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by whatsonsidsmind

Walking Back to Bhowanipore: A Memoir – Part 3 (Concluding Part)

Written By: Siddhartha Krishnan | 9 Min Read

The last time I wandered through Bhowanipore with any real leisure was nine years ago. I had returned to Kolkata a few times since the summer of 2006, but those visits were fleeting, focused on my parents, who lived there until the end of 2017. There was no space then to slip back into the rhythm of my childhood, no time to retrace the streets that once mapped my world.

But in the winter of 2016, on one such visit, I made time for an early morning walk—something I used to do every day as a student at St. Xavier’s College. The bus could’ve taken me there in under ten minutes, but I preferred the half-hour walk through waking streets. I’d arrive just before six a.m.—yes, that’s when our BCom (Hons) classes began, when the city was still stretching its limbs.

As I stepped out of my building and onto Gokhale Road, something shifted. The morning light had a softness to it, as if filtered through memory. Shapes from the past shimmered into focus. To my left stood my old gang in front of Yaseen Da’s shop, ready to dash off to Chowringhee Terrace. The bat, I noticed, was suddenly in my hand. “Bhai, chale?” Guddu grinned at me.

Just then, a school bus rounded the corner at Gol Mandir, the shouts of children echoing down the street. It was unmistakably Jugal Da’s bus—old, filled to the brim and noisy as always. I watched my father help my younger brother and a nine-year-old me into the backseat. I caught my father’s eye, and he smiled. Our smiles met briefly, suspended between the years.

I kept that smile, as the bus dissolved into the morning haze.

The next thing I knew, I was sprinting toward Chowringhee Terrace. A game of cricket was underway under a thick canopy of rain trees. Vicky hurled the ball; I met it with a square cut. The plastic ball smacked hard against the metal gate of the kindergarten school beside us. A familiar voice exploded in protest—the guard, roused even on a holiday. Guddu stepped forward to calm him down, throwing me a mischievous wink.

Then the sun vanished behind clouds, and the trees blurred once more into silhouettes. The street was quiet again.

I kept walking, but I wasn’t alone.

As I reached the point where Gokhale Road met AJC Bose Road, I paused. An unassuming man stood nearby, eyes fixed skyward, mesmerized by a crane shifting massive blocks of concrete. The flyover connecting Park Circus to Rabindra Sadan was taking shape or so it seemed.

Then a bus screeched past, jolting me back. The construction was long finished. The flyover, I realized, stood complete, humming silently above.

I crossed the road toward Nandan Cinema.

There, just outside the gate, I felt a familiar tug. My father’s little finger, gently locked with mine. It was a winter night in ’93. We were wrapped in jackets and sweaters, heading into a children’s film festival screening of Ray’s “Sonar Kella”. In my left hand was a vanilla softy, already melting slightly at the edges as the projector whirred to life.

Then, like a ripple across the screen, another image floated in—me again, slightly older this time, holding my first cup of fountain Pepsi. That too was at Nandan. The fizz, the chill, the magic of bubbles, I felt it all.

As I entered the gates of Victoria Memorial, a distant memory came rushing in. The manicured lawns stretched before me, dotted with mats and chatter. The annual picnic of our Malayalee group was in full swing on an autumn afternoon, filled with laughter, steaming containers of food, and a warmth that came not from the sun, but from the closeness of our shared roots.

Overhead, an eagle swooped low, its wings slicing the air, as it chased something in the shallow waters nearby. I flinched slightly, and the moment shifted. Just beyond the pond, I spotted the old wooden bench where we’d sit after college, me and my friends from St. Xavier’s, talking films, politics, heartbreak, and dreams.

I wandered further, exiting through the main gate. And there they were again—my childhood gang from Gokhale Road, gathered around a pushcart, gulping down glasses of shikanji. Their faces were flushed from the sun, their T-shirts soaked in sweat from a match at the Maidan. I could almost hear the clink of ice against glass, feel the burst of lime and salt on my tongue.

I let out a smirk as I walked toward the Birla Planetarium crossing. With each step, a steady smile settled on my face, and again, a bouquet of images bloomed.

