandpa, with a torch to the living room, I saw the ill-fated thief lying on the floor and wincing in pain, with one of his butt cheeks captivated between the jaws of a snarling Martin. From then onwards, the frequency of theft in our locality was reduced to almost nil.
But the event which made Martin a hero in our house and in the whole neighborhood, happened the one time when I had contracted pneumonia. It was a tough week. The weather was hitting the extremes. Following a day-long heavy downpour, our school was called off. Instead of waiting for Grandpa to come and pick me up, I however set out for home alone, in the rain only. Our house was not less than a kilometer and a half from school, and by the time I reached home, my lungs were filled with water. I got fever immediately, and was bedridden for the whole of the day. By the next afternoon, my condition deteriorated drastically. I had a stabbing pain in my chest, with shaking chills and was perennially short of breath. In addition to that, I was coughing like a dying old man and was losing consciousness every now and then. Grandpa was at his wits’ end. There was a heavy snowfall around dawn, following the heavy shower the previous night, and the roads were laden with a thick layer of snow. All the medicine shops were closed, and finding a doctor anywhere in that weather, was a far gone expectation. The nearest hospital was a few miles’ drive, which was impossible to undertake—thanks to the snowfall! Amidst all this, Martin was to be found nowhere in the house since morning.
When all hopes were dimming like a fuel-starved night lamp, there was a knock on the door. The doctor who stayed by the church was standing there.
“Is someone ill over here, Mr. Rodriguez?” he enquired.
“Yes! Yes! My granddaughter, doctor! Pretty please come in and attend to her!”
The doctor checked me and immediately called his associate to fetch him the required medicines.
“She has got acute pneumonia! It could have been fatal if medication was delayed further by a few more hours!” he said, gravely.
“I’m so indebted to you, doctor, for coming right on time! But how on earth did you know that someone’s sick over here?” my grandfather asked.
“Why? Your dog! I saw him running around our garden and knocking on my door with his head from time to time. When I came out to see to the matter, he caught my trouser with his teeth and kept tugging and making a low howling sound. Martin is a smart dog. I knew at once, that something’s wrong. I got dressed and followed him to your door.”
No one had noticed, when Martin had stealthily crept into the room and started wagging his tail, gleefully.
Thereafter, Grandpa’s affection towards Martin increased by leaps and bounds. More so, as he was indebted to him for having saved the life of his only surviving heir . Martin had in a way filled in for his deceased son, and taken upon himself the duty of protecting me. Martin was no longer scolded for littering the floor by upturning the garbage bag once in a while. His ration was increased. His hair was brushed and cleaned more often than usual. Grandpa would now be spending most of the time playing with him or training him in new activities. All the pampering he could be provided with, he was given.
Amidst all this, I was slowly getting preoccupied with a very vicious and accursed idea. It was appearing to me more often than not, that Grandpa was cutting down on my share of love and giving it to Martin. He was so caught up with indulging the dog, that I was no longer getting my due attention as before. The harder I tried to shrug off these terrible thoughts, they kept clouding my mind with even greater force. The walks back from school, which earlier used to be a forum on discussion about how my day had gone, what were taught in my classes and all my other activities in school… were now mostly about what mischief Martin had done today and how he should receive medical check-ups more regularly and stuffs like that. Earlier the evening walks in the park meant I would be the centre of attraction, and both Grandpa and Martin would toil at arousing my mirth by some means. But now the tables had turned. Martin was the one who was the focal point of the outings, and I was reduced to a mere associate. If I missed or skipped my meals once in a while, Grandpa wouldn’t even notice. But Martin’s meals were always on time! In fact, Grandpa would himself supervise whether he finished his meal or left it midway. All this led me getting bitter towards the poor dog. Out of sheer jealousy, I would find ways of annoying him, every now and then, in every little way I could. I would tie a heavy utensil to his tail, when he was asleep. Pour a bucketful of water, to disturb his sleep. Or hide his food, or shout at him and shoo him away, without any valid reason. I was stupid enough to believe that this would help me attract Grandpa’s attention. Maybe he would understand that I felt forsaken and it hurt bad. Maybe I was so used to his undivided attention since childhood, that sharing it with someone was an alarming thought. Maybe for the first time in life, I felt orphaned; maybe I missed my parents.
