The Unexpected Saviours

Mr. Sharma was a punctilious man. He is the typical embodiment of the grumpy uncle that almost every Indian colony has grown accustomed to -- somebody who raises grievances over trifling affairs and who doesn’t have faith in haggling or arbitration in any case of disputes but the obstinate insistence that the hairs on his head have not transformed into streaks of grey on its own -- it is but the Providence of experience that hath spawned his wisdom -- and that his word stays incontrovertible.

On any conventional day, he would exhibit bouts of workaholism and temper, occasionally sulking on how today’s youths have become wayward and impervious to any responsibility that they’re entrusted with. He exercised the same on his son whenever he felt that he was dawdling away the time at hand instead of pursuing more fruitful endeavours. For him, all work and no play make Jack a bright boy. 

As a man of habit, he would go jogging during the morning hours. True to this disposition, he’d ventured out presently and was headed for the park which was frequented by assiduous people who seemed to be relishing the fresh air and an unsultry clime.

 The avenues going through the park were lined with lush evergreen trees, which were shedding their old leaves, paving the way for the new ones to sprout. The gardens nearby had been neatly manicured and were being watered on several spots either by the automatic sprinklers or the gardeners tending to it, depending on whether the swards of grass were thick or herbaceous. Occasionally, an exhausted athlete would come down and sit upon the benches that had been installed, take a sip or two of the energy drinks that they’d in store, and after momentary rest, dart off again with renewed conviction. The children were playing about exuberantly, devoid of any mid-life crisis or any form of stress. tranquil and serene.

It was customary for pet owners and animal lovers to frequent the park. And why not? It was a perfect getaway from all the hubbub and drabness of city life. Consequently, there were a lot of volunteers from several animal welfare organizations who would turn up to feed the strays and pets alike.

Over the years, Mr. Sharma had developed an inexplicable sense of aversion for pets of any kind and more specifically, dogs. He would often be on the opposite spectrum of what his kids desperately wanted → to own one. This would often be followed by squabbles and counter-arguments on whether or not to buy or adopt.

“But Dad, what's the problem, they’re so cute and cooperative, aren’t they?”

“Cute? What sort of a delusion is this? Nah. They’re hideous and dangerous. To keep one is like hacking off your limb using the axe.”

“Oh c’mon dad, you’re exaggerating and you know it. They don’t hurt anybody without a plausible reason.”

“Hurt? That’s an understatement. They attack brutally and mercilessly. They’re, after all, animals. No owner is safe from rabidness.”

“Reiterating the previous point, that happens only if one is reckless…”

“Enough! Do you think you know more than your old man? This is the problem of the present generation. Pretending to know more than venerable people. Well, I’ve some tidings for you. As it is, I’m already adopting two pets like yourselves and the burden of adding more is unbearable.”

And that would effectively render them dumbstruck or silent.

Presently, some members of the organization Pawfect Services were indulged in an endearing interaction with some stray dogs huddled together in a corner underneath a leafy tree. Mr. Sharma snorted in disparagement, apparently deeming them to be unworthy of humans’ care and attention.

A seemingly adorable husky came out of nowhere, wagging its tail vigorously, sharing furtive glances at everyone present in the vicinity. Eventually, it decided to approach Mr. Sharma, probably seeking some embrasure or a treat. It started licking his shoes and resting its head on his feet as an initiation ritual.

Mr. Sharma was visibly turning palpable with fury. When it seemed that the dog had crossed the threshold limit of his pertