Laika
The old man and the dog.
Chachan filled the bucket with water and walked to the end of the farm. His dog followed him. It was an old thing, almost as blind as Chachan. When the neighbourhood kids asked why he didn’t give her a name, he said, “The dog can understand human words as well as I can understand its bark.” The kids laughed and called him silly, and then went on to give the dog a silly name. But Chachan didn’t bother remembering it. A chicken bone was more effective at getting the mangy old thing’s attention anyway.
It took them a long time to reach the edge because the field was large, and their legs were old and slow. When Chachan got there, he fed the guava shrub water from the bucket. It was one among many shrubs that lined the border of his farm. The sprinkler jets didn’t reach the edges, so he had to do the work manually. He didn’t mind, though. It kept him occupied.
An hour later Chachan found himself in the verandah, enjoying the light breeze, as he ate his lunch. The dog was already napping in the corner having devoured its bowl of bones and leftovers. He wasn’t a very good cook like his wife used to be, but he didn’t mind.
He felt something soft graze against his foot. It was the cat. He didn’t know where it came from or where it went every day, but without a doubt when he sat to eat, so did the cat. With its large, brown eyes and soft meows, the sly thing had managed to finagle its way into Chachan’s good graces.
Chachan dropped a slice of fish on the floor, and the cat dug into it with closed eyes and pointed ears. It didn’t seem to mind that Chachan wasn’t a very good cook either.
The sound of the jeep woke Chachan from his afternoon siesta. He washed his face and went into the kitchen to make tea. He watched from the window as the jeep halted in front of the house, and four figures emerged from inside. It was the young parish priest, his driver and two foreigners. The last time he had seen foreigners was in the ’40s when he was a little boy.
“Chacha?” the priest called out. “Are you there?”
“Take a seat,” Chachan replied. “Do you want sugar with your tea?”
The priest conferred with the others. “Two with sugar and two without.”
Chachan emptied a packet of rusks on a porcelain plate and placed it on the tray with five cups of black tea.
When he met the guests, they greeted him with a respectful smile reserved for the elderly. They exchanged pleasantries, and the priest introduced the two foreigners as highly regarded teachers from France. They seemed nice enough but spoke a language too alien for him to pretend to understand. Luckily, the priest was only too glad to translate. They produced a large box from their handbag and gave it to Chachan.
“It is an assortment of the best Belgian chocolates,’’ the priest translated. Chachan didn’t care much for such things but thanked them anyway. The neighbourhood kids might like it.
“We represent an esteemed pedagogical organisation in France, and as part of our initiative to democratise education in the developing parts of the world, we are here to set up an institution that would accommodate such an end. We have decided to partner with the parish as the local authority and would like your support in meeting our goals. As such, we do not own any property in the area to set up the school. It was brought to our attention that you own a large piece of land that you tend to yourself. It would be of great help if you could sell it to us. You will be compensated handsomely for your kindness.”
Chachan did not understand most of the words that came out of the priest’s mouth as he translated the Frenchman’s piece, but he certainly understood the last part.
“They want to buy my land?” he inquired.
“Yes,” the priest said. “To build a school.”
“Don’t we have a school already?”
“If you can call it that,” the priest said. “Most of the kids don’t graduate. We barely have enough teachers, and the building is one good storm away from collapsing in on itself.”
Chachan thought for a moment.
“Where will I live if I give away my land?”
“We only want the land near the main road,” the Frenchman corrected.
Chachan took a deep breath and considered for a moment. He had spent almost his entire life working the fields with only his bare hands and a will that defied common sense. He fought rough weather, famine and the greed of men to keep it alive all these years. He fed and raised his family on the fruits provided by the soil in front of him, and if nothing else he was eternally grateful for that. It didn’t seem right to give away so easily the thing that had given him everything.
“No,” Chachan replied. He was surprised by his bluntness.
The guests looked at each other.
“It is for the good of the community,” the priest began. “Most of our kids never had much of an opportunity. They grow up and live out their lives in this small town. It’s a hard life here, and there’s so much out there for them. It would not be right for us to deny them that. Besides, if a large school opens here, it means jobs for people. You know how things are. Everyone is struggling. You can help change that.”
Chachan didn’t reply. He was deep in thought.
The driver interrupted, “You don’t need all this trouble at your age, grandpa. Imagine what you can do with all the money.”
Chachan, feeling that he was being cornered, silently thanked the driver for the way out. “I don’t need any money, son. I have everything I need right here. The only thing that a lot of money can afford me is a very expensive coffin. Besides, my property has been promised to my children once my time is done. It isn’t fair to them if I sell it.”
“I understand,” the priest finally said after a prolonged silence. “Just think it over for a few days before deciding. That is all I ask.”
