Tag / #memoir

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?

***

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).

by whatsonsidsmind

The Half-Tailed Alien – Part 6

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 10-Min Read

In the wild, power isn’t about stories or perceptions—you either have it or you don’t. Joshua sensed this instinctively, even as a puppy. Biological evolution hadn’t shaped him to buy into human narratives. In many ways, when things got tough, he remained a wolf at heart, untamed by the stories we tell. But I was still human, conditioned to believe in those stories, and that made me vulnerable.

During our roughest times, he understood his reality far better than I did, even though he was fully dependent on me. Sometimes, when I looked into his eyes, I saw a wolf—wild, free, and unbound.

***

When Advay was about three, Joshua developed a slight limp. At first, we didn’t think much of it. He’d often had issues with rough paws that could be fixed with a simple oil or cream rub. But this was different. The signs were there, but we missed them—too distracted by everything else going on. The writing was slowly appearing on the wall, but we had lost our watchful eye.

That’s how rough times start—one thing leads to another, and before you know it, a pile of problems weighs you down. And if you’re not prepared, no matter how sudden it seems, it feels like you should have seen it coming. Like somehow, it’s still your fault.

We had moved yet again, this time to a flat with a terrace garden—a little patch of lawn and open air that felt like a gift. The sunlight, the greenery, a touch of nature amidst the concrete jungle—it gave us a reprieve, especially with all we were juggling.

Since the start of 2015, I had been working from home after switching jobs. This offered us some flexibility in moments of crisis, which seemed to come often. Kavita, tied to her marketing job, had no such option, and back then, remote work was still a distant idea—three years before COVID would teach us that everything has a workaround. Affording full-time help wasn’t immediately possible, and even when it was, finding someone reliable seemed impossible.

Amid everything happening in my personal and professional life, I never expected Joshua to fall sick the way he did. He had suffered the most brutal arthritic attack. Looking back, I blame myself. But at the time, I felt a helplessness I had never known. I always thought, despite my shortcomings, I could somehow fix things. But I was wrong. When things start to go wrong, they have a way of unraveling entirely.

One day, he didn’t get up. At first, we weren’t sure what to make of it. For years, we had come to believe he would bounce back, just as he always had. He was the most resilient, bull-headed mutt I’d ever known. Sturdy in ways that made us forget he wasn’t invincible. Joshua had never been overly dependent on us—unlike a typical Labrador. Maybe it was the Boxer in him that made him behave that way.

Yet, his mixed breed came with its drawbacks. He had the bulk of a Labrador but the slender, athletic legs of a Boxer, an awkward combination that aggravated his joints. Like many large breeds, hip dysplasia and arthritis eventually became a problem. His body, though powerful, was ill-equipped to carry his weight as he aged.

And then there was his appetite—a trait we had spoiled him with, no question about that. Joshua was a voracious eater, and if he hadn’t eaten well, he could bark from dawn till dusk. His nose, sharp and insistent, would go on its own hunt if he even caught a whiff of food nearby.

One morning, after Kavita left for work and my son for pre-school, I stepped out to pick up breakfast from a nearby joint. It took me a little longer than usual—an unexpected rush kept me waiting. When I finally returned and opened the door, a foul smell hit me, pulling me back to that thunderous night years ago. Joshua wasn’t in sight. I called out, my heart pounding, and heard the faint sound of labored breathing.

He was behind the curtains.

I pulled them aside and found him lying there, weak and helpless. He had tried to drag himself toward the terrace door, desperate to get outside, but no one had been there to open it. In his frustration, he had soiled himself and was rolling in his own excrement. His eyes met mine—eyes that once brimmed with mischief and defiance now filled with pain and fear. The freedom he had always cherished was slipping away, and he knew it.

That look… it was so different from the fierce spirit I had known in him as a puppy, on that rainy night long ago when he had once caused so much chaos. Now, his wild heart was dimming, and it broke mine.

We took Joshua to several vets close to home, but his condition barely improved. In the end, we had to travel across the city to the vet who had saved him as a puppy—the one who’d revived him during that terrifying dehydration episode. He showed us the report card—severe bone degeneration in his left leg. The right wasn’t in great shape either. Full recovery was almost impossible, but walking again was within reach—slow, gradual, with medication. He also needed laser therapy, water therapy, warm compresses for his joints, and plenty of sunshine.

