Max

After my night meal, I was strolling around, observing the clouds taking hold of the moon and stars trying their best to give the moon as much time as they can to fight back from the clouds. And the streetlights, like schadenfreude, destroying the stars one at a time. 

“See Uncle, ” my nephew explode. Sometimes it feels weird, Uncle at such a young age but its India my dear, everyone out of the ten men is your relative. “See what I have got.”

Between the cross of his hand, a Pomeranian dog was resting the same way a child rest in the mother’s arm. His eyes were watery from the experience he had in such a short fraction of his life, but his head was rising with confidence and hope for a better tomorrow. His stomach was hungry, but the mouth has yet to learn how to beg. His body was shivering, but the heart was warm, for good and bad, for poor and rich, for girl and boy, for anyone and everyone, for a relation which seeks nothing but love.

He was a traveller, as he teleported me to the land where I don’t want to go, to the people I don’t want to meet, into the memories I want to forget. Everything around me vaporises to strengthen the cloud and then melts into a new world, where I was still a 9-year boy whose only difficulty was to learn table from 12-20. It was the period of the reign of Sun, and dawn of clouds. when the sky used to be blue but not me. When the trending fashion was a half-sleeved t-shirt and knickers. When ‘Buchi’ was the feeling and ‘Kutti’ a mere term. When the hurt was like the sunbeam--necessary and eternal--and the heart was strong enough to be broken.

And then there was a dog, Max, as everyone calls him. Who was two years younger, but still more mature than I ever could. His white fur, like a carefree child, dance in the breeze, and black patches, like the elder child, watch his back. His one eye surmount the black patch as he lives his dream to see us dreaming, and the other eye to white as his loyalty. He was not the kind of a dog, who’d hide behind his master, but the dog, who’d martyrdom himself for him. But being only a difference of just two years, the plant of our friendship was watered by jealousy. 

In the morning, he was appointed as the keeper of the top floor of my three-storey house. And my mother, like the kaikeyi, provoked him against me. I tried to buy him in thirty tomatoes as they were his favourite, but he was no Judas. It took his a bark and the top floor becomes ‘The No Utkarsh Land’. He humiliates me in front of my friends when he shouts and I gasped. And I humiliate him in front of my friend, lips giggling, eyes goggling.

“Stupid, brainless animals,” my friend said. His condolence seems like insult. My laughs into agony. And before I could think and change my mind, my fist was where my friend’s face used to be, his face where dust used to be, dust on his cheek, cheek in pain, pain in his body, and relief in mine.

I run and he followed. I ran up to the top floor where he catches me but Max was there to protect me. Without knowing the whole scenario, he knows what he should. He barks and my friend flew in the same dust which he was licking a few seconds ago. That day I had my first ‘bro-code’, without knowing what it even means. On that very day, two things become clear; first, sometimes its better to let instincts handle what conscience should; two, everyone have their way to show love, in brothers, jealousy is among many other, anything but saying it.

Within a short period, we become what the mother is for son, what teacher is for the character, what soul is for body and what trust is for love. Someone said to me, ‘To define is to limit’, nothing explains our bond better than these words.

Time goes by like childhood, over before realization. He became old, and I busy myself with friends, study, girls, stress. But still every time, I come back from school, no one was half excited as he was. It feels good when someone waits just for you, to play with you. But most of the people, I never see what I had, I seek what others had. Every day, I promise him that tomorrow is gonna be that day. Until he had no tomorrow.

One evening, I was bored enough to do anything. I went downstairs, near the mango tree where Max was resting. I sat near him and moves my fluffy finger in his silky hair, expecting him to turn. But he didn’t. “Is he angry with me?” was the first thing that came in my mind. “Oh, he can’t be.” was the answer with which I satisfy myself. I lift his head and unclasped my fingers. His head falls again on his paws. I screamed loud enough to make everyone rush down. They know before I could form words.

My elder brother, who was in Pune at that time, orders not to bury him before he comes. But the body would decay by the time. So my other brother--elder than me, younger than the Pune brother--with his friends gave four shoulders to Max. I wish I was present during his burial, but like usual I was busy; busy grieving; busy in cussing god; busy in trying to sort why everything I love always leaves me.

Even four years later, every time I see his photo, I felt his confidence in my soul. Whenever my mother made ‘bati’, someone from the family shall suggest to give two ‘bati’ to Max. On any random day, my brother would order me to bring Max downstairs. Max is in our heart, and will always stay there.

As my tears stroll, my past melts. Again I’m back to the future. Where Gucci trends. Where you’d never know who is ‘Buchi’ and why someone is ‘Katti’. Where you’re crushed between childhood and adulthood. Where the easiest difficulty is to learn table from 12-to-20.

I feed that bro, few biscuits. Then I ran straight into my room, where Max and I would discuss, ‘Should he stay or should he go?’ Today I’m an insomniac and Marshmello’s Happier is on heavy rotation.