Chachan was stubborn as a mule, but he agreed to the priest’s request. He could always let them down later.
As they left, the French lady told him something with a warm smile.
“She says the tea reminded her of her childhood.”
“Merci.”
Chachan watched the jeep turn into a dot as it drove away. He sat on his chair and watched the horizon until the sun dipped into view. Soon, the neighbourhood kids began populating his fields. They had a worn-out football in their hands and wide, toothy smiles. The kids waved at him, and he replied with a grunt that only he could hear.
A moment later, the old dog appeared beside them. ‘When did she get there?’ Chachan wondered, looking at the empty spot beside him where she sat only moments ago. He watched as she jumped around, wagging her tail and chasing the ball with the kids.
When Chachan woke up the next day, he heard the pitter-patter of rain outside the window. He looked at the clock. Time passed too quickly these days for comfort. But today he wasn’t going to fret about things he had no business fretting about. The dog stirred at the foot of the bed and woke up with a yawn.
It was then that something happened that hadn’t happened in a long time. The telephone rang. Chachan had forgotten about the thing. He picked the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Hello, acha,” his son’s voice spoke.
Chachan hesitated.
“How are you doing?” his son continued.
“I’m doing good. How are you?”
“I’m doing good as well.”
An awkward silence followed.
“How are the kids?”
“The kids are great. They are growing so fast. I’m starting to feel older than I am.”
Chachan could hear his son smiling through the phone.
“That happens. I am quite familiar with that feeling myself.”
Chachan didn’t realise it, but he was smiling too.
“I’ll try coming home this summer. It’s been a while.”
“That’d be nice. It’s been years since I saw my grandkids. I wonder if they still remember me.”
“They do.”
Another awkward silence ensued, but this one didn’t last for too long.
“Anyway, I got a call yesterday from the parish priest.”
“Ah,” Chachan whispered, trying to hide the disappointment in his voice.
“You know we don’t want the land right?”
“I know, but it’s still yours.”
“What am I going to do with it? I work here. I am not a farmer. I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
“Your mother would’ve wanted you to have it.”
“No, she didn’t. We both know that.” Chachan stood silently.
“Anyway, he told me about the money.”
“I don’t need the money — ”
“I know you don’t,” and then with hesitance in his voice, “but I do.”
Chachan didn’t reply right away and then, “Okay.”
“Okay? You’ll sell it?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Oh,” his son said, trying to hide the disappointment in his voice. They both knew what those words meant.
“It was good hearing your voice again, son.”
“You too, acha. I’ve got to go now. Bye.”
With that, the call ended. Chachan stood there for some time, listening to the dial tone before he placed the receiver back in its place. Luckily, his wife wasn’t around anymore to show her disappointment. She had the uncanny ability to make him feel guilty in these situations.
He didn’t know what to do, so he did what he always did. He made himself a cup of tea and drank it on the verandah. He breathed in the petrichor and watched as the rain filled the earth with life. Such a thing always soothed him on days that went on longer than they should. Just then, he heard the familiar sound of paws clicking against the floor as the dog walked up to him and plopped herself in her usual spot. Chachan chucked her a piece of rusk, and she grabbed it mid-air.
Then he heard a meow. The cat never came nearby when the dog was around, but it seemed that the rain was the great uniter of all things that needed shelter from it. The cat watched him expectantly. Chachan threw a rusk in his direction, but the cat just sniffed it and ignored it, hoping for something better.
“And that’s why I like her more than you,” Chachan chuckled.
By noon, the rain turned into a storm. Lightning and thunder filled the skies. The winds were unforgiving. Chachan worried the shrubs weren’t old enough to weather this storm, so he wrapped himself in a coat and walked into the murky fields. The sharp, needle-like rain stabbed at his skin, but he ploughed through, one weary footstep at a time.
Unfortunately, only dead shrubs lay before him. Ripped from its roots and cleaved by the fickleness of nature. But he continued his circuit. He was looking for survivors. And his faith was rewarded with a miracle when he reached the end and saw a lone shrub flailing in the wind, barely holding on.
It had been growing under a coconut tree which stole most of the nutrients the shrub was fed. But today, the large, sturdy thief had protected the little thing. Chachan was left with a choice. He could either leave it here, hoping that the rains would stop soon, or he could uproot the shrub and plant it somewhere more protected from the elements.
The dog watched as the old man walked back through the rain with a plant on his shoulder. She got up and wagged her tail, thankful that he was safe.
“It is unnatural to go out in such weather,” she barked at him, but he ignored her wisdom as he always did and plopped himself on his chair. She sniffed the shrub he placed on her usual spot, disapproving of its rudeness for occupying her place without asking for permission.