Park Street unfurled before me—my school, my college. The football field echoed with shouts. The sip-ups and samosas at Panditji’s school canteen came back with startling clarity, as did the chops, rolls, and chowmein at Arun Da’s college canteen. Somehow, the footpath along Jawaharlal Nehru Road began to feel like our old corridor at St. Xavier’s Collegiate School. I could almost see Fr. Santos twirling his cane—half menace, half theatre, ready to chase down any student loitering during class hours.

I turned right at the planetarium to begin my walk back home. As I passed the Nehru Children’s Museum, another image flickered to life—miniature clay figures, narrating the tales of the Ramayana and Mahabharata. I remembered standing before them, hand in hand with my father, as he carefully explained the parts of the epics I found too complex.

When I reached the Elgin Road signal, I could almost feel a breeze drift in from Jadu Babur Bajar, thick with the smells of the morning market—fried spices, damp jute sacks, vegetables, meat and fish.

A memory rose, unannounced.

A hole-in-the-wall shop beside a mutton stall near Ganja Park—barely visible, easy to miss and still crowded. There, a man would serve mutton meatballs on a sal leaf, sprinkled with a magic masala that lingered on the tongue. If we happened to be shopping in the bazaar at night, my father would pause there without fail. One plate to snack on as we walked, and another carefully packed for my mother and brother back home.

It wasn’t indulgence—it was ritual. In Kolkata, walking and snacking are inseparable, like breath and talk. The mouth must never be idle, the stomach never left wanting. It was just the way of things.

At the signal, I glanced toward Gift Centre on Elgin Road, less than a hundred metres away. Back in school, it had been our go-to place, for birthday presents, school stationery, and last-minute greeting cards for friends in class and from the para. It was also where I carefully built my collection of Hot Wheels cars, G.I. Joe and He-Man figurines. Sachets of Hajmola and Fatafat were impulse buys at the end, tucked into our pockets before we ran off.

Two years later, I would return to the same shop, this time looking for a toy for my four-year-old son. He was with me. The man at the counter looked up and smiled instantly. He recognised me, even with my beard. Some connections, it seems, don’t fade with time.

I turned right from the signal toward Shambhunath Pandit Street and stopped at Shitala Mandir, bowing my head to the goddess.

Just beyond, Ganguram was already open. It was 8 a.m., and the familiar pot-bellied uncle behind the counter was offering his morning prayers to the gods and goddesses lining the wall. The shop hadn’t changed. The paint was coming off the walls but the glass shelves still gleamed. The scent of chhena and sugar hung in the air like something sacred.

I packed a box of sandesh for my family in Bangalore and stepped out.

Sharma Tea House was only a short walk away. I stopped in for a cup of tea, and picked up two plates of their club kachoris to take home.

On my way back to Gokhale Road, I passed Nimki House. The warm, familiar aroma of fried savouries wafted out, tugging at me like an old friend. For a moment, I slowed down. But then I smiled and whispered to myself, “Next time.”

At Gol Mandir, I offered my prayers. A steady crowd had begun to gather. But that morning, by some quiet grace, I received prasad from Panditji without a wait.

And then, I turned the final corner.

Re-entering Gokhale Road felt like stepping through a portal. The air was the same, yet not. Familiar windows blinked open. In that moment, I became a shape-shifter, man to child, and child to man again, moving between selves, across time, as if none of it had ever truly gone.

A familiar scent drifted through the morning air—the unmistakable aroma of bhoger khichuri, just as it was served on Dashami at the Gokhale Sporting Club Durga Puja. It flooded my senses, stirring something deep and wordless. As I neared my building, I spotted Guddu. “Morning walk?” he asked, reading the contentment on my face. “Yes,” I replied. We smiled. No words were needed.

Before stepping into the pathway of 7A Gokhale Road, I turned once more.

There they were—my father in his safari suit, my grandfather in his crisp whites, both smiling, standing at the edge of memory. It struck me then: these streets and alleys weren’t just theirs, they are mine too. This place has shaped me, just as it had shaped them.

But if a young boy from Palakkad, who once walked barefoot across rivers to reach his school in the 1930s, hadn’t dreamt of a better life in a distant city, none of this would have been possible. Kolkata didn’t just hold our history—it became us. That is the true hallmark of a great city: its ability to absorb everything, hold fast to its values, and through that quiet, constant churning, shape a culture uniquely its own. An identity born not from erasure, but from embrace.

