The Dog We Stole is the definitive biography of Her Majesty Begum Pathumma. Read earlier episodes of the series on the TDWS page.
As he trundled down the stairs stopping at each floor to double check if our wards were hiding in the shadows, panic quit pacing and sat down, politely hinting at refreshments. Echo is your puppy baby but do you realise that he is a big, brown dog to others? He couldn’t even manage to defend his spot on the couch from his tiny sister but strangers don’t know that! How would he survive in the world outside? You’ve not got a name tag on Pathu yet. How will she be found? Most importantly, where would they go? They don’t get along even under supervision!
As panic continued to peel my confidence and reveal my nerves, another scene was unfurling outside. When his meticulous search operation reached the ground floor, a sound came running up the stairs from the basement. He had never believed that all three of us knew he was home before he opened the door because we could identify the jingling of his key bunch when he locked the car in the street. But here it was, the unmistakable bell-like metallic ting of Echo’s name tag chiming against his collar.
Pathu hid, tiptoed and then ran across the parking lot like a single thread drizzle of caramel sauce.
When he got to the basement the siblings were playing hide and seek among the cars. The cars smiled sheepishly, scratched their heads and avoided eye contact. Pathu was the first one to spot him. She clearly didn’t understand the rules of engagement here. Neither did she understand any of our commands. She walked over wagging not just her wispy dyslexic ‘C’ of a tail, but the entire lower half of her body. She must have assumed he was there to play with them. Because when he bent down to get a hold of her, she proceeded to step back, theatrically bang her front legs on the floor, lowering her upper body in a dramatised downward dog and running in the opposite direction, hoping he would follow. In the joy of having found them safe, follow her he did. He weaved between the parked cars, as they egged him on. Pathu hid, tiptoed and then ran across the parking lot like a single thread drizzle of caramel sauce. He followed like a man who had unexpectedly found his kidnapped children without much effort.
If you liked this series so far, let me know in the comments and tell a friend about it. Sign up to get these posts delivered daily to your inbox.
I wrote this on 1 October 2020 in response to two events that occurred on 30 September 2020—the cremation at Hathras and the Babri Masjid verdict.
Yesterday’s events belch up leaving an acrid aftertaste. I spent all day refusing to think or talk about what was happening in this country and the world. When a friend mentioned that she was too sad to read my series The Dog We Stole, I laughed at her asking, “What’s the point of being sad?”. She said, “it’s to acknowledge the emotion and to sit with it”. Through the day I was successful in hiding away behind a veil of indifference. I stayed away from all mentions of Hathras, Babri Masjid and the American presidential debate. But then came evening.
Before bed I just couldn’t hold it in any longer and we talked about the absurdity of the situation and not knowing how to react to it. When you question absurdity with logic, you end up being the fool in the conversation. But in this post-truth world it feels absurd to ask, what do you mean no one demolished it? What do you mean you cremated her without her family’s consent? See how I didn’t even mention the insolence of the upper caste men who gang raped her and how you didn’t think anything of it till I mentioned it? Notice how stupid these questions sound when said out aloud? That is where we are at. The audacity of the administration to deny this brutal gender and caste-based violence does not shock me. I am well past shock. I feel sad, hopeless. Today, I am right where they want me to be—resigned to living in this intolerant Hindu nation as an object called woman, just the way Manu intended it. I feel powerless and disoriented in this dystopia.
With a simple sleight of hand, one of the tenets that makes us, humans, stand up straight has been violated—the basic right of affording one’s last rites in the presence of our loved ones. And with every passing day the bar slides further; faster now than ever before. What is this if not a dictatorship? It is probably true that there are millions of Dalits and Muslims who will suffer before these issues knock on my doorstep but that is a function of India’s population and my privilege more than our democracy.
This week, a popular dubbing artist in Kerala took law into her own hands and thrashed her online abuser, Vijay P Nair. What else was she to do when the law of the land turned a blind eye? Of course it’s her class and caste privilege that makes this a plausible reaction for her. I know that the time for being polite is long gone. A woman with patience will end up a fossil. But what is the way forward? Today, I simply don’t know.