Those were dark days. There was a lot on my plate, and the weight of it all pressed down on me. The demons in my head made me feel like my world was crumbling, that it was happening only to me, though I knew that wasn’t true. But it sure felt like it.

I needed an escape. I knew no one else could offer a solution—the battle was mine alone. That’s when I turned to writing.

It was a rainy, gray afternoon—just the kind of day that invites reflection. The house was quiet, no distractions. I sat down and put pen to paper, intending to write about my tangled state of mind. For two hours, I wrote non-stop, something I had never managed before. When I finished, I was stunned. In my hands was a short story—fiction, no less—drawn from a memory of childhood but transformed into something entirely new. I hadn’t planned it. The words hadn’t felt heavy or forced. Somehow, a gate in my mind had opened, and the words flowed through it effortlessly.

I kept going. Personal experiences and stories I had heard and read started weaving themselves together. Within ten days, I had written five short stories. Soon enough the idea of compiling these stories into a book sprouted in my mind.

That rainy afternoon had changed something in me. It wasn’t just about the stories I wrote, but about the release, the catharsis of finding a voice in the silence, of creating something beautiful out of the weight I had been carrying. It gave me hope. Something we humans cannot live without.

Joshua was right beside me when I wrote those pages. I never thought I could garner the resolve to do what I was doing, but looking back, I realize Joshua was my inspiration. It was heartbreaking to see him so helpless, yet he hadn’t given up. He wanted to live. He was willing to push through the grind. Even in his desperate state, the moment he caught a whiff of food, he’d let out his signature bark, as if to say, “I’m still here.” Despite his immobility, in every other way, he was still himself—remarkably, he had learned to live with his pain while I was still struggling with mine.

It was time to stop overthinking and start acting. My days were a whirlwind of juggling work, home, and caring for Joshua. At night, with Kavita’s help, I found time to write. Joshua had his own routine, which was separate from ours, with medication and a strict list of things that needed attention. Luckily, we had a small lawn—a godsend—where he could bask in the afternoon sun.

Every day, I would drag him out to the lawn, letting him soak in the sunlight, surrounded by nature. Butterflies, in every color, danced around the flower bushes, and pigeons would occasionally wander in—pigeons Joshua had once loved to chase. Now, he’d just glance at them and let out a bark. They teased him for a while, but when his bark turned to a low grumble, they’d leave.

Things weren’t normal, but we tried to create a sense of normalcy, clinging to the hope that one day, he would get up and chase those pigeons again.

But recovery was slow, and despite everything we did for him, Joshua wasn’t showing much improvement. For a dog, a walk is more than just exercise—it’s their way of connecting with the world, a spiritual ritual. As the months dragged on, our hopes were fading. Joshua was in pain, no doubt about it. At night, he’d drag himself around, sometimes whining, his body betraying him. It was heartbreaking to watch.

We did what we could—changing his position several times a day to prevent sores—but his skin was turning blue, and a faint stench had begun to settle. I’m not one for miracles or a big believer in God, but we still found ourselves hoping for something extraordinary to happen. I didn’t want him to go like this. Joshua was a fighter. But he was rapidly losing weight, and time was running out.

***

Six months had passed, marked by rare good days and far too many bad ones. There was little left to believe he’d ever stand again. Then, an unavoidable family function came up. Over the years, we had built a support system of trusted house helps for moments like this. Our maid’s husband, Birender, offered to take care of Joshua for the three days we’d be gone. I was wary—this wasn’t a small task. But Birender, a patient man with no fear of dogs, especially unpredictable ones like Joshua, took it seriously. He learned every part of Joshua’s care—massaging, cleaning, medication, therapy.

With great apprehension, we left for the function. I called Birender several times each day, and he reassured me everything was fine. Somehow, those three days passed.

When we returned, Birender greeted us, and there was Joshua, lying in his usual spot. He glanced at us, as he always did. Birender left, and I went inside to change. Moments later, the doorbell rang. It took me a minute to answer. It was a parcel. As I locked the door, I felt something familiar brush against my leg. I turned, and there was Joshua—standing beside me.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. He hadn’t stood in six months. Everything we had done for him, every painful, hopeful moment, flashed before me. It was a moment I’ll never forget.

