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Alley McBeal
Nov 15, 2003
It was a beautiful sunny morning in April 2001. The bougainvillea was in full bloom. The ficus tree’s little red fruit was attracting cheerful, singing birds. Angie and I were at our morning cuppa on the patio, enjoying the world. That is until our friend Sam arrived.
He stood by the small gate, pausing on his morning constitutional. “Have you decided on a dog?” he asked.
When we answered in the negative, he said there were a couple of very good puppies going. “It’s good for your soul,” Sam added, pushing the idea of pets as companions.
That hadn’t worked the last time around. So this morning he tried again. Did we read about the spate of attacks by the Dandupalya gang in the outskirts of Bangalore? “Well”, he said dramatically, “These brigands won’t take on houses that have dogs?”
That was news to us.
“Yes, they’re afraid of dogs” he continued, “It’s both because dogs can bark and alert neighbours or even bite. Or maybe because they can remember the scent and help in the tracking of the attackers or something. What ever it is, you won’t find the Dandupalya gang attacking houses that have dogs.”
That did it. In that weak moment we were taken in by Sam’s logic and before we knew it, we were riding in his car over Ring Road. Speeding on the road to the animal rescue and protection shelter in Koramangala, old apprehensions came back - about rearing a dog.
As both of us are hard-pressed for time, Angie had reasoned we need to consider all aspects of owning a dog. When we travel abroad who’ll mind the dog? What about the time when the maid is off - will that mean we’ll need to curtail our outings? Beside, there was the matter of costs. Not just feeding the animal but vet visits, medicines, toiletries and such hidden costs.
Reading my mind Sam said that raising a dog costs very little. “What you get in return is far, far more. Moreover, you’ll love the companionship. Come on, man, is there anything that can beat a dog’s welcome when you get home from office?” he asked, apologizing quickly to Angie, adding, “Present company excluded.”
As we neared the shelter we realised we had gone too far down the road to change our mind.
Before showing the choices, the vet, Dr Bhamzai gave us instructions and advice on rearing pets. “Dogs are wonderful,” he said and became quite ecstatic about the joys dogs can bring in a human’s life. He seemed to be taking over from Sam. A well-organized conspiracy if ever there was one to promote dogs!
The kennels in the shelter are for abandoned or stray dogs - many of which are wounded or traumatized. “Besides, we rescue puppies from the streets. Sometimes we even get pedigree animals that are lost,” the doctor said, “You are lucky this morning we have a very young Doberman.”
We stopped at the first kennel. Inside were tiny puppies picked up from city streets. They were whining in the dark interior. They started yelping as we peered inside. And as the gatekeeper unlocked the kennel, a tiny pup broke loose and leapt straight into my arms. The frisky mite took me by surprise but I caught it neatly out of reflex.
Taken aback, I stared at the little one. The little mutt stared back, dolefully. “Let’s go,” I said, recovering from the suddenness of things, “We’ve got our pup.” The vet, also taken aback, asked, “Don’t you want to see the other dogs?” My wife was tongue-tied. A rare achievement.
“Let’s go,” I repeated. Angie said, “Are you sure? I mean that pup you are holding is cute. Surely you want to see the Doberman before we decide?”
I stood firm in my decision. So in quick time, we were back in the vet’s office, signing adoption papers and getting details of vaccinations, diet and so on. Before we knew it, we were heading back with a tiny yelping 15-day old bundle in tow. Sam said, “You won’t regret this decision. Just look at her. Isn’t she pretty?”
We looked at her closely when we got home. She was an alley pup alright. Undernourished. Scanty black coat and white front paws. But it was her eyes that cried for attention. They were sad, imploring eyes. They said, “Hold me, I am lonely”. For some reason she reminded me of Calista Flockhart in the popular TV serial that we were following at that time.
That night as we watched Ally McBeal, there was a cloudburst. There was a rumbling in the sky. Bolts of lightning shook the neighborhood. Rain came in torrents. Coincidentally in the episode Ally is out late night in the rain in downtown Boston. A sorry solitary figure in a yellow mackintosh, face awash with rainwater and tears. We didn’t know why as we were interrupted at that stage by our new acquisition. She was making frantic little sounds. I took her out of her make-shift bed to comfort her. Soon her crying stopped but her tiny body continued to tremble. I hugged her to stop the shaking. Heck, someone had to play mother to the orphan. As my mind moved from one thought to another, an idea struck me. I said excitedly, “Let’s name her Alley McBeal.”