That I can shut the world out when I choose to is a mark of my privilege. A privilege offered to me because I am perceived as an upper class, upper caste Hindu woman. In the hierarchy that runs the world, I am placed above a Dalit woman and a Muslim man or woman. Am I entitled to represent their experiences? I don’t feel that I am. But do they have spaces to represent themselves? And it’s 2020! Not mentioning that this is the lived reality of a vast section of Indian citizens just because they are Dalit or Muslim is unconscionable. Babri Masjid verdict does not come as a shock. It comes as a show of power, an entitlement that victims of patriarchy will instinctively recognise. Hathras has not been my experience simply because I am not a Dalit woman. But this experience is not alien to me as a woman. Socially and culturally I am conditioned to believe that I am asking to be brutally raped and have my tongue cut off if I don’t conform to patriarchy.
As a woman, I feel ashamed to call myself Indian. Tell me why I should feel patriotic about a country that terminates its girl child, molests, rapes, mutilates and murders its girls and women, does not accept its womxn, makes arrests based on gender and overlooks complaints made by women. Patriotism is not a one-way street.
Rationally I know that hope is the only light that leads us. But today, as I sit with my grief for our loss of decency and dignity as a nation, I am blind, my head hangs in shame and I don’t know how to go on.
If you came here looking for The Dog We Stole series, we resume on Monday morning.
It is true that I am late to the Unni R appreciation party. However I am glad I got around to reading his books in Malayalam. His books are getting translated to English now and there’s always the fear of just reading it in English because that’s easier for me. I believe that books in translation, however good, are another version of the original. The English translation of പ്രതി പൂവൻ കോഴി (Prathi Poovan Kozhi) was released by Eka (an imprint of Westland Publications) in August 2020 as The Cock is the Culprit. It’s been translated into English by J Devika. The plan is to read it in Malayalam first and then in English.
I loved the first story I read, തോടിനപ്പുറം പറമ്പിനപ്പുറം (thodinappuram parambinappuram), a tale of an old woman and her granddaughter who go on adventures. This simple premise is elevated when the author’s imagination runs wild taking us along on a delightful ride. The author uses personification with the mastery of a magician. He creates an atmosphere of plausibility in a small town where not much happens. Most importantly he makes a case both for the reading habit and for democratising travelogues. Another wonderful and rarely told storyline is ആനന്ദമാർഗം (Aanandamargam). It is a story of a group of teachers, all older women, who go on a weekend trip. These teachers swear, drink, have fun and don’t like to be revered, unlike teachers of popular imagination. It’s a simple story line of a group of people we all know, with hilarious dialogue that tugs hard at your emotions. This in essence is what draws me to Unni R’s writing.
Kottayam 17 is the collection that includes his popular story ലീല (Leela) that was adapted into film by the director Ranjith (available on Hotstar). Leela is the story of a rich man who sets about to satiate one of his desires—to have sex with a woman standing against an elephant. I’d watched the movie in 2016 when it was released and found it unpalatable. Having said that, the story weaves Kuttiyappan the protagonist with more nuance than the film. In the story he comes across as a quirky fellow with the money to follow through on his wild plans. Kuttiyappan of the film fits into too real a mould of a rich man doing as he pleases, painting him with the worst of our society’s stereotypes—patriarchy and misogyny.
In Ozhivudivasathe Kali, I liked how ആലീസിൻ്റെ അത്ഭുതലോകം (Alicende Athbhuthalokam/Alice in Wonderland) is narrated. In narrating it from Alice’s perspective, he highlights the child’s innocence making the gravity of the situation even more stark. Of course, what is not to love about Uroos in പ്രാണിലോകം (Pranilokam) who speaks only to plants and animals? Without fanfare, the author brings to the fore, the fact that humankind’s progress has come to be linked intrinsically with vanishing flora and fauna.
This post is incomplete without mentioning his portrayal of women. Travel-loving grandmothers, post menopausal teachers, sisters who are braver than brothers, wives who are equal partners grace his stories with the ease I would love to see more widely in literature and film. Liars, bookworms, closeted gay men, Karl Marx, Jesus, lovers and oglers form Unni R’s world of the truest kind of magic—a simple one. In writing this post I realised that I like his stories when they are about simple people living their truth. I found those more powerful than when he tries to hold up a mirror to society from within the realm of literature.