The one incident that occurred just before Holi last year was the final nail in the coffin and it made my morality hit the rock bottom. Martin’s afternoon meal was served around 1 o’ clock everyday. He was so conditioned, thanks to Pavlov’s reflex, that whether or not the food was served, he would start walking round and round his bowl and if the food was absent, he would give out persistent woofs to put the message across that he was hungry. That day, I had purposely skipped my breakfast and lunch to ensure that Grandpa took notice of me and would offer me the much-awaited pampering, I wanted. To my surprise, he didn’t. He was engrossed in cleaning Martin’s coat, the whole morning and when he was done with it, he asked me to serve Martin food.
“I won’t!” I replied adamantly.
He seemed unperturbed at my exclamation.
“Okay.” He said in a submissive voice and arranged for the dog’s food, himself. Martin too sprang on it, immediately. Now the sight of the dog eating ravenously, while I stood there hungry and the rage caused by my grandfather’s indifference towards me, made me lose it. I hurled a swift strike with my foot and Martin’s bowl flung a few feet away, food spilling all over the place.
“What the hell are you doing?” Grandpa cried at me, now furious.
“I want this worthless dog out of our house! Right now!” I yelled at the top of my voice.
The next thing I felt was a tight blow on my face. I was stunned. It was so unexpected, as Grandpa had never raised his hand on me.
“Don’t you dare call him worthless or mistreat him. He’s family!” Grandpa said in a grim voice and left the room with Martin. I sat there holding my cheek, still sore from the slap. That was when I decided that I must get rid of this goddamned dog, once and for all.
A few days later, it was Holi. All the kids, the adults and everyone in the neighborhood were rejoicing the festival of colors with each other. I however, was overpowered by the Devil himself. Around one o’ clock, Martin as usual came wagging his tail, looking for his food. I had already sent Grandpa to the market to fetch a few packets of red gulaal, so that there would be no hindrance to my evil scheme. I filled Martin’s bowl with his regular food, and then emptied two packets of gulaal in it. Then I mixed the whole thing up and served it for him to eat. The poor fellow must’ve been too hungry from hopping and jumping with the neighborhood kids all morning, and he ate like a pig! He finished the whole bowl at one go, and didn’t even complain about the strange taste. I observed the whole situation from the dining table, with bated breath. He finished the meal and got up, instantly. Then he circled round and round the living room for a few minutes and at last came and sat down at my feet. He never got up again. After a while, he dozed off and when Grandpa returned, his body was still lying there, lifeless.
After saying the last few words, Florence broke into tears; this time they were loud, agonized sobs.
“Tell me father, is my crime forgivable?” she demanded, still crying, “I killed that naïve, innocent creature who had brought only joy and happiness to me and everyone else. In a fit of impulsiveness and jealousy, I took the life of a benign, loving animal. It’s heinous beyond all descriptions! Even the severest of punishments won’t fetch me penance!”
“What happened to your grandfather? How did he cope with it?” I asked.
“At the sight of Martin’s lifeless body, he went into a daze. That was more than a year ago and he had not uttered a word since. The shock had scarred him for life and left him speechless forever. He spends most of his time sitting on his old arm-chair, where Martin would come, sit by his feet and fiddle with something, prompting him to pay attention and cuddle him. He is lost in thoughts all the time, and though he is physically still leading a life, mentally he seems dead. In the pursuit of gaining his wholesome, absolute affection, I have lost him forever.”
I was so overwhelmed by the whole story, that I could hardly utter a word of condolence for this young girl. On one hand, I was absolutely outraged by the extreme moral degeneration, her actions boasted of and on the other, I was filled with intense sympathy for the emotional misery she had been a subject to.
“No one knew how Martin actually died. It was surmised that with so much color everywhere, he must’ve drank out of someone’s bucket in the neighborhood, resulting in poisoning and subsequently death. Only I know the truth. And every now and then I feel the pangs of heartache, that originate from this deeply buried, dreadful secret of mine. Tell me Father, will I ever get rid of this guilt? Will I ever be able to regain my peace of mind?”
I kept silent. I really didn’t have an answer.
Samman Roy
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