My Pet Dog

My Pet Dog

“The dog has no caste”, said my

very upper-caste mother,

as she washed the red meat

with her vegetarian hands

and set it to cook

on an oil stove in the outer courtyard.

And he, begged and yelped in impatience

for his meal to cool.

At other times, he was always

silent, dignified, patient.

Even when,

my infant niece, rained torture-

sat on him with a thud,

rolled over into the hollow of his stomach,

tugged at his tail

and

plunged her baby fingers into his nose.

Only once,

when the neighbour’s mongrel,

emboldened by his master’s presence,

barked sharp aggression,

something, gave way.

The wolf within uncoiled its fangs.

He left a deadly imprint-

a Gothic arch of red beads

on the other’s shoulder.

The mongrel in terror

screamed, inconsolable.