We celebrated Joshua’s revival that weekend. Everyone who had known him over the years paid a visit. It seemed he was trying to get back to his old ways. But we knew he had aged considerably after the ordeal of the past months. His eyes were getting weaker as well, and a deadly virus was about to wreak havoc in the human world.

To be continued …

The final chapter next week.

***

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 5

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 7-Min Read

Around 30,000 years ago, when man and wolf were natural foes, humankind made one of its most profound decisions—to domesticate the wolf and create the dog. The dog was the first animal to be domesticated by humans. Scientific evidence suggests this monumental shift may have begun with a lone wolf, outcast by its pack due to poor hunting skills, scavenging for scraps near a human encampment. One fateful night, this wolf, in search of food, alerted the human tribe to the presence of a more powerful animal—perhaps a tiger or an elephant—unknowingly saving their children and securing their trust. In that moment, a bond was forged between man and wolf, evolving into a partnership that has endured millennia and reshaped the future of both species. Through all the evolving roles of man—as hunter, farmer, herder, warrior, and family man—the dog has stood by his side, whether as a tireless worker or a loyal companion. In essence, the story of mankind is incomplete without the story of the dog.

Anyone who has ever had a dog knows this is true.

***

In December 2014, our baby arrived. I was nervous about how Joshua would handle this new chapter in our lives. For so long, he’d been the center of our world, soaking up all the attention. Given his unpredictable ways, we’d done our research on how to introduce him to the baby without overwhelming him. But despite all the preparation, there was a thread of fear that lingered—because of his past.

Joshua always slept under our bed, and during the day, he never left Kavita’s side. In those final months before the delivery, he’d rest his nose gently on her baby bump, his eyes searching ours. We knew then—he knew.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what that first meeting would feel like.

The night before Kavita and the baby were set to come home, I brought a small piece of the hospital with me—our baby’s clothes. Sitting on the sofa, I called Joshua over. He came, cautiously. It was just the two of us in the house. I held out the clothes, and he sniffed them, his head turning slowly toward me. I’ll never forget his eyes that night—full of questions, understanding, and something else I couldn’t quite name.

He kept looking at me, as if we shared a quiet secret, and then he walked away to a corner of the room, lying down. In that moment, I knew he felt it too—the world had shifted. Something deep, something permanent.

The next day, we brought Advay (our son) home. Joshua was overjoyed to see Kavita after three days—his usual burst of energy filled the house. But the moment he saw the baby, he changed. He approached with curiosity, his movements unusually gentle, as though he instinctively knew this was a delicate, new presence. He sniffed Advay carefully, then, just like the night before, he retreated to his corner, watching from a distance.

Joshua was seven then, no longer a young dog but still full of energy. We worried that having to share our attention with a baby might worsen the issues he’d struggled with. But we were wrong. Though he seemed sad at first, Joshua embraced Advay with a quiet strength. In the days that followed, he became the baby’s silent guardian, lying next to his pram, alerting us when he cried or stirred.

Advay, even as a baby, was restless—never one to sit still for long. He didn’t nap much during the day, leaving us exhausted as we balanced work and his constant need for attention. But Joshua, in his calm and watchful way, became our greatest ally. When Advay turned one and started to toddle, and eventually run, Joshua kept his distance but stayed close enough to keep an eye on him. If Advay took a tumble, Joshua would be the first to check on him, gently licking his hands as if to say everything would be alright.

Still, I had my worries. Joshua wasn’t always predictable, and I feared that in one of Advay’s wild bursts of energy, he might accidentally step on Joshua’s tail, sparking a reaction. That fear was put to rest one evening.

It was almost dusk, and the light in the room was dim. I switched on the tube light and sat with my laptop, working on an email, while Advay played on the other side of the room. I glanced up to see him, a toy in his hand, laughing and babbling to himself. Suddenly, he decided to run toward me. My heart jumped—Joshua was lying directly in his path. “Stop!” I yelled, but Advay was too caught up in his excitement. Just then, the electricity went out, and the room plunged into darkness.

I heard a thud, followed by a low grumble from Joshua, and then—after a beat—Advay’s cry filled the room. My stomach sank, but before I could react, the lights flickered back on. There was Advay, sprawled on the floor, crying, and Joshua—licking his head and hands, comforting him.

