Kuni

I

My son liked this story so much that I had to tell it to him many times over, Ditto, with my daughter. I still tell them Kuni’s story if I do not have any other story to tell. Little did I realise that my childhood tryst with Kuni would mean a lot to my children. At some point, as I realised how much they liked this story, I decided to write it for children. That day is not far off.

The year was 1978 – thirty three years ago! ‘Thirty three years ago…’ sounds nice when one tells a story, especially to those much younger than you. It feels as if you have accumulated so much experience! Anyway, let me get on with the story. My granny’s ancestral home in Bengalooru’s Cantonment, off Queen’s Road, was about to be sold for rupees seventy nine thousand. There are conflicting versions of how it happened. My parents always maintained that my uncles – three of them – were very keen on getting that house sold. Nobody wanted to stay together, and they had their own lives. So the question of keeping that property for everyone to live together one fine day didn’t arise. Often, they talked to my granny about selling the house and getting their share of the little booty. Left with no other option, the old woman gave in. Since she was staying with us, it was agreed that my father would get a substantial share of the proceeds.

I don’t remember the many details of what it took to sell our home, but there is this vivid picture of a discussion the entire family had in our small living room with a chap called Samiullah who finally bought the house. I was allowed to sit on a wooden stool somewhere in between two adults as they all haggled over the final price. The other piece of memory is that of my father and uncles counting seventy nine thousand rupees! I marvelled at their speed, as I always do when I stand at the bank counter sometimes to see money getting counted. No cheques, no electronic transfers. We didn’t even imagine that there could be something called electronic money those days. I’m pretty sure that my father didn’t have a bank account. He brought home his meagre few hundred rupees salary in cash and handed it to my granny who managed the household with my mother. Life was simple those days, and I didn’t even realise as a child that I missed out on anything.

Years later, when I could understand life’s nuances better, I was told by my older cousins and some aunts that my father had committed a Himalayan real estate blunder. I was told that that the Muniswamy Road house was worth crores! Had it been sold later, everybody would have become ‘lakhpatis’, at least – so went the argument. I had several such conversations and everyone seemed to point fingers at my father for his lack of foresight. My parents always thought otherwise and said ‘Look, they needed money, that’s why they sat on your granny’s head and made her agree.’ These arguments mattered little when I was young.

Anyway, we left 14, Muniswamy Road one day in 1978 from my childhood home, never to go back again. It was the first time that I moved from one home to another. My father called my childhood home an ‘outhouse’ meaning that all the rooms of the house were built in a line at one end of the plot of land leaving a large compound space in which we had the Tulsi katte, several flowering plants, a huge coconut tree (which my mother said was planted on the day I was born) and a big tree that gave the fragrant Sampangi flowers which were in great demand in the Shivaji Nagar market nearby. My friends and I played and pranced around in the large compound. I remember tri cycling, playing hide and seek, watering the coconut tree and climbing the Sampangi Mara. There are other memories, such as pissing out by standing at the room window holding its railings, when it was raining. Bahadur, our tenant who had rented one room at the corner of the plot, ran past and, when he saw this parabolic stream coming out of the window ducked underneath and carried on!

II

We shifted southwards to a place called Jayanagar 9th block. For one year, my father said, we would have to stay in a rented place while our new house was getting built in a new residential area called J. P Nagar. The roads were just getting laid out, and my mother would often walk from 9th block to J. P Nagar 2nd phase to supervise construction. Later, our house would appear as a white speck from the end of 9th block Jayanagar. It was only the second house in all of J. P Nagar!

Our rented home in 9th block was very small and I remember the difficulty I had adjusting in this space after 14, Muniswamy Road. Anyway, I quickly made many friends in the neighbourhood and spent most of my time on the streets of 9th block, playing lagori, marbles, flying kites, spinning the tops and playing cricket – all on the street. I keep telling my son that these games have more or less disappeared from our cities nowadays. I can vouch that kite flying in Bangalore has all but disappeared. Kids spend a lot of time playing virtual games on the cell or computer. And then there are these malls, which have mushroomed all over the city, where you pay through your nose to satisfy your child’s desire to play. Gone is that spontaneity which we enjoyed as children.