The Dog We Stole is the definitive biography of Her Majesty Begum Pathumma. This is the fifth episode of the series. Read E1,E2, E3 and E4 before reading further.
Entitlement was her scent of choice, surrounding her in a whiff of superiority. Pathu walked with her head held high and a spring in her steps. The way she swung her hips, you knew that she knew she was beautiful. Grown men including her vet swooned over her shiny caramel coat and the artistry of the white markings on her face. Meanwhile, our indecision paled in comparison to her composure. The dog rescuer had found us a prospective adoptee. They were looking for a six month old female indie pup. What were the odds? However, before we were forced to make a choice regarding Her Majesty, a Covid case was detected in their building. They were out of commission and unable to travel for a fortnight. We retreated into the comfort of our indecision.
This is a good time as any to introduce Echo. No one would believe this. Not even the both of them. But Echo is Pathu’s elder brother. They act like living under the same roof is the biggest injustice of their lives. But it’s true. They are siblings. Echo is a big, friendly fellow who is quiet and well-mannered. Well, until when he is not! He has been known to be goofy, aggressive and wilful. Essentially Echo is a glossy dark chocolate cake with a surprise raspberry ganache. But that’s another biography all together. If Pathu knew that I was writing about him in her biography, she would make a snack of me for sure.
Echo! Pathu! I wasn’t sure if Pathu even knew her name.
A long day of work had us in its clutches. I was hanging from an online event and he was being strangled by the octopus digits of an endless call. Around dusk, someone rang the bell prompting a short canine duet from our brood. As I was video-trapped, he extricated himself to open the door. The sequence of events following this is still a mystery to us. Over an hour later, my event let me go and I came out of my room to find the main door wide open. The dogs were nowhere in sight. I called out for them in vain. Echo! Pathu! I wasn’t sure if Pathu even knew her name. I shouted for him. We panicked together. Rain and the raintree were having a stormy argument outside. He ran out of the house in search. The dog we stole has made a dash for freedom with her brother in tow.
The Dog We Stole is the definitive biography of Her Majesty Begum Pathumma. This is the fourth episode of the series. Read E1,E2 and E3 before reading further.
We thought there wasn’t a better name for her than Her Majesty Begum Pathumma (paa-tum-ma) alias Pathu. There were a couple of reasons behind choosing this name.
The first memory of our meeting stood out like a goat in a raintree. Pathu used her spindly legs not only to jump but also to kick with an unwarranted vengeance. Like an olympian goat Pathu jumped over the coffee table onto the couch as I tried in vain to catch her. In doing that, she made our white and blue ceramic lamp shade quite dizzy with her agility. She pinched our laidback couch with her sharp nails and made him wince.
Her action sequence reminded me of Basheer’s novel Pathummayude Aadu, about his sister’s goat that had a free reign in his house, eating anything in sight including his noted works. Pathu too ate anything that her mouth encountered. Many articles that we considered uneatable fell prey to her sly snacky appetite. Among these newly discovered eatables, she preferred snacks priced over Rs 2000 and in pairs. We were no match for her skill when she found and devoured a pair of spectacles, a pair of earphones and a pair of back covers of Unni R’s stories. As a legally bound pair of humans, we shuddered at the thought of Begum’s snacktime ending our lives.
Her displeasure would curl her lips downwards, making a tunnel of her snout.
Another reason for calling her Pathumma was that she reminded us of a grumpy old woman. Pathu was a feisty one. If she did not get what she wanted, or felt wronged, which was most of the time, she would pace around you in a semicircle, staring you down with judging eyes making accusatory noises that were unlike any dog we had previously met. Her displeasure would curl her lips downwards, making a tunnel of her snout. Her one foot high body would then produce a long, high-pitched yodel to the tune of, ‘How dare you disobey me? Who made you my minion? Minister, burn this one at the stake and get me a new one’.
Get your daily dose of Pathu in your inbox. Sign up here!
As the narrator, I could take the liberty to say that we did our due diligence finding her parents. But that would be a thick coat of lies over the knowledge that we were going to keep her. Rewind to Sunday when we found her. When we interrupted tea to go meet Her Majesty, we had had a discussion. An indie dog is unlikely to be claimed. Okay? Okay.