In the 1970s, if my grandfather, my father, Dr. Mathur, the barefoot historian of Kolkata P.T. Nair, and their like, none of whom are alive today, had met in our tiny Gokhale Road flat, I wonder what they might have dreamt for the city’s future, fifty years ahead.

***

About the author:

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of ‘Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories’. An enthusiastic blogger he shares his essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

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by whatsonsidsmind

Walking Back to Bhowanipore: A Memoir – Part 2

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 5 Min Read

My grandfather migrated to Calcutta from a small village in Palakkad, Kerala, two years before Independence. I’m not sure when exactly he made Gokhale Road his home. My father was born in the autumn of 1949. With quiet determination, my grandfather set up a small business and soon brought over relatives from Palakkad—young men with dreams of education, growth, and a better life.

Among them was Dr. P.R.G. Mathur, a relative of ours, who would go on to become a renowned anthropologist. He completed his PhD from Calcutta University, and in the 1990s, would often visit us during his tours. He’d bring along his close friend, P. Thankappan Nair, now fondly remembered as the ‘barefoot historian of Kolkata.’ Nair lived just a stone’s throw from our home, on Kansaripara Lane. My father, Dr. Mathur, and Nair would slip into long, meandering conversations on books, politics, and the city itself. I would sit nearby, a silent bystander. The topics were far too heavy for me, but the rhythm of those conversations stays with me still.

In the 50s and 60s, as old-timers tell it, my grandmother would cook for a gathering on humid afternoons. Our small flat never felt small back then. “When it got too crowded, we’d sleep out in the balcony,” my father used to say. Years later, I accompanied him to visit Dr. Mathur in Palakkad, not long before his death. Both men were frail and quiet, but the moment was heavy with feeling. Dr. Mathur kept recalling just one thing—how lovingly my grandmother used to feed him. Her begun bhajas were his favourite. In the end, perhaps it’s always the small things that matter.

Three generations of our family owe a quiet debt to this city, and to this locality in particular. We lived in Krishnapriya Mansion, a hundred-year-old building just across from the police barracks on Gokhale Road. Modest, weathered and slowly crumbling, but always full of life. We had rented two flats in the building. My father spent his entire active life there, anchored not just by familiarity, but also by the flavours of the city.

He was a true foodie—perhaps the most Bengali of all his traits. Nimki House with its crisp savouries, Sharma Tea House with its heritage chai and club kachoris, Tibetan Delight’s momos, the doodh cola and parathas from Balwant Singh Eating House, pastries and sandwiches at Sugarr & Spice, and of course, the mishti doi and sandesh from Ganguram. These weren’t just food joints. They were rituals. Each one just a few hundred steps from our door.

However, one of the strongest memories I carry from the 90s is of my father heading to Jadu Babur Bajar on Ashutosh Mukherjee Road. It was a daily ritual, folded neatly into his morning walk. But on weekends, it took on a certain flamboyance. He’d step out with a spring in his step and his trusted jhola in hand. I was usually forced to tag along.

Someone on the road would shout, “Sachi da kothai?”, and without missing a beat, he’d reply, “Bajar korte jacchi.” That reply, so casual, feels oddly alien now, meaningless almost, for a generation that shops with a swipe on Blinkit or Big Basket. But the way he said it, with a twinkle in his eye and a hint of anticipation, made it sound like he was off on a holiday.

I couldn’t understand it then. Jadu Babur Bajar or Jaggu Bazaar as we kids mockingly called it—was no picnic spot. It was chaos. A sensory overload. A maze, a tangle of stalls and sounds where the sense of direction went to die. Yet my father moved through it with the grace of someone who belonged.

To me, it was a noisy, crowded hellscape where we spent hours negotiating with fish sellers or chasing the “right” watermelon—never the ones conveniently on the way, but the one seller tucked away at the very end. He had a shop for everything, a logic for every detour, and zero patience for my protests. It was all deeply irritating then.

But memories are strange shape-shifters. What once felt unbearable now returns with warmth. The sight of his content face after a good day at the bajar, the pride in his choices, the quiet joy he took in the ritual—that image refuses to leave me.

Growing up, I had always seen my father as deeply spiritual. He’d often say he was a rebel in his younger days, but I never saw that version of him. What I did see was a man who was well-read, an All India CA rank holder, and a devoted book lover who never missed a single day of the boi mela. Years of recurring illness had slowly made him god-fearing. The first of these came early—a brain tumour diagnosis when I was just seven. He survived, but more such episodes followed.

