A Woof by the Sea

Text and photographs by Aparna Karthikeyan

Va-Na-Kam, Che-in-nai.

Isn’t that how you say it?

I got here only two months ago, please adjust if I make any mistakes, okay?

My Tamil is not perfect. Neither is my English. Or Hindi, Marathi, Gujarati…

After all, I’m a dog. We only understand 200 words. And I was at 159 when my family decided to move.

Actually, they decided to move many moons ago. But one evening, someone important said something important on TV and everybody looked very scared and everything stopped. People vanished. Nobody came to our house, we couldn’t go anywhere. I only saw my family — mother, father, and two sisters (one of them is a nice human). I wouldn’t have minded if they hadn’t closed the beach. That’s what Mother said. And I think that’s really silly. How can you empty the sea? How do you shut out the air? What about all that sand? These people, I tell you, they think they can do anything…

So for months we went for walks only on roads. Actually, Mother would drag me out of the building, and I would drag her back in. I hated it. She finally understood how strong I was. I have muscles, you know? Look! This is one, this is another, and that…actually that’s just my tail; it’s lavish, don’t you think?

The beach opened when the rains began. Finally, my big sister Puchu and I could meet our friends. Thin, Krya, Orange, Coconut, Big Head… yes, I know, ridiculous names. All Mother’s fault. Her friends have banned her from naming dogs. As if she’ll listen! Do you know she calls my new friends here Granny and Tall Boy and Bajji? Thank god, a kind man named me Shingmo. Except, now everybody calls me Pingu, because they say I look like one. I asked them so many times — show me a picture of a Pingu…they just laugh…

But wait, let me finish cribbing. About the rains. It was such a spoilsport, it would hide behind those clouds and pee on us when we got out of our houses. And stop when we ran back inside. This happened for months. One time, it even pooped ice balls on us. When Mother said we’re moving to a city with very little rain, I was excited.

But she didn’t tell me how far away it was.

Three days. We travelled for three whole days to get there.

And it’s very hard when your sister is super anxious. Not the human one, she decided she’ll stay in that rainy place.

Puchu.

She’s Mother’s shadow. She got into the car and decided she would shake and shiver the entire time. Standing. On Mother’s lap. With her claws digging into Mother’s thighs. Between the two of them — Puchu’s panting and drooling and Mother’s moaning and groaning — the journey was terrible. Father and I were so cool. We’re always cool…

Mother became a different creature when she came to Chennai. She dresses up every day, she’s even been combing her hair (don’t tell anybody, but she’s using our hair oil!) She says she has a lot of relatives here, and she mustn’t look like a beach bum. She thinks we don’t notice, but we do — she’s now a garden bum.

Opposite our house, there’s a little garden. It has just nine trees and a little path in between. But it’s pretty, and it’s filled with grass and dogs and smells. There are benches in that park, and Mother, she tells everybody she goes for a walk, and she sits there and gives Granny belly rubs. Then she stands on the weighing machine and scolds Father for reading the numbers wrong. I’m not making it up, he whispered it into my ears just before we slept. Do you know, he and I share a pillow? Puchu and Mother share a blanket. So it’s only fair, right?

Every day, Mother takes us to visit her parents. In Mumbai, we used to call them Nana and Nani. But now, we have to call them Thatha and Paati. They’re the same people. I don’t know why their names changed! Thankfully, they smell the same. I really like their house. For many days, they kept nice-nice dolls in the hall, on the steps. They were so talkative, those dolls. When nobody was around, they told me old, very old stories. They said the world has changed and now everything was fast and furious. They’re right. Even our morning walks are fast. Unlike the olden days when I was small, now we’re back home before our shadows become short.

I have already had so many adventures in Nana-Paati’s house. One time, I casually jumped over the wall into the next house. Another time, I went for a walk on the terrace parapet wall (and everybody screamed; I think they were cheering for me). And one Sunday afternoon, I stuck my head through a small grill. Okay, the last thing did not end well. They had to oil my neck and then soap it. But it wouldn’t budge. Then they called the Fire Engine. And the Police. Mother cried. Puchu cried. Nani and Thatha cried. Finally, they sawed the grill and took my head out. Then Mother hugged me and cried some more. What a cry baby she is!

Sometimes she laughs, of course. Especially when we cross a shop from our house to Thatha’s. It is called Thiru-Mayil-i-Varu-Kadal-i-Nil-ai-Yumm. Every day, Mother reads out the name fast, fast and giggles. Then Father says it fast, fast and giggles. I don’t know why they find it funny. I used up my last nine words learning it. Thirteen before that went into learning words from the drunk man in the park. But Puchu — who is very wise and worldly — says I must quickly forget them because they’re not what girls from good families must know. Anyway, from now on, everything will go over my silky head. But Father says it’s okay, he says it doesn’t matter if I’m stupid — whatever that means — because I’m cute. He doesn’t even mind me snoring. Into his ears. He just hugs me gently and sleeps.

When I was a baby, I didn’t have anybody to hug me. I was abandoned on the beach as a puppy. Life was very hard. Until, I fell quite sick. It should have been the end of me, but it was actually the beginning. Because someone adopted me: this family. Now I have a big one, in a city that I wasn’t born in, which I now call….ohhh, is that Mother? Why does she sound angry? Maybe she’s searching for me. She doesn’t know I came to the balcony for a breath of fresh air. From here, I can smell the sea, it’s over there, by the morning sun.

And it’s just as lovely and salty as it used to be, back in my hometown… There’s only one difference. This sea sings for me in Tamil. It sounds beautiful, I really like it. Who knows? I might, miraculously, learn a few more words.

For now,

Poi-tu vaa-ren.

Aparna Karthikeyan is a story teller, dog mother and tree hugger. She’s an independent journalist and author of a non-fiction book Nine Rupees an Hour, and four books for children: Kali Wants to Dance, Cat’s Egg, Woof! Adventures by the Sea, and No Nonsense Nandhini. She lives in Chennai with her family and two dogs, Puchu and Shingmo.