An indie dog is unlikely to be claimed. Okay? Okay.
Since it was Sunday, he took her to CUPA’s Animal Hospital to get her checked out. Her leg was not broken but her fever was from an infection. The vet had sent her home with a cone to keep her from licking her wounds. She was around 6 months old. I arranged this jigsaw of information into a poster with her photo. The giant cone around her slim neck resembled an avant garde ruff. She walked around like a drunk ruffian. In the cone she had little peripheral vision in this strange house. She banged into furniture and scraped the walls as she walked.
We circulated the poster in two community WhatsApp groups and a facebook group. Why did we trust the efficiency of English posters without question? Did we really think that we would find in our WhatsApp circle, the person who had used laundry rope as a leash? Now that you have a peek into our privilege, you know how hard we tried. After a week of that charade, we asked a dog rescuer to help place her for adoption. Meanwhile, we named this dog we stole, Her Majesty Begum Pathumma.
Liked what you just read? To read the rest from your email, sign up below.
The Dog We Stole is the definitive biography of Her Majesty Begum Pathumma. This is the second episode of the series. Read E1: A Sunday in June before reading further.
The scurrying dog turned out to be a female indie pup with beaglesque ears. A scared yet friendly little pup who belonged to someone. She had a metal link collar with a bright green plastic rope used for laundry lines around her neck. She had hurt her hind leg and was limping as if it were broken. Of course we assumed it was broken. After all that’s the most common injury you see in street dogs. Have you ever stopped to think why that’s the commonest injury? It’s because they are hit while they are trying to run away. Humans are the absolute worst. I should get a t-shirt made. While I concerned myself with merchandising my thoughts, our hearts were turning to puddle. She was so trusting that she ate the biscuits we gave, sat with us for a bit and then came right home with us.
Once she got home all hell broke loose. She ran around the house like a possessed teenager. We tried to contain her but then decided against it. I sat on the ground, my heart weak and leaking into my organs. My sense of cleanliness that I had misplaced once our house help had been sent on paid leave thanks to the pandemic, popped its ugly head out of the kitchen. How long is this creature going to be around, she asked. Do you know how long she has been on the streets? Or where her legs have been? Are you going to allow her on the couch? I was channeling my nastiest response when I felt a warmth in my lap.
Her legs had pulled up their white ankle socks of fur like a renewal of her faith.
The little runner had finished her marathon practice and was climbing into my lap. She sat down, positioning her head in the crook of my arm, as if she had done this many times before. She was warm, running a fever. But it felt like her glossy, caramel coat would always be warm to the touch. I stroked her milky white snout and forehead as her eyes fell asleep. She was shaking. I applauded her bravery with even strokes to her pure white belly. Her legs had pulled up their white ankle socks of fur like a renewal of her faith. I stroked them for good measure. And there we sat in the middle of the room, watching her sleep.
Sign up below to receive the story and more in your inbox.
The Dog We Stole is the definitive biography of Her Majesty Begum Pathumma. This is the first episode of the series.
It was a Sunday evening in June. Sometime during the Covid Lockdown, evening tea had become our ritual. Work had grown between us like vegetation. Untended. It had spilled over beyond daylight, toppling dishes on the lunch table, climbing up the tall promise of evenings and extending its tendrils well into the crevices of the night. We barely saw each other. We slept at different times, ate separately and lived separate lives under one roof.
Once we realised that something needed to be done to save time from the transgressions of work, we set things in motion. First, both of us marked time on our calendars for tea. 4.30 pm was to be sacrosanct. Then we decided on the garden chairs and table in the balcony overlooking the raintree as the venue and cleaned it up. To make teatime more of an occasion, we began indulging in elaborate snacks. At 4.30 pm sharp, we would head out to our balcony with our mugs of tea and sundal or roasted peanuts or poha or upma and sit there talking about our day, judging people who were out and about, ignoring the pandemic.
She worked her way down to our cold hearts, warming them, sprouting the idea that we are the society we often accuse of being apathetic.