On his way back from office, he would often stop by Gol Mandir for a quiet moment of prayer. Tuesdays, though, were more elaborate. He’d visit both Gol Mandir and Shitala Mandir, where the crowds swelled and the rituals took longer. For my brother and me, the devotion meant little at the time—our focus was mostly on securing the prasad from Panditji before it ran out.

My father could hardly speak Malayalam before he married a pukka Malayalee from Palakkad. His love for Calcutta echoed in all his choices, and in every conversation. I remember watching my mother struggle in those days—everything from the language to the culture and food felt unfamiliar to her. Yet, over the years, she quietly adapted and found her rhythm in the city. With a man so completely in love with Calcutta, I don’t think she ever really had a choice.

For my father, leaving Gokhale Road would have been like leaving a part of himself. He stayed on until 2017. After that, my parents split their time between my brother’s house in Rajarhat and mine in Bangalore, before eventually finding a house in Palakkad. But all through those years, the flat at Gokhale Road remained. We let it go only in 2023—after he was gone.

(Concluding part … in a few days)

***

About the author –

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of ‘Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories’. An enthusiastic blogger he shares his essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

***

by whatsonsidsmind

Walking Back to Bhowanipore: A Memoir – Part 1

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 4 Min Read

The year was 1999. I was fifteen. Calcutta was still called that, though its rechristening was already on the horizon. That September, a single bout of torrential rain brought the city to its knees. From our third-floor flat, I watched nervously as the water on Gokhale Road rose inch by inch, swallowing the street below. Schools were shut, and office-goers hitched rides on hand-pulled rickshaws just to reach dry land, where a bus, a taxi, or the metro might rescue them. The spitting rain continued for two more days, and we rejoiced at the unexpected school holidays.

Floods were common back then, but school closures weren’t. This was as close to a bandh as we could get, which, in those days, wasn’t all that rare either. Unlike that brief celebration, most of my monsoon memories of Kolkata are murky: waterlogged streets, a constant stench, clouds of mosquitoes, and a sky that never cleared. I don’t think many liked the rains back then, except on weekends, when the smell of khichuri in the afternoons or telebhaja in the evenings drifted from one house to another, bringing momentary comfort.

Now, as I sit on my balcony in Bangalore with a cup of tea, watching a gentle drizzle fall, memories of Calcutta’s torrential monsoons and my childhood in Bhowanipore come rushing back. Unlike the rains, those memories remain warm and dear.

I grew up in Bhowanipore, largely unaware of the historical weight the neighbourhood carried. That awareness came much later. Back then, life revolved around casual addas with friends and weekend rituals: cricket matches at the Maidan in the morning, and evening strolls through the neighbourhood. These walks took us past some of the city’s iconic landmarks such as Nandan Cinema, Rabindra Sadan, Victoria Memorial, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and Nehru Planetarium, and were often punctuated by street food stops—Kolkata-style chowmein, Kathi rolls, puchkas, bhel puri, and, on better days, momos from Tibetan Delight.

Tucked between the bustling arteries of Shambhunath Pandit Street on one end and Acharya Jagadish Chandra Bose Road on the other, Gokhale Road offered a rare pocket of calm. Even as the neighbourhood around it pulsed with commerce and traffic, this narrow street remained something of an oasis: shielded and remarkably quiet.

But perhaps the most defining space of that time was a rectangular stretch called Chowringhee Terrace, a lane branching off Gokhale Road, opposite the Institution of Engineers, and tapering off near the police barracks. That quiet end hosted the Gokhale Sporting Club Durga Puja—familiar to locals but never crowded enough to descend into the chaos that marked the city’s more prominent pujas in South-Central Kolkata. At the other end, near the post office and Institution of Engineers, was where we spent most evenings in adda and gully cricket, using a heavy plastic ball that could travel the distance, and could wake the locality up if it hit a metal gate.

In many ways, though, Gokhale Road always felt dwarfed by the commercial and cultural landmarks that surrounded it. When returning from other parts of town, we often struggled to explain its exact location to taxi drivers. It was usually nearby landmarks such as Ganguram, Gol Mandir—that came to our rescue.

Yet Gokhale Road quietly held its own. It was home to several important institutions: the Institution of Engineers, the Army’s Recruitment Centre, Calcutta Club, the Police Housing Estate, and the Mahavir Digambar Jain Temple tucked into Chowringhee Terrace. And despite its proximity to the city’s beating heart namely Park Street, Esplanade, and Elgin—it somehow retained a hush, a kind of quiet that the grander, more restless parts of Kolkata could never quite manage.

My father never left Gokhale Road. Though we lived in a small apartment and could well afford a larger one elsewhere, he’d brush off the suggestion, saying, “This is where everyone wants to live. Why should we leave?”

Part of it, I think, was his deep resistance to change—he was never much of an adventurer. Although, as a chartered accountant working in a private firm in Old Court House Street, he had traveled extensively auditing banks. I believe it was memory that anchored him. His entire childhood was woven into the fabric of this neighbourhood.

(To be continued. Part 2 … this weekend)

***

About the author –

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of ‘Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories’. An enthusiastic blogger he shares his essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

by whatsonsidsmind

The Half-Tailed Alien – Part 7 – Closure

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 14-Min Read

It’s not easy to put loss into words. More so for eventualities like death, which are permanent. It’s not that they can’t be worded, but they cloud our minds so much that we lose the ability to think logically, to the point where we lose a sense of reality. I guess it’s the permanence of the loss that makes us feel that way. It’s also perhaps the reason why, within our species, the death ritual is the most ancient, at least that’s what science tells us.

I lost Joshua in July of 2021. It took me a while to understand the loss.

***

After Joshua’s first arthritic attack, recovery was slow but steady. It had taken him six months to just stand. So we knew it wasn’t going to be easy thereafter. A strict diet, daily walks, therapy, and massages gradually helped him regain strength. He had lost a lot of weight, and his gaunt frame was a constant reminder of the battle he had fought. But dogs don’t dwell in misery for long. Joshua, resilient and stubborn, was young at heart. Within a few months, he was ready to go on his walks.

We moved again, this time to an apartment in a quiet colony with wooden floors—perfect for him. The floors gave him better traction than the slippery tiles of our earlier house, and the absence of stray dogs meant he wouldn’t get agitated or risk further injury. Even so, he remained unpredictable.

On sunny days, we’d go out for slow walks. He’d stop often, mesmerized by the rustling leaves, the birds in the distance, or a new scent carried by the wind. Sometimes, he would just lie down, letting the breeze tousle his fur. These walks weren’t about covering ground anymore; they were to keep him engaged, a part of the world. He barked less—just a low grumble now and then—but mostly, he was quiet, and observant.

Rainy days were the hardest. On those days, our walks were confined to the basement. He’d often collapse on the driveway, too tired to get up right away, forcing cars to wait. But most of the time, the neighbors were kind. They understood his condition.

His spirit, though, never waned. And in those quieter moments, watching him look at the world, I realized he was teaching me something—about aging, about resilience, about letting go. He was 11 years old then.

My father’s health was also failing during this time. He had been dealing with limited mobility for over a decade, the aftermath of a stroke and a recurring vertigo. He would watch Joshua’s struggle closely, as he dragged himself across the floor, or when he had an accident and needed help, or when he slowly made his way to the balcony.

He rarely spoke about it, but once in a while, he’d break his silence. “He’s struggling a lot. It’s difficult to watch.” I never knew how to respond to that. I would just nod and leave the room, unsure of what he was really feeling as he sat there, blankly staring at Joshua’s struggle.

Pain, both mental and physical, is difficult to put into words. And even when you do, you quickly realize how inadequate it sounds—like you’ve diminished something that can’t be contained in sentences. It’s easier to talk about happiness or hope. Those moments may be fleeting, but they’re far easier to describe.

A year passed. Joshua was now 12, and we noticed he was losing his vision. In hindsight, the long stares during his walks—those moments when he seemed lost in thought—may have been the first signs. But dogs, they say, can live happily without sight; their noses guide them well enough. Still, his steps had become more cautious, more hesitant.

He had also developed small lumps on his legs. At first, we assumed they were a result of his reduced mobility over the past few years. They weren’t soft or painful, so we didn’t worry much until the vets suggested they could be tumors. Fortunately, they didn’t seem malignant, and surgery, at his age, was too risky. We were told to let it be.