It didn’t quite get the requisite response. “Fine time to be up thinking names,” Angie pulled me up, sleepily from bed. “Why don’t you stop that little monster from squealing? I am trying to sleep. Remember I have a busy schedule tomorrow.”
I noticed that the new acquisition was already testing our patience. Outside, the rain continued unabated. And my tiny, exhausted Alley was sound asleep.
Later, we learnt that the night’s rain was the heaviest recorded in Bangalore’s history. Along with that report came other flash news: The rains had caused unprecedented damage. In Koramangala, buildings near the storm water drain were inundated. Staff at a nearby animal rescue home was met by the ghastly sight of dead floating dogs. Yes, the flash floods had drowned every single dog in the shelter.
A notable escapee of the night’s havoc, we soon realized, was the last pup taken for adoption. Alley McBeal.
Let the Street kids eat cake!
Oct 30, 2003
Instead of giving coins to the begging street children, I decided that next time I went to Bombay I would give them part of my breakfast.
It was the 1980s, and I was flying often from Bangalore to Bombay. The early flight meant I'd rise earlier than usual for a predawn walk and a good breakfast, both designed to prepare me for the challenges of a day in the big city.
My wife would insist on what she called a "light" breakfast: a mug of ragi porridge, two slices of bread with an egg, sunny side up, and a banana. "This will fortify you and set you right for the day!" she'd say. My protests that the airline served breakfast fell on deaf years. "I know you won't be eating again until late afternoon," she'd plead. "So please eat whatever they serve you on the aircraft."
"I'll try," I'd say, to spare an argument.
On the flight, my mind would be far from food. I'd be preoccupied with such things as export shipments and foreign exchange rates. When the breakfast service came with croissant, omelet, and fruit, I'd politely decline. That is, that's what I did until I saw something en route to my Bombay workplace that changed my routine.
On the Western Expressway, near the old Bahar cinema, I would be waiting for the traffic lights to change so that I could turn right and drive past the new international airport and beyond. I would often be arrested by a sight that made me ponder poverty and state planning.
Street urchins with ragged clothes and scraggly brown hair would come up to the cars stopped at the traffic light. Pressing their noses to the car's windows, they'd beg with outstretched hands or beat their tummies, indicating they were hungry. They seemed oblivious to the risks involved in darting in and out of rush-hour traffic.
These children, I observed, spoke a peasant patois that was a mix of Urdu and Telugu. They seemed to be from a community of migrant laborers that had made their homes in nearby roadside shanties.
On this particular morning, instead of getting me down, the encounter gave me a bright idea. Instead of giving coins, next time I'd give them my unconsumed in-flight breakfast.
In the beginning I saved up my croissant carefully and gave it to the saddest-looking child I encountered. Holding aloft the crescent roll in its plastic wrapping, the little girl said in joyous wonder, "Cake! Cake!"
Later, I found more hands reaching out for the single croissant. It was a clear case of demand far exceeding supply. So I asked nearby passengers on my morning flight if they wanted to donate their unconsumed croissants.
This necessitated a larger briefcase on my part, but it also made for a happy arrangement. Instead of the rolls being thrown away, they were being put to good use. But there were always more mouths to feed.
I stumbled on an even better solution one morning when the passenger next to me, a matronly Parsi lady, heard of my "mission." She was most understanding, even apologetic about the croissant she had already consumed.
"Don't worry, dear, I will help you," she said.
Without much ado, she stood up and marched down the aisle, seat to seat, collecting leftover rolls - or in some cases, I suspect, rolls that passengers were getting ready to consume. She seemed to be a lady possessed. She not only collected croissants but also little tubs of butter and jam. She stopped a stewardess and got a large plastic bag in which to carry the loot.
That morning when I came up to Bahar and I saw my young brood, I told my driver to pull over. I quickly got out of the car. It was December, and I must have looked a sight: Brooks Brothers suit and Gucci tie, carrying a large plastic bag, and dodging speeding vehicles to get to the traffic median that the pesky urchins used as a working base.
On spotting me, the group came alive with delight. I heard squeals of joy and excitement. My efforts to control the crowd or even to get them to cross the road at a safer spot didn't get very far. I was caught in the center of the melee. To this day, I am surprised that the efficient Bombay traffic police didn't arrest me for disturbing the peace.
I handed over the croissants. Being a sharing community, the children lost no time in summoning every Ramu, Shyamu, Karim, and Suji from across the street to come and get it. "The suit-boot man is giving out cakes!" they cried excitedly, "He's brought lots and lots of cakes this time. Come quickly!"
Didn't the Queen of France, Marie Antoinette, famously say that if the peasants had no bread, that they should eat cake?
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