Dubai, October 1996, I had finished work late that evening and stopped at the ATM to withdraw Dhs. 1000/-. I wanted to buy a bread maker to take home to India and had been saving up for some time.
My sister called just as I got into the car - they had run out of sunflower seeds for their Yanku (parrot) – and asked whether I could please pick her and Karishma (my sister did not drive), as my brother-in-law would be late. “Sure,” as always, a stand-by chauffeur to my wonderful twin, “I will be there in twenty minutes, so be ready and wait in the lobby.” Finding a place to park near their apartment block was akin to winning a lottery.
My twin is pathologically late as I am on time but for once in her life was ready and waiting; much of the credit for this feat goes to Karishma.
“I have to buy the bread-maker. They have advertised a price reduction in this morning’s newspaper,” I said, as Daya fastened her seat belt.
“Let’s buy the bird seeds, it will take just couple of minutes and we can then peacefully browse through the electronic shop.”
“Alright,” I conceded. We are twins, both shopaholics and gadget addicts, so the rerouting made sense.
I found parking little away from the pet store, as they insisted that I accompany them to the shop. Once inside, the seeds were found, but they had to find appropriate bowls that Yanku could not destroy. With patience of a saint and resignation of a martyr, I waited.
Meanwhile, Karishma, bored with her mother’s unexciting shopping opened the door of one of the kennels (with the shopkeeper’s permission) and extracted a cute little Chihuahua puppy. I heard a yelp and realised that there was another mite seeking attention.
A ball of fur, size of my closed fist, made a beeline for me, clambered up in my arms and proceeded to give me a face wash with huge slurpy licks by means of a small pink tongue. I fell, hook, line and sinker.
I had sworn never ever to have pets after losing my sixteen year old dog the previous year. “They come to our life, steal our hearts and break them when they go.” Never again! Famous last words!
A voice of reason, in guise of my sister, asked us to return the puppies to the kennel. We did so reluctantly. The Chihuahua puppy went in meekly, but the ball of white fur kicked up a row. Turning a deaf ear, we returned to the car when a wail went up.
Switching off the engine, I got out of the car. “Moushi, come back. Maya don’t go,” Daya and Karishma called to my retreating back. Even before the kennel door was opened fully, she cannon balled into my arms.
“How much?” I asked the cashier.
“Dhs 1200”.
“I have Dhs 1000.”
“The balance, you can pay me tomorrow.”
“I will pay you Dhs 1000 only take it or leave it.”
“Madam, very good pedigree, Maltese Terrier.”
“She is full of ticks, potbellied, you keep her.” I made pretence of putting her back.
“Okay madam, you take, I know you will take good care of her.”
Daya and Karishma had followed me. Karishma was ecstatic; she took the puppy from me, as I dug in my purse for the money.
I saw the bread-maker sprout wings and fly away, leaving behind a little white ball of fur, all dirty, pot-bellied with bones sticking out, cuddled in Karishma’s arms.
I took her home, bathed her, brushing out the entangled fur. She refused to sleep in the basket I got ready for her. It was then that she staked her claim to sleep besides me. Next morning, a visit to the vet made me realize the terrible state of health she was in. It took nearly two weeks to get the playful puppy back in action.
I named her Chaitanya, for brightness; Chiku, Chiky, Chikya were the names she responded to. When I called her Chaitanya, she knew she was in the proverbial dog-house, heading straight for a sanctuary under the bed.
Meanwhile, a little kitten was added. The day I brought Lavanya (Lulu) home, the first five minutes Chiku was chasing Lulu round the house. Then the funniest thing happened, Lulu was chasing Chiku. It took them ten minutes to become life-long mates.
Chicken on the table meant Chiku was jumping on all fours, ten times her height to reach the table. When she finished her morsel, she pushed the bowl with her nose with a little bark, ‘I am here and my plate is empty.’
The moot question was who had priority in Chiku’s esteem, was it the chicken or me? I soon realised, making sure that I was in the vicinity, chicken won hands down. Smart little thing.
With added responsibility at work, it became difficult for me to cook meals. So, on advice of friends, I purchased dry dog food. One look and one sniff, Chiku sat back on her haunches, looking at me with those big eyes full of reproach, ‘Am I suppose to eat that? How can you do that to me?’ I gave in and continued to cook meals. (Fortunately for me, Lulu stuck to dry cat food.)
It was after my return to India that I picked her up one day, and said, ‘Little one, please for my sake, eat the dry food. Pappa is not well and I need to take care of him.’ And she did, without complaint. Chiku, to the delight and entertainment of all, would take a piece of Pedigree, toss it up in the air, chase it, roll over it with all four paws in the air, before chomping it.
Chiku, the lion-hearted, she slept curled up besides me, whilst Lulu hogged my pillow. At the slightest sound her little frame would tense and ears cock. With her by my side, I slept soundly, needing neither a bolt nor a lock on the door. Anyone, I mean anyone, daring to usurp her place was sternly shown their place with a well-timed growl; this included parents and husband. She would slide between the both of us and take a stand.
“She is my wife and I have a licence to prove it,” my husband would laughingly tell her.
Lulu and she became frequent fliers as they travelled with me to India on holidays. Only once did I leave her behind to attend an outstation wedding, during the three days I was away, she did not eat. After that I never left her behind.
Shwetambari came into our lives in December 2002, and while Chiku and she became instant friends, Lulu could barely tolerate Shweta’s romping and gave her a wide berth.
In 2008, my new job took me to Ootacmund, a hill station in South India. Whilst I shivered, my little ones took to the cold weather as a duck to water, they reveled in the blue skies, green countryside and eucalyptus scented air.
When I left Ootacmund in March 2009, a part of me lay buried amongst the blue hills of Nilgiris. She had enriched my life, with her love and loyalty, her blind trust and unquestioning faith. Did I deserve it? I don’t know. What I do know was that I was blessed to have her.
My Chaitanya passed away on Jan 22nd, 2009.