Kuni quickly became a dear friend. At that time, I didn’t know that ‘Kuni’ in Kannada actually meant dog! This only dawned several years later. There she was, simply called ‘dog’ by all of us. For a dog that spent most of her time on the streets, she looked quite big and brown, almost like an Alsatian. I discovered from my friends that she had quite a few children who, like her, inhabited 9th block’s lanes. They all looked quite different. She must have had several lovers! I would feel strange but curious and excited nonetheless at the sight of her mating with another dog -- the famous ‘doggie position’, as I learnt some years later! Other dogs would wait to mount her, in heat, often snarling at each other and mounting her even if she was stuck with another dog. Some of my friends threw stones at dogs who had coupled. They enjoyed doing this and didn’t think much about the hurt they inflicted on other living beings. Children can be violent, too. I wondered why dogs had to get stuck that way…

Once I fed Kuni with some chapathis, she expected some titbit or the other from me all the time. My mother and granny readily obliged and we usually fed her food that we ate – rice, dal, chapathi, biscuits. Pretty soon, she started spending a lot of time in the vicinity of our new home. To escape the heat, she would just jump over the gate, come in and lie down in front of our door. The small plot of land on which we lived was partitioned into three separate houses, two of which were rented out. Subbamma, our landlord, lived in one of these houses opposite ours. She didn’t seem to mind Kuni.

As the days passed, Kuni started waiting for me to return from school. I usually walked home from the 9th block bus stand and as I entered the last stretch every day, I would often find my mother standing at the gate, waiting for me. Seeing me, she would look back and say something to Kuni, who often waited inside. Kuni would then charge across a very short stretch of compound, leap over the gate and come charging towards me, her tail wagging madly, joy written all over her face. Our evening meeting usually had the same script – she would stop just in time to avoid a collision and then would kneel in front, straightening her front legs, wagging her tail, waiting for me to initiate some affection. I would go close to her, pat her head, and ask her how she was. She would then pounce on me, and I would hold her forelegs as she walked on the other two, and that’s how we often covered some distance. Then she would run away, only to return after a few minutes. I fed her the biscuits I was given along with a glass of milk.

Every evening, as my friends and I played on the streets, Kuni hung around. Sometimes, she would go away for an hour two, but always came home for dinner. She would stay the night in the compound. Winters in Bangalore were quite nippy in the late seventies. I still remember how misty it would get in the mornings and how our skins would crack during those months. We all liked to ‘smoke’ in the mist then! To make Kuni comfortable at night, we spread out a gunny bag in front of our door. My parents and granny would not let Kuni in. I often tried very hard to cover her with another gunny bag, but she would usually come out of it and was not comfortable being covered.

Once, our neighbours had a social function and there were many people who had come for lunch. It was some festival and I remember being home that day. Lunch was spread out on banana leaves, which were all later neatly rolled out and thrown outside a little away from our house. There was no public dustbin. It was all left to the cows to eat the banana leaves. Before the cows came, Kuni and her friends appeared and rushed madly towards the banana leaves, hoping to find some morsels of food. There were many dogs fighting for very little food. Kuni was getting side lined by the other dogs and I didn’t like it one bit. I scared away the other dogs with a stick, and this gave Kuni a chance to eat some food all by herself. The other dogs kept growling, but they did not dare to come near me. I think Kuni became more close to me after that – at least, that’s what I thought then.

One day, as I walked towards 9th block bus stand to board my school bus, Kuni started trailing me, much to my surprise. She had not done this before. I kept asking her to go back but she wouldn’t listen. So she walked behind me, all the way till the 9th block bus stand. The school bus was ready and would leave in a few minutes. I got in, and Kuni followed! She didn’t want to let me go. What I did, I tried to tell her to get down and when that didn’t work she had to be pushed out by the bus conductor. I kept worrying about her all day and was relieved to find her fine in the evening.

As the days passed, Kuni and I only got closer. She would spend most of her time at our place, or somewhere nearby. She went with me whenever I set out of the house, to play or visit a friend’s place. On my part, I looked after her as best as I could. I became friends with her children too.

Finally, she didn’t come home in the morning over a weekend. I remember going out and looking for her. I enquired about her with a few friends, but they didn’t have an answer. So we started searching in the lanes of 9th block. ‘Go to the main road, there’s a dog lying there’, said one of our neighbours. We found Kuni lying inert in the middle of the main road, the one that connects the Bannerghatta road with Kanakapura road. Why is she lying down in the middle of the road? I thought. She would be run over by the Gaadis. I didn’t understand, till my friend pointed out to blood beneath her head. With a heavy heart, I realised that she had been run over by a callous driver. I couldn’t believe it. ‘Can’t we take her to a doctor?’ Nobody answered.

I came home crying. I looked back -- Kuni was surrounded by her children, all with sad looks on their faces, their tails down, sniffing her on that fateful main road.

Raipur
October 2011