She watched as the old man swallowed large, laborious breaths. It was unlike him to be this exhausted, but walking willingly into a storm often took the courage of a fool. Which he was at this particular moment. Then he closed his eyes and rested, so she chose to do the same.
Nothing felt as good as resting. Especially these days when movement was a luxury that her body didn’t offer. Just then, the cat walked by. He stopped mid-movement when he noticed her watching him. ‘I wonder what he’s been up to?’ She knew full well that the cat was always up to some mischief that nobody knew about until it was too late. If only she was younger, she would have had the strength to investigate. But for now, she would just lay on her belly and watch the rain. Hunting is a young girl’s game, she admitted solemnly. The old man liked the rascal anyway, so it was fine.
A few hours later the old man woke up and went inside. She stretched and followed. Her tail wagged because she knew that he would feed her soon. The cat knew it too as he positioned himself near the kitchen. She growled at him, letting him know she was aware of his manipulations. The little guy jumped to a higher spot in response and perched himself there, licking away at his paws. ‘He is getting a little too bold,’ she thought. ‘I should probably do something about it.’
After a while, the old man came out and headed to the kitchen. He cut up some meat and bones and gave her a bowlful. She munched away hungrily. It always tasted good. She hoped he would give her a second serving the way the old woman used to. Maybe she forgot to tell him about it before she left.
‘It’s alright,’ she comforted herself. ‘The kids will come to play in the evening. They always have something for me.’ The old man sneezed and couldn’t stop long enough to eat his food. ‘Poor man,’ she thought. ‘A flea must have gotten in his nose.’
That night, he went to bed shivering. She knew something was wrong because he had forgotten to feed her dinner. She didn’t know what to do. She tried nudging him and licking his feet but he barely budged except for the uncontrollable shivers and the chattering teeth. She feared the worst and whimpered. And the sound of thunder was incessant. So she did the only thing she could. She curled herself at the foot of the bed and shut her eyes and ears, hoping if she couldn’t see and hear the scary things, the scary things would cease to exist.
The next day, she woke to the rooster crowing. The rain still drizzled away, and the old man was fast asleep. He wasn’t shivering any longer, but he was unnaturally warm. Warm like the old woman used to be before she left. It made her nervous. The rooster crowed again, and her stomach growled in response. The thought of the rooster made her mouth water. She was hungry. But she remembered the whipping she received the last time she killed one of the hens. And the rain made it impossible for her to attempt such a thing, even if she felt inclined to be a ‘little forgetful.’ She sighed.
The day faded into darkness. The rain continued in the background for the third day in a row, threatening to stay for good. She felt weak. She had nothing to eat.
She walked over to the verandah to pee. But the rain prevented her from crossing the threshold to the courtyard where she usually peed. She whined in discomfort and didn’t know what to do when she noticed the shrub still occupying her spot. So she walked up to it, lifted her tail and relieved herself on it, feeling a sense of vindication. Once done, she sniffed the plant. It was still alive, somehow, drinking the water that had puddled in the verandah.
A bright flash filled the sky. She tucked her tail because she knew what would follow. BOOM! Nature’s fury rained upon her. It shook her to her very bones, and she ran back inside. She whined and whimpered, but the deafening roar of thunder managed to wake up the old man long enough for him to stay conscious.
He walked past her and went into the kitchen. His motion seemed mechanical and stiff, and his eyes were bloodshot. He wrapped himself in a blanket and had the water boiling. As the steam rose he opened a small bottle and applied the pungent-smelling contents on his forehead and neck. She didn’t like the smell and didn’t know why the old man would subject himself to it. But at the moment, she didn’t care about the oddities of humans. She just hoped that he would be alright.
He then leaned into the steam rising from the pot, covered his head under the blanket and began taking deep breaths. She watched him curiously, cocking her head, her tail wagging involuntarily. It went on for some time. Long enough that she rested her head on the floor and amused herself with a beetle that walked by.
Eventually, she heard a familiar sound. The sound of a hungry stomach growling. But this time, it belonged to the old man. He got out from under the blanket. He looked red and wet, but his gait was more limber.
He looked inside the vessels. They were empty. The cat must have something to do with it. But he found a large box in the cupboard. It was the box that the strangers had given him the other day. He picked it up and walked over to the verandah. She followed him. Her mouth watered.
He sat down and pried open the box. Inside was an assortment of round brown-black things of different shapes. She wagged her tail. The old man threw her a piece and began munching on one himself. She sniffed the curiously shaped thing. It smelled delicious. She bit into it. It was soft and slightly crunchy. She loved it. She swallowed it and began wagging her tail again. The old man chucked another piece in her direction and put one in his mouth. This one had a slightly different shape but smelled just as delicious. She ate it hungrily and wagged her tail for more.
