MALGUDI DAYS REMEMBERED…(PART 2)

Though only eight months old, Blacky, had already grown into massive giant with immense strength.

Lately, like all dogs in their early days, it had started gnawing at table legs, old magazines, and corners of walls, slippers and what not. But its favourite delicacy was the coconut coir – rough, fibrous and tempting. However the vet had warned that all these chewable aren’t exactly edible and healthy. So the elders in the house saw to it that Blacky practised its chewing only on special mats purchased for the purpose. If anyone ever found the dog trying to gnaw a slipper or chair leg they would pull it away and the dog would snarl barring all its threateningly fierce teeth – but one sharp rebuke would send the young dog back to the corner licking its toes.

A typical lazy afternoon characterized by an entire sleeping-snoring household – I sneaked out of the bed, past the drawing room and walked tip-toed till Blacky. There she was on the veranda. I stroked the fur behind its neck with love but this day was different. Blacky did not reciprocate back by rolling over playfully on the floor or licking my hands or wagging its tail vigorously. I squatted next to it and patted its head fondly saying: “Today you must be sick I guess…”

A sudden snarl and without a warning Blacky sunk its fangs into my toes! It happened in lightening speed. For the first few moments I didn’t know that Blacky had bit me. I was scarred, was shocked at the same time. There was blood all over. I backed away trembling with fear. The last scene I remember: two eyes gleaming like marbles and white ferocious fangs in stark contrast with the gloomy darkness all around.

I ran away into the fields where the trainer used to teach Blacky. I was panting. I was scarred. My grandma’s stories were subconsciously echoing in mind (“...a villager once was bitten by a dog. He had a painful death. His body twisted like a …”). I am the only son of my parents. What will they do? What will they do? What should I do now?? What? I was running like mad. I remembered that Blacky had scratched the trainer’s hand with its teeth. He had applied the milk of a particular broad-leafed violet-flowered plant. I was frantically searching for that plant. Where is that now?? I got the plant hiding between its several look-alikes. My hands were trembling as I smeared the white fluid from the plant’s stem on the fresh wound. I was scared, very scared.

Back in home, I put on my socks and shoes to hide the wound. On normal days I would shriek and shriek on for a small cut on my finger as someone applied Dettol on it. The coarse fabric of the socks on the wound was hurting me like mad. But I wasn’t crying. I knew I am going to die.

I never did my homework. I started doing my homework. I didn’t want to die as an “illiterate” as my grandpa used to say. I wanted to die as a good boy. I didn’t tell anything to anyone.
At night I still had my socks on. I had high fever. I knew my body will twist with pain now. I was sleeping facing up waiting for the trauma to happen. But then a soft hand felt my forehead and twitched back in shock. “Of Lord, you have fever!” My mother had found me hiding below a bed. “Come out now! What are you doing down there? Come here I say…” I obliged. I looked at mummy with tearful eyes and suddenly I hugged mummy with all force and started crying: “Mummy I don’t wanna die – Mummy please save me – Mama I don’t wanna die…” pausing and sobbing in between every two words. I told her everything.

The following day they took me to the doctor. The old doctor who had injected me with 42 injections for a wrong diagnosis was transferred. A new doctor had been appointed. I showed him my butts like a brave (??) boy and I took the injections with no qualms no complains. I was saying myself – injection is better than dying after all.

Later the doctor told my mother: “Your son is the best kid I have ever met. No other kid would so gently oblige to take injections.” My mom eyed me with distinct sarcasm and affection (a very weird mixture of emotions, of course). All I did was to hide behind me mother’s dupatta shyly.

P.S.: And yeah why did Blacky bite me? It had stolen a coconut-coir from the backyard and was relishing its favourite chewing gum. I patted it. It thought I would also pull the coir away from it. So it just got, you know, pissed off…and thus it bit me.