Amid all of this, we tried to preserve some normalcy. Joshua still had a strong appetite, and whenever he ate, there was that familiar joy. In times like these, you learn to celebrate the little wins, to find hope in small moments of happiness. It’s what keeps you going.

We invited friends and family who knew him well to visit often. They would sit with him, cuddle, or just lie next to him—nothing fancy, just company. That’s all he ever wanted. Well, except for those moments when the scent of tandoori chicken wafted through the air during get-togethers. Then, out of nowhere, that familiar bark would resurface, a reminder of the dog he always was—alert, hopeful, and never too far from the next treat.

It was then that a tiny, invisible force entered the world of humans, a harbinger of ruin. They called it COVID-19. It struck like a blow from behind, knocking the breath out of us. And when we came to our senses, the world had changed—everything we once knew had to be done differently. Some fortunate souls reveled in the novelty of working from home, but for others, it felt like staring down the barrel of a gun. We were confined to our ghettos, our bubbles grew thicker, and life became smaller.

But amidst the chaos, the shift was especially cruel for our pets—particularly for a dog like Joshua. What would become of his walks now that the world had shut its doors? He didn’t have much time left as it was. How would this isolation, this disruption, impact his already ailing body?

We didn’t have to wait long to find out. A second arthritic attack struck him down, harder and faster than we’d expected. Time, it seemed, had made its decision.

Fortunately, during the pandemic veterinary services were deemed essential. Despite continuing his earlier medications, we felt the need for someone to check on Joshua’s progress. Luckily, we found a vet who was willing to visit our home during those uncertain times. This was nothing short of a godsend.

The silver lining of the pandemic was that we were all home, able to tend to him. This wasn’t just a comfort for Joshua—it became a source of strength for us as his caregivers. The shared presence and attention gave us the collective support we needed.

However, a lot happened during the first wave of Covid. The morning after the first lockdown was announced, my father suffered a minor stroke. He was in Kolkata with my brother, and I had no way to travel to him. Fortunately, he recovered and was out of hospital in a day. Soon after, my sister-in-law contracted Covid. She too pulled through, without vaccines and—miraculously—without spreading it to the rest of the family.

It was a time that reminded us of how fragile life really is. Everything we had once taken for granted suddenly felt precious. The reality of our own mortality loomed large, and we knew it was only a matter of time before the virus reached our doorstep. The question was: how long could we hold off the inevitable?

As the first wave of Covid subsided, Joshua was well into his 13th year, and by some stroke of luck, we had emerged largely unscathed. The pandemic had forced the world to reassess its priorities. People began to rediscover forgotten dreams, lost hobbies, and the finite nature of everything became strikingly clear. I managed to publish the book I had been working on for two years—a small victory amidst the chaos. Marketing it without bookstores or face-to-face interactions was a nightmare, but I never expected miracles from my first book. Just getting it into the hands of readers and having them share their thoughts felt like a win. Over time, it found a small, loyal reader base. For me, the greatest satisfaction was in proving I could finish what I had set out to do.

But this period took a heavy toll on Joshua. Much like how we now talk about the long-term effects of isolation on children—physically, behaviorally, and mentally—it was also a difficult time for our pets. Though Joshua survived the worst of his second arthritic attack, it aged him considerably. He could still stand and move around for a few minutes, but the effort left pain etched across his face. His legs would eventually give out, and he’d collapse. The medications, while necessary, were taking their toll. His once-strong body had become frail, emitting a persistent odor suggesting his health was slipping away. He frequently injured himself, leaving bloodstains on his feet and other places. The writing was on the wall—he was in the final stretch of his life.

At no point did we want to prolong Joshua’s suffering. Yet, much like how a person with dementia might experience brief moments of clarity, Joshua too found a sudden surge of energy—echoes of his old self. For a while, there was renewed vigor in his steps, a spark that gave us hope. In hindsight, it was a fleeting illusion. But as caregivers, we cling to such moments; they become our own source of comfort, a kind of pill to keep us going.

We were living in a dream—one that quickly crumbled. As the first wave of Covid faded, humanity reverted to its old habits. People disregarded social distancing, ignored caution, and the virus returned in a more virulent, deadly form. The second wave came crashing down, relentless and unforgiving. It overwhelmed us, catching everyone off guard, just when the weight of the first wave had begun to lift.