It was during one such teatime that we noticed a dog scurrying up and down our lane, as if in search of something. From our perch upon the branches of the grand old raintree, the dog seemed to be limping and scared. It’s tail in between its legs, its head hanging lower, it was looking back repeatedly with an unmistakable hurry in its steps. Like proper city people, we ignored it all through tea time. As you know, in the city, if you see something, it becomes your problem. As composed as we were about ignoring this dog, the tea we drank had other plans for us. She worked her way down to our cold hearts, warming them, sprouting the idea that we are the society we often accuse of being apathetic. And just like that, our sacrosanct tea time was unceremoniously cut short. Armed with the bravery that now coursed through our veins, we grabbed a supply of Marie biscuits and water and headed down for the rescue.
Sign up below to receive these posts in your inbox.
You are alone. In your heart-racing stress and its consequent quest for calm. As you press your hands to your body or to a wall to find grounding, you are alone. In the alleyways of your mind where alternate scenarios to events past perform playback theatre, you are alone. When your unshakable morals stand their ground, there will be no audience. When human logic escapes you, there will be no sister to turn to and consult with. Remember! That logic is elusive to you alone. That infinite circular staircase of dissent that leads nowhere you will climb, wondering if the world has left you behind or if you are ahead of the curve. You are alone in your anxiety, silent screams that no one hears. For them you are too successful, too old, too disciplined or too privileged to be anxious. In the moments leading up to the end, you are alone.
In reading a book, falling in love, memory of a dish, selfishness you feel or the taste of a December morning in 1999 you are alone. You can explain what the flapping of a wraparound skirt in a small town made a 14-year-old feel. Invincible, beautiful, modern and free. But words will fail you. The exhilaration you felt at the start of the day, the deep sense of shame you were gifted that day, the confusion of not understanding why a bare knee was a problem, the feeling is not in those instances. The feeling is in your mind—doubt; etched. The stares, the giggles, the stern whispered warnings.
Live life as if you are alone and be surprised when you find a helping hand. A helping hand on your shoulder or holding your hand. Accept it without question. Give into its charm completely. But until then, live for yourself, as if you were alone. Because to believe in the other, to hope for the other, is foolish. It is foolish to believe that someone will walk with you. Of course, if you have faith, He will walk beside you through the night. But this is a PSA for those living outside faith. There is no one. If everyone’s life has a purpose, the purpose of yours cannot be in service of another. And if life has no purpose, then there you have it.
In the beginning of 1985, when I had recently moved into my first home, if you had told me that I would be evicted soon, I would have laughed at you. No way! Those walls made me feel safe and comfortable. As if I had, not a care in the world. As if I were floating.
Every morning, I woke up feeling tiny but happy in a universe that loved me. Of course it was rather curious that a house could make me feel that way. If you’ve ever met first-time home owners you’ll know how enthusiastic they are about being domestic. They stay put at home. Talk a lot about food and mention comfort a couple of times a minute. Well, you’ve met me.
I had elaborate meals and shared about them obsessively online. I invested in cleaning agents and was quite proud of my collection. I dreamt of flexing my green thumb. I trolled lifestyle bloggers after watching all their content. On stormy nights, I rearranged the furniture because lightning scared me.
In the afternoons I moved the furniture around and exercised in the living room. After a couple of months, when I began to gain strength, I would attempt handstands. At first I was pathetic. There was a lot of kicking the walls involved. But I now feel capable, as if this is not beyond me. I feel like I’ve grown as a person in these last 9 months.
In early November, I woke up early one morning feeling uneasy. I now know that that feeling was a premonition. But that fateful morning, I didn’t know what it was. It was like the discomfort you feel before puking. As if something were going to happen. I headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on for coffee. I reached out for the jug to get a drink of water. The jug fell from my hand in slow motion and broke, spilling water everywhere. That was a sign.
Walking to the front door to collect the newspaper, I felt a pull as if a giant magnet were attracting me from the opposite side of the street. That is the last thing I remember.
I woke up kicking and screaming on a cold, metal weighing scale. There were noises all around. And people milling around doing things, looking busy. Before they wrapped me up tight, I saw my wrinkly exterior and felt air on my skin for the very first time. I was born, a healthy child at 7.13 am on a Thursday morning in November of 1985.