Advay had tripped over Joshua in the dark, landing hard on the floor. If it had been anyone else, Joshua might have snapped. But for Advay, he showed nothing but care. In that moment, I knew my fears were unfounded. Joshua had chosen to love our son, fully and without hesitation.

That night, I felt a quiet relief settle over me. Joshua had found his place in this new family, not as a jealous older sibling but as a gentle protector, willing to share the love and attention he had once had all to himself.

And just like that we had learnt our eighth lesson as a pet parent. Never underestimate the maturity of a dog. They are more intelligent and sensitive than you think.

In the years that followed, Advay and Joshua grew into a bond that was uniquely theirs. Joshua wasn’t the kind of dog he could cuddle with or hold close. He kept his space, sometimes reminding Advay who was the elder, but he was always there, watching from nearby. And Advay loved him for it—understanding, even as a young boy, that their bond didn’t need constant affection to be strong.

I was proud of both for accepting this relationship with such grace. There was no struggle, no sense of wanting more.

With a toddler in the house, time moved quickly. Days blurred into months, and before we knew it, two years had passed in what felt like a blink. But life has a way of surprising us, and I was about to face some of my toughest years. Joshua, now nine, was beginning to show signs of age. His health started to decline, small issues creeping up as the years caught up with him.

It was a hard time, not just because of Joshua’s health but because life, in general, seemed to weigh heavier. But it’s in these moments that we find the strength of our connections tested, and for me, it was also the beginning of something new. During those tough years, I found solace in writing. What started as a way to process everything eventually led to something I’d never imagined—writing a book. And, in many ways, Joshua had a hand in guiding me there.

His presence, his quiet strength through it all, became a source of inspiration I hadn’t anticipated.

To be continued …

About the author –

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

by whatsonsidsmind

The Half-Tailed Alien – Part 4

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 9-Min Read

I remember a night before Joshua, before Kavita, and before I had developed my love for dogs. I was walking back to my PG after dinner with my roommate. It was late, and back then, Bangalore’s streets were quieter, less chaotic. On our way back, just a little over a kilometer from the restaurant, a dog began to follow us. My roommate, uneasy, tried to shoo it away, but the dog kept pace, undeterred. This troubled him to the point where he picked up a stone, ready to throw it. That irked me.

I stopped him, though he was clearly upset. In his mind, he was just protecting himself. But I didn’t buy it. I wasn’t a dog lover at the time, but something in me believed that the dog meant no harm. My roommate, however, didn’t share my conviction. What started as a disagreement quickly escalated into a heated argument—one that nearly ended in a fistfight.

But then, something shifted. I managed to find the words that diffused the tension. I didn’t want to fight him; he was much younger, and I understood his fear. But I also wasn’t willing to back down. So, in that tense moment, I simply said, “If the dog wanted to hurt us, it would have done so long before you picked up that stone. We wouldn’t have stood a chance. But it chose not to. Maybe it was just hungry, maybe all it wanted was a biscuit or some leftovers.”

It was past midnight, but those words seemed to reach him. Nirmal, the boy who had almost punched me just moments earlier, understood. He hugged me and said, “Sid, you say things well. I am sorry.”

And just like that, the tension melted away. That night, a small part of me began to understand something about dogs—their vulnerability, their simple needs. A lesson that would take root, only to bloom fully when Joshua came into my life.

***

There were moments during Joshua’s first year and a half when I hated him for the violence he unleashed out of fear. The mess he created—both mental and physical—took us a long time to clean up. Yet, even in those dark times, when I spat expletives in his direction, I couldn’t overlook the goodness in him. It was there, undeniable, shining through, even if I’d been blind. But my most bitter words were always reserved for the person who had mutilated his tail. Man, woman, transgender, or alien—whoever did that to him, I can never forgive.

This part of his story also must be told, because, just like humans, no animal is purely black or white. We are all driven by the same instinct to survive. And Joshua’s story isn’t only about his trauma. His scars cannot steal the spotlight from who he truly was—the loving, caring, and fiercely loyal companion we came to know.

***

Many of you must be wondering why I thought of Joshua as an alien dog. Well, there were two reasons. First, I always believed he had the most advanced sixth sense when it came to reading human minds. He always knew exactly what we were up to, and if our plans didn’t align with his, he’d somehow find a way to counter them. It was as if he could read our thoughts. Even if he didn’t understand a word we said, he grasped our intentions perfectly.

The second reason was his insatiable appetite. Joshua was the biggest foodie I’ve ever known—not just in how much he could eat, but what he could eat. Burgers, rolls, biryani, kebabs, socks, shoes, toys, even mattresses—he devoured it all. After that terrifying incident as a puppy when he became severely dehydrated, it seemed like his gut became invincible. It felt like he could even eat tungsten and not burp.

In Joshua’s first two years, going out without him felt like playing a game of chess. We had to outthink him, not just fool him. If we changed our clothes, spoke differently, packed bags, or behaved the least bit suspicious, he would instantly sense that we were planning to leave him behind. His final move was always a dash for the door, and no matter how carefully we planned, he’d outsmart us. What followed was always a chase, with the whole neighborhood soon aware that our dog had escaped. That was his way of saying, “Take me with you!”

Back then, we didn’t have a car and ride-hailing services like Ola and Uber didn’t exist. Most auto drivers wouldn’t allow a dog in their vehicle. But we eventually found a few who would. We took their phone numbers and called them whenever we needed a ride. Those were Joshua’s happiest days. He loved feeling the wind in his fur, just like any lab. He adored the tuk-tuks so much that when we went on walks, if he saw one, he’d try to hop in, not realizing that not all autos were for him.

But the mind reader used his super-power for our good as well. Sometimes, I felt Joshua knew us better than we knew ourselves. He had an uncanny ability to sense our pain. Whether it was Kavita, me, or her roommates, he’d never leave our side when we were sad—even if we tried to fake it, he always knew. He wouldn’t be in our face, just quietly nearby, offering silent comfort. And when we finally snapped out of it, he’d pull off something mischievous, instantly lifting our spirits. He wasn’t just a goofy dog; he was clever, almost sneaky, and always seemed to know exactly what we needed.

Joshua the foodie was a worthy rival to Joshua the mind reader. One particular day stands out. Kavita had packed chicken rolls for Aditi and me. I devoured mine the moment she arrived. Aditi, however, decided to take a bath first and enjoy her Kolkata Kathi roll later, at her leisure. The only flaw in that plan was that Joshua had already locked in on his target. By the time she came back, the hot, delicious roll had disappeared. Joshua was sitting there, licking his paws, while we searched for the missing roll—through the kitchen, the packets, everywhere. It took us a while to realize that the reason he was licking his paws was because he had eaten it.

About a month later, Kavita invited some friends over for dinner. She had an elaborate menu planned. A big bag of groceries came home that day, including a kilo of paneer meant to become a rich Palak Paneer dish. Instead, it made its way down Joshua’s throat, the entire block gone in the blink of an eye. It was as if he’d performed a magic trick, one second it was there, the next it was gone.

There were countless more episodes like this over the years. To be honest, we didn’t make too much of them. When we look back now, we laugh, just like we did then—though back then, the laughter often came after a good bit of frustration.

Our marriage was on the horizon, and Joshua had just turned two. Given his history, I was anxious about how our families would react to him. To be honest, he was no saint. If he wanted something, he would find a way to get it. He was stubborn and disciplining him wasn’t for everyone. But in the end, it was all about earning his trust.

In November 2010, we got married. It wasn’t exactly smooth sailing with our parents, who took turns staying with us for months at a time. Neither my in-laws nor my parents were dog lovers. In fact, my parents had an aversion to dogs. But they soon realized Joshua wasn’t just a dog—he held a special place in our home. Over time, they learned to manage their fear and earn his trust. This was laudable. There were minor hiccups along the way, but nothing we couldn’t handle.

The same could be said for some of our friends. A few had a deep-rooted fear of dogs. Inviting them over for house parties often meant locking Joshua in a room. But Joshua had no interest in being shut away. He loved people, and he especially loved food. If we made the mistake of locking him up, he’d bark non-stop until we had no choice but to let him out. After a few drinks, my once-fearful friends could be found petting him, and within a year, they were cuddling, hugging, and even sleeping next to him at parties. By the next morning, their fear of dogs would miraculously return. I’d pull out photos from the previous night if they started putting on a show about being afraid.

In all of this, Joshua was the biggest winner. He got everyone’s attention—and, of course, their food. Many of these friends of mine are now settled elsewhere, but whenever we connect over phone there is always a talk on Joshua. Those are the memories he has left behind.

When we first got married, Kavita and I became pros at packing and moving, thanks to constant job changes. One of those moves landed us in a quiet, two-story villa in a serene little colony. The peace didn’t last long, though—Joshua saw to that.

He arrived after we’d moved most of our things, and the minute he hopped out of the auto, he locked onto a target. A poor little male stray. Before we knew it, Joshua—leashed, freed himself—launched into a full-on chase. The stray dove into a dry ditch, and thank goodness, we managed to drag Joshua back just before things could escalate.

Of course, the whole colony was out by then, stray dogs barking in a chorus that shook the neighborhood. And just like that, we were famous—for all the wrong reasons. The residents weren’t exactly thrilled to meet us.

However, after a few months, things calmed down. The neighbors adjusted to life with our “resident alien.” But there was something else on the way. A baby. Joshua was about to have a kid brother!

To be continued …

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 Hail-Tailed Alien – Part 3

Written by Siddhartha Krishnan | 7-Min Read

Of all the chapters in Joshua’s life, this is the one I’ve dreaded writing. But without it Joshua’s story would be terribly incomplete.

***

At 4 months, Joshua was a ball of energy—wild, playful, and unstoppable. If you’ve seen Marley & Me, you’ll understand. That dog in the movie? That was Joshua. When we watched the film, Joshua was 6 months old, and we couldn’t believe how much he resembled the lead character. By the end of the movie, we were in tears, emotional wrecks.

We got home and hugged Joshua, apologizing for not understanding his boundless energy. He was completely unfazed. I think he knew his parents were the type to get caught up in stories rather than reality. With a ball in his mouth, he snapped us out of our emotions and pulled us back into playtime. That’s who he was—living in the moment, never burdened by our overreactions.

After that rainy night, we realized we needed someone to care for Joshua when we weren’t home. Luckily, our housemaid, Bhagyamma, stepped in. She wasn’t afraid of dogs—in fact, she adored Joshua. It was a perfect arrangement since she lived on the ground floor of our apartment, which made it easy for her to tend to her own matters if needed while still being available for him.

Over the next month, Bhagyamma looked after Joshua as if he were her own child. Every evening when we returned, she would excitedly share stories about his day—what he ate, how he played, and every little thing we might have missed. In those three or four months, if not for her, we wouldn’t have noticed how fast he was growing into an adult dog. She spoiled him without hesitation—massaging him, playing with him, and often hand-feeding him, something I’d scolded her for more than once.

But deep down, I knew Joshua was in good hands, and he loved her for it.

Then came the sly cat that changed everything. She appeared one day in our neighborhood, constantly lingering in Joshua’s line of sight. At first, we didn’t think much of it—just part of his socialization. We figured he’d get bored of barking at her. But one afternoon, everything shifted.

Kavita got a call at work. It was from our maid’s son, saying Joshua had bitten Bhagyamma, on the hand. Kavita rushed home, took her to the hospital, and ensured she got the medical care she needed. Bhagyamma, surprisingly, wasn’t too upset. She told us she had grabbed Joshua by the collar to stop him from barking at the cat. In his frenzy, he bit her without realizing what he was doing.

The guilt on Joshua’s face stayed with him all day. But for us, the event was a wake-up call. Was there something wrong with our dog? Could this have been the result of some hidden trauma? Or was it simply a mistake—an instinctual reaction, exacerbated by the maid’s decision to grab his collar when he was still building trust with her?

At the time, dog psychologists and behaviorists were almost unheard of in Bangalore. In 2008, we were mostly on our own. The little advice we got boiled down to being more vigilant and avoiding unnecessary risks.

That day, Joshua taught us another hard lesson: sometimes, even with love and care, things can go wrong. And it’s not always anyone’s fault. The thing that had me shocked was not the bite. But the violent nature of the act. No dog would bite the hand that fed it.

Taking Joshua for walks became increasingly difficult as he approached his first year. The moment we stepped onto the street, stray dogs would surround us, trailing behind until the walk was over. We couldn’t understand the issue. Joshua, on edge, would either mark territory every few meters or explode in rage if any male dogs got too close. In these fits of anger, he would sometimes snap at us, his frustration turning dangerously inward.

This routine became unbearable, so we sought help from a trainer. That’s when we learned our sixth lesson— a dog’s tail is more than just a part of its body; it’s a vital tool for communication. The way they wag, hold, or tuck their tail tells you everything about their emotions. Joshua’s half tail, which was always stuck in a horizontal position, made him an outcast. Other dogs couldn’t read his signals, which made them see him as a threat.

This was also when we learned our seventh lesson—the importance of understanding a dog’s breed. Every breed was created for a specific purpose. The trainer believed Joshua was a mix of a Labrador and a Boxer. Labs are retrievers, bred for their gentle nature, while Boxers are guard dogs, known for their protective instincts. But Boxers have another defining trait—a docked tail.

Things started to make sense. Joshua’s tail wasn’t lost in an accident with a door. It was docked by human hands in an act of cruelty when he was a puppy. This unnecessary trauma had scarred him for life, and the depth of that wound would become clearer in the months ahead.

Joshua was neutered the same year Kavita moved into a spacious two-story house in Koramangala with her batchmate and sister. The new setup seemed ideal—Joshua had more room and received plenty of attention. After the surgery, we noticed he seemed calmer. He wasn’t marking as much, and his frantic energy during walks had subsided. We thought we were past his behavioral issues, but then something unexpected happened.

One day, Kavita’s mother, seeing him resting on the sofa he now considered his territory, tried to pull him off by the collar. In an instant, Joshua lashed out. The bite was vicious, tearing into her flesh—his boxer instincts and strong jaws making the damage severe. When I arrived, there was blood on the floor, and Joshua was hiding behind the TV cabinet, shaking. I rushed her mother to the hospital, and though her physical wounds healed in a month, the emotional scars were deep. For the first time, I felt afraid of him, unsure if he could do more harm. Yet, we still didn’t fully understand what had triggered this.

A few months later, another incident occurred. I was at Kavita’s place one Saturday, waiting for her to return from work. Her roommates were in their rooms when suddenly, I heard two screams—first Joshua, then Aditi, Kavita’s sister. I ran upstairs and found an all-too-familiar scene: blood on the floor and Joshua looking guilty. Aditi had accidentally stepped on him while he slept beside the bed, and he had bitten her leg in response.

At the hospital, as I sat reflecting on everything, it finally made sense. Joshua’s violent reactions weren’t out of aggression—they were from fear. Something terrible had happened to him as a puppy, likely while he was asleep. I began to suspect that his tail had been cruelly docked during sleep, leaving him traumatized.

In the wild, a fearful animal can be far more dangerous than an angry one. We had to help him, face this fear with him—there was no abandoning him. He had only us.

To be continued …

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 articles, essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

All rights reserved by http://www.whatsonsidsmind.com

by whatsonsidsmind

The Half-Tailed Alien – Part 2

Written by Siddhartha Krishnan | 4-Min Read

“You don’t own a dog. You have a dog. And the dog has you.” – Unknown

Joshua was around 35 days old when we brought him home. At the time, Kavita and I weren’t married yet; that was still two years away. He was my Friendship Day gift to her. Since she had a dog growing up, I was sure she’d be the better pet parent in those early days. Plus, she had a roommate who was just as eager to spoil him.

From the moment he stepped into her flat, Joshua acted like he already knew the place. He sniffed around, explored every corner, used the bathroom for his first pee, then came right back to sit beside us. It was seamless. There was no hesitation, no fear—it felt like he was always meant to be with us.

In the coming weeks Joshua’s bond with Kavita grew stronger. She pampered him, often treating him like a human baby, which led to arguments between us. I always believed in respecting the animal for what it is, but that idea never quite stuck with her. It still doesn’t!

My 25th birthday passed by. We had a gala time. Joshua was the center of attention that day. No surprises there. But our lessons as pet parents were still due.

Three weeks after bringing him home, we faced our first hard lesson as pet parents—puppies may look sturdy, but they can be as fragile as human babies. He ate something bad, and by nightfall, he was vomiting repeatedly. We consulted a vet we knew, but it didn’t help, and somehow, we made it through the night. The next morning, Joshua was barely conscious. We rushed him to the vet and were told that if we had been just half-an-hour late, he wouldn’t have survived. “A dog doesn’t die of hunger, but it can die of dehydration within hours,” the vet explained.

Thankfully, we were just in time. Joshua was put on drips, and after a few hours, he came around. As soon as he recovered, he was back to his usual self, getting into everything he could. That’s when we learned our second lesson—dogs don’t dwell on what happened. They live fully in the moment, no matter what they’ve been through.

A month passed, and Joshua’s vaccinations were complete. He was ready for his first real walks. Until then, we’d only taken him to the terrace of our building, where he smelled the world from afar. Now it was time for him to truly experience it. Feisty as ever, he was eager to explore. But there was a problem. None of the dogs—stray or otherwise—would tolerate him. He’d go into a frenzy at their rejection, and we couldn’t understand why. The truth would reveal itself much later.

But before that, we faced two unforgettable shocks. The first came on a night when the rain refused to stop. Joshua had been staying at my apartment for a few days, as he often did on weekends. I figured he’d be comfortable even when I was at work. But, of course, he was still just a puppy.

Here’s the third lesson we learned as pet parents—dogs have a far better sense of hearing than humans. To Joshua, every thunderclap must have sounded like a bomb. I discovered this the hard way when I returned home late, around 10 p.m. As soon as I opened the door, I was greeted by a terrible stench. I frantically searched for Joshua, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Finally, in the bedroom, I found my king-sized mattress lying on the floor, a large chunk of it chewed to pieces. There were paw prints on the walls, streaked with dog poop—the source of the smell. Great artwork! But where was the little rascal? After a frantic search, I found him hiding beneath the mattress, his mischievous eyes gleaming even as he lay exhausted. It took Kavita and me two hours to clean up the mess he’d caused. That night, we learned our fourth lesson—a three-month-old puppy can cause an astonishing amount of damage, and Labradors suffer from separation anxiety. Joshua needed company when we were out.

We soon found someone to look after him, but that led to our fifth lesson—the psychological scars of his half-tail. We discovered that dogs, too, carry trauma. And sometimes, their wounds run deeper than we can see.

To be continued …

***

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 1

Written by: Siddhartha Krishnan | 3 Min Read

I was convinced that Joshua was an alien dog. From a few months into having him until the day he died, I was sure of it. I even called him that. Before bedtime, I’d often tell my son a story about how a spaceship dropped this odd creature on our planet, and we were the crazy ones who picked him up. Joshua was my ET dog.

But there was something else that made him special—his half tail.

***

We met the “alien dog” at the pet market in Shivajinagar, Bangalore. Puppies were on display in huge baskets, cramped together like soft toys. Back then, our understanding of animal cruelty was still immature. My wife and I were like naive kids, wandering through a candy store, overwhelmed by all the choices. The market was a sensory overload, with cute eyes staring at us from every shop. Each puppy seemed to be desperately looking for a home.

In the midst of it all, we noticed a small cage beside one of the shops. Inside was a little puppy with unforgettable marble-like eyes. When I put my finger through the railing, he eagerly nibbled on it as if it were a treat. He was desperate to get out.

I asked the shopkeeper to take him out of the cage. The moment he was free, he ran all over the place. The other puppies made space for him, wanting nothing to do with his energy. “Which breed?” I asked. “Labrador,” the shopkeeper replied. The puppy had half a tail, and that was impossible to miss. “Why does he have half a tail?” I inquired. “It was an accident. A door slammed on it,” the shopkeeper said. The explanation seemed absurd, but my wife and I exchanged knowing glances. Whether the story was true or not, one thing was clear—this little guy would have a tough time finding a home with that half tail.

We kept looking at each other, silently negotiating. He was the cutest, most spirited dog we had seen. And he had chosen us. Unlike the others, who were all vying for attention, he never left our side. He’d run around, but always came back to settle at our feet. Finally, my wife broke the silence, “Can we take him home?” I was relieved to hear it.

We took him home in a small cardboard box filled with cotton. I remember the date clearly—August 3, 2008, the first Sunday of August. Friendship Day.

Your first dog is always special because nothing prepares you for what is to come. It’s like having your first child. We were on that road of unexpected surprises and this rascal would teach us how to be a pet parent and mad dog lovers.

To be continued …

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 articles, essays, travelogues, book and movie reviews on his blog (www.whatsonsidsmind.com).

All rights reserved by http://www.whatsonsidsmind.com