When Chachan finally woke up at dawn, he didn’t know what day it was. But he couldn’t hear the rain anymore. Instead, the birds chirped, and the insects chattered. His bones felt brittle, and his joints ached. He prided himself on never feeling his age, but it seemed age had caught up to his pride. His mind felt hazy, and sleep still clung heavily to his eyes. But it didn’t matter since his fever broke. That was gift enough. He saw the empty box of chocolates beside him. ‘Did I eat all of that?’ he wondered, disappointed that he didn’t leave any for the kids.
He pulled aside his blanket and got off the bed. The dog was fast asleep. He went to the bathroom and sat down on the commode. He sighed. Only one shrub left, he thought. Years of work, gone in a day. It didn’t matter, he told himself. He had lost more in his life than most people could expect a man to lose, but he had still survived thus far. A tired bag of bones, plodding away one step at a time to his grave. And it seemed like he didn’t have a lot of distance left in his feet. Maybe it is time to stop clinging to things he can no longer carry when he goes away for good. He sighed again.
As he got out of the bathroom, he realised something was odd. The dog was still asleep. She was always woke by now. He walked up to her and nudged her with his toes. She didn’t move. So he bent down and shook her again. No movement. He placed his palm on her chest.
A solitary tear flowed from his eye and meandered through the wrinkles on his face. He sniffed and felt the pin-prick of loss. ‘She lived a good, long life,’ he told himself. He got up and wrapped her in white cloth.
It was evening by the time Chachan finished digging the hole. The neighbourhood kids were playing on the field. They waved at him, and he waved back. He went inside the house and picked up the dog. It lay limp in his arms as he carried it out. The kids ran up to him.
“What happened, Chacha?” they asked.
“She’s dead,” he told them.
They shuddered. Their face sank into an involuntary display of grief and denial.
“How did she die?” one of them piped.
“She was old.”
The older kids offered to help carry her. He was about to say no but changed his mind. That surprised him.
They laid her inside the grave and looked at her corpse with a profound sense of loss. Chachan could hear a few sniffs. He offered a prayer and picked up a handful of soil. He urged one of them to bring the shrub that was in the verandah. The plant had somehow survived a storm that killed all its kin. It seemed apt that it would live here where his friend lay sleeping.
It was late by the time they were done. The fireflies had come out to greet the darkness. And despite being a jaded, old man at the end of his life, Chachan felt something magical about the moment. He sat down and watched the fireflies dance. The kids followed suit. No one spoke. No one needed to.
Eventually, they left until only a quiet little boy and his young sister sat there.
“You better get going kids or your mother will worry.”
“Okay, Chacha,” the boy replied and urged his sister along. She seemed hesitant but eventually got up. Chachan looked at the pair and understood why the girl hesitated. Their father had disappeared a year ago, and as a result, the mother suffered from fits of melancholy. They had hit on hard times, and if what he heard was true, their leanness was not simply the result of hyperactive youth. If only he could help them out in some way.
As they waved goodbye and walked away an odd thought popped into his head. He looked at the grave.
“Hey, kids.”
“Yes, Chacha?”
“What was her name?”
The next day when the jeep drove through the slushy roads and reached Chachan’s house, the priest found him watering a shrub. Chachan greeted them with his usual stoic half-smile. The priest got out and walked up to him. He had a lot of homes to visit today. He told the driver to keep the engine running.
“What a terrible storm,” the priest exclaimed.
“It was,” Chachan replied.
“The river overflowed at the border, and the bridge flooded. A lot of people were stuck on the other side.”
“Yeah, I heard it on the radio,” Chachan replied. “The worst storm in forty years, they said.”
“Luckily, no one died.”
Chachan nodded.
“So, Chacha, I hate to bring it up again, but have you thought about — ?”
“Yeah,” Chachan interrupted him. “Tell them yes.”
The priest looked at him like he was waiting for the punchline to an unfunny joke. But when he realised that would be none, he spoke.
“Oh, okay. That’s great news. You’re doing the right thing, Chacha. It’s a great help to the community. You have no idea — ”
“Son, drop the sales pitch. You already convinced me.”
“Okay.”
“You better get going. It’s the third time the driver’s looked at his watch.”
“Yeah,” the priest smiled. “Okay, I’ll speak to them and get back to you soon.”
The jeep left as Chachan emptied the bucket of water on the guava shrub. He watched the water disappear into the earth until only a faint dampness remained. The jeep disappeared with the fading rumble of the engine. All was silent again. Chachan stood there, feeling alone like he hadn’t in years.
Just then, he felt something soft grazing against his feet. He looked down. The cat meowed at him.
“Yeah, I’m hungry too. Let’s go get something to eat.”
