McGee - Dogs of India

This book is dedicated to Jyoti Singh
19892012
Bhagwan aapki aatma ko shanti de

First published in 2015 by The Author People

PO Box 159, St Ives, NSW, 2075 Australia

Copyright Polly McGee 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of The Author People.

Note: Some names have been changed to protect individuals privacy.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

Author: McGee, Polly

Title: Dogs of India

ISBN: 9781925399035 (paperback)

ISBN: 9781925399028 (ebook)

Subject: Fiction

Design: Zoe Sadokierski

Printed by Lightning Source

Polly McGee is one part writer, and many parts assorted thinker, doer, broadcaster, talker, eater, drinker, explorer and dog wrangler. She has worked in kitchens, bars and restaurants, managed multimillion-dollar innovation-grants programs, worked with hundreds of start-ups, and championed causes from a variety of soapboxes, lecterns and stages.

Gender studies and womens rights feature strongly in her academic work, as does the expression of identity through story and narrative. She is a passionate believer in philanthropy and the power of giving, and strongly advocates a collective community approach to wealth and skills distribution. Polly is a bowerbird for technology and innovation, and a founder of entrepreneur-support organisation Start-up Tasmania. She loves crowd-funding and crowd-sourcing, and has been known to crowd-surf like no one is watching.

She emphatically believes that the answer to most of lifes questions can be solved with meditation, barrel-aged Negronis and patting retired greyhounds, in no particular order.

Polly lives in Tasmania with her partner and three dogs. Dogs of India is her first work of fiction.

Chapter One

Pariahs

At the mouth of the Civil Lines metro station, the human resources of New Delhi flowed into the economy. They stepped over and through the swamp of humanity, embarking on another day rich with the scent of life. Sleepy drivers roused awkwardly from rickshaw beds, their skinny legs regaining blood after a night of circumstantial yoga.

Chai wallahs plied their hot, sweet wares with the relentless calls of One chai! Two chai! as small, steaming disposable clay cups were grabbed by thirsty hands. Once empty, the cups rained onto the ground in a discarded carpet, joining the previous nights waste. Stationed next to the glass entry of the metro, alongside the chai cart, a momo vendor filled bags with dumplings from his battered aluminium steamer with a precision borne from repetition. Next to his silent steaming and serving sat the flashy, colourful food cart of a snack-vendor rival. A pile of fried samosas stacked on the carts shelf behind greasy glass wafted the tantalising scent of fried ajwan seed across peak-hour appetites. The samosa vendor was all theatrics a showman of snacks, a pea-and-potato carney coaxing sales out of the commuter masses.

Oh, so delicious! Ganesh himself would dance for these, he declared, kicking up a bare foot in a partial demonstration of the said dance.

The watchful eyes and pricked ears of a group of pariah dogs lay in wait a safe distance from the entrance and exit to the metro. The languid canine clusters were hopeful of stray snacks. One lone dog sat by the entrance. His name was Rocky, inspired by a bootleg version of the American action film. Rocky was a pin-up example of a pariah dog. His tail unfurled like a fern. His fur was short, the golden colour of fresh ghee. With a proud forehead, fine muzzle, elegant neck and high-set ears, his body was neatly perched on top of long, agile legs.

Pariah dogs shared an ancestry as old as sacred memory. In every town and settlement throughout Indian history, they have cohabited with their human neighbours. Recently, however, the more righteous urban citizens of New Delhi, fed up with vermin of all sizes, demanded their removal by the council, ignorantly calling them strays. These dogs were no more strays than elephants or monkeys, but their reputation was somewhat less fortunate. Unlike the celebrity of creatures that had gods bearing their likeness, dogs in the theology of India had always been eclipsed by showier animals.

A half-eaten samosa shoved back in its bag was dropped at the entrance to the metro. Rocky snapped it up, swallowing paper and pastry as one. It was not as satisfying as lingering over a meaty mutton bone, but food was food, and Rockys hunger dictated an opportunistic menu. Momentarily sated, he took his spot back at the opening of the station, scrutinising people as they passed in the chaotic, colourful peak-hour crush.

This was Rockys second day at the metro looking for a rolling suitcase. His dog logic in maintaining this vigil was impeccable: this was where the rolling bags come and this was, therefore, where he would find his owner, last seen rolling a bag out the door of the house they shared.

He had been somewhat surprised when hed discovered the always-locked gate open. The outdoor smells had been glorious. Nose to pavement, nose to tree, leg cocked, scent marked, his bladder had pumped in a rapid-fire frenzy. The raised voices of his human pack became softer as he put a few metres between himself and their vocal marriage disappointments. Rocky could still taste the clenched hand he had bitten as he dived in to protect his mistress from another intimate attack, and feel the bruise where a foot connected with his hind quarter, propelling him onto the street.

From where he joyfully sniffed and pissed behind a large tree, he heard a final barrage of insults and the noise of scraping wheels as the suitcase rolled down the street and was hauled into a taxi. Then she was gone.

Rocky followed the vehicle a little way, then hesitated. He wasnt sure what to do next. There were many cars, trucks and auto-rickshaws on the road, whooshing by his nose. Nothing smelled familiar. He waited and watched for a sign of his mistress returning. None came. Rocky turned back, following his own fresh trail to the house. The gate was shut. He sat outside it obediently, waiting for it to open.

As the sun rose high in the sky, becoming hot and then hotter still, he slumped lower. The house remained behind the locked gate. Rocky wanted to be on the other side, lapping at his water bowl. He wanted to lie down under his favourite palm and feel its flat leaves stroke his fur in the breeze. He wanted to do nothing before rousing himself to eat, and do nothing some more. He wanted to hear his mistress singing a song, followed by pats and the smell of her hair in his face as she scratched his belly.

Time passed in dog years. As Rocky sat, doggedly waiting outside the gate, a cycle-rickshaw rolled along the road. The driver strained his way around the chain ring, pushing the pedals up and down against the full midday heat. A sweat river streamed down the back of the drivers knees, cascading around ropey leg muscles and bony shins and finally onto leathery feet. Despite his efforts, progress was slow. The rickshaws rear passenger bellowed into the bluetooth device jammed in his ear. He was gesturing expressively, barking commands to an invisible subordinate. Squeezed in beside him was a suitcase with wheels.

The cycle rickshaw was moving at about the pace of a dog, making passageway near the curb, out of the fast-flowing traffic. Rocky looked at the gate again and double-checked it was still shut. It was. He set off at a trot alongside the rickshaw, determined to find out where rolling suitcases and their owners go.