It was the worst possible timing. Any glimpse of normalcy felt like a cruel mirage. The world seemed to spiral deeper into despair. Headlines screamed of crumbling relationships, surging mental health crises, suicides, alcohol and drug abuse, domestic violence—anger and hopelessness consumed the masses. We were drowning in it all, and amidst this, Joshua’s final chapter was unfolding.

The Closure

Attachment that drives us to madness, fear that paralyzes us from letting go, and stories that shield us from facing reality—these are the fiends that whisper in our ears, convincing us to cling to convenient lies rather than confront the inconvenient truth.

For me, it was accepting that truth that proved hardest. For Kavita, it was the act of letting go. For Advay, our son, it was the pain he saw in us and his fear of what it would mean for our family. The bubble of these intertwined fears became our shared story, but no matter how tightly we held onto it, the truth loomed before us, relentless.

Now in his 14th year, Joshua in body was a faint shadow of his younger self. I don’t know if there was a younger soul in him or not. Maybe? But there was hardly any life left in him. How long were we going to keep this going?

In July of 2021, the inevitable decision was made. It was Kavita who had to voice it—not because I couldn’t, but because it was her right. She had been his mother, the one most bonded to her baby. For a long time, until then, she had been in denial, unwilling to let go. But in the end, it was her courage that broke the silence. She broke it, just like on the day she got him. It was clear and precise. I know how difficult it was for her, but it was a final act of love. Joshua had always been her dog, her companion, and his loyalty to her was unmatched.

That day is still as vivid as daylight. We chose to euthanize Joshua at home, not in a sterile hospital. It felt right—only we, his family, should be there to see him off. He deserved to leave this world lying in our laps, with our whispers of love surrounding him. The vet, who had been with us through the last two years of Joshua’s decline, agreed to help. As the injection entered his veins, he slipped quietly into a sleep from which there would be no waking. The pain that had etched itself on his face for so long finally vanished. He was free from everything—both the joys and the suffering.

We buried him close to his friends at the boarding house, the place he loved when we were away. In our hands, we carried letters that tried to capture the depth of our loss, and photographs filled with memories. As we placed these tokens into his grave, a gentle drizzle began to fall. The rain mixed with our tears, masking our grief, but not the cries of agony we could no longer hold back. For Kavita and me, Joshua wasn’t just our dog; he was a chapter in our lives, a chapter of growing up—from wild, carefree days to learning what it means to love deeply and to let go.

When I reached home, I was overwhelmed with the loss. I had always believed I was the one more prepared for it, but I was shattered. All that had transpired in the last few years flashed before my eyes. It took me a while to truly understand the depth of the loss.

Dogs can’t do anything material for you, and yet they leave an impact on your life that’s beyond measure. They are always there for you, and that’s all they can do for you. Their entire lives are spent observing us, trying to please us. This is why I could see Joshua in every corner of the house, after he was gone. It’s because he was everywhere, following us wherever we went.

This friendship between our species has shaped not just their evolution, but ours as well. But their love is more unconditional than ours, because they know how to live in the moment, to experience life to the fullest. We’ve lost that ability, and I have no doubt about it. After all, which other animal can love another species more than its own?

Here’s a quote that has me in tears every time I read it. It also sums up my thoughts at this moment.

“A dog has no use for fancy cars, big homes, or designer clothes. A water log stick will do just fine. A dog doesn’t care if you are rich or poor, clever or dull, smart or dumb. Give him your heart and he’ll give you his. How many people can you say that about? How many people can make you feel rare and pure and special? How many people can make you feel extraordinary?” – John Grogan – Marley & Me (2008)

***

Two days later, a puppy came home. He was just 35 days old. We had no intention of picking him up, but he chose us—he ran right toward me, as if he had been waiting for that moment. His eyes were the most expressive, marble-like that was hard to resist. That rainy night, with the deluge pouring down, we took him home. It felt like the rain was washing away the pain, making way for the next chapter.

We named him Nimbus. He’s three years old now. Last year he became a father to a girl we named Nola. I try not to see Joshua in Nimbus. He is beautiful, and unique in his own way. But what am I supposed to do with these stories in my head?

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About the author –

Siddhartha Krishnan is the author of ‘Two and a Half Rainbows – A Collection of Short Stories’. A mad dog lover, tripaholic and a tale-weaver who shares his essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).