“Those were the days,” quipped Daadi, taking a trip down the memory lane in mountains of yore.
Long before the Himalayas were tainted by tourist resorts and the cacophony of car horns, Daadi reminisces of waking up to the jingling bells on Bhotia dogs, the rearer of sheep and protectors of the realm.
Each morning of those yesteryears, the villagers would set free the flock of sheep under the watchful eyes of these mastiffs, the gentle giants.
Every once in a while, a photo captures not just a moment, but an entire relationship.
This is Jhumroo and Anurag’s Daadi, many years ago on Christmas.
No fancy tree, no wrapped gifts, no tinsel. Just a winter morning, a courtyard, and a quiet conversation between an old soul in a sari and a white dog who clearly knew he was home.
Jhumroo was Daadi’s shadow.
He listened to her stories when everyone else was busy, walked beside her as she shuffled through the house, and sat patiently as she adjusted her pallu and muttered about the neighbors. He knew exactly where to rest his head so her old hands could find his fur without even looking.
In this still frame, you can almost hear the unspoken words:
Her hands on his face say, “Tu hai na, bas.”
His eyes say, “Main hoon, Daadi.”
Both of them are gone now.
But somewhere, it feels like an elderly lady in a bright printed sari is once again bending down to hold a small white dog’s face in her hands, and this time there are no goodbyes, no sickness, no aching joints…just reunion.
If you’re reading this and thinking about getting a pet, please adopt, don’t shop.
There is a Daadi somewhere who doesn’t know yet that her Jhumroo is waiting in a shelter or on the street. And there is a dog out there who will one day look at you the way Jhumroo looked at her; like you are their whole world.
Love is where the dog is…
And she recalls how once in Ranikhet, while she took the bus, Sheru also jumped aboard to sit by her feet. It was an almost empty bus – sporadic seats occupied by village folk going to the market or medicinal facility. Sheru’s wagging tail was greeted with smiles by the bus passengers.
The conductor, however, took an exception and frowned in disgust at Sheru.
Sheru, realizing the heat of piercing eyes and the disdain in them, gracefully exited without Daadi knowing the same. It is often said in the Himalayan slopes how two Bhotia dogs can take on a tiger if it comes to protecting the herd or the family. For a bear of a dog like Sheru, he was indeed the gentleman that men so often aren’t.
Also see: Dogs of Nainital
Dogs don’t outstay their welcome.
The conductor asked Daadi for the tickets. She handed him the change, looking out the window pensively for Sheru.
“Two tickets, you need to pay for the dog too, ” the conductor interjected Daadi’s thought train.
Already annoyed due to Sheru’s unceremonious exit, her poignance turned to anger, “Where’s the dog? Show me the dog and then ask for the ticket.”
Also see: I’m not a dog owner.
Almost half an hour later, the bus reached the destination. All through the serpentine roads, one bend at a time, Daadi kept thinking about Sheru. As Daadi deboarded and trailed the descent to the old Mission hospital, there amid the pines, wagging joyfully at the gates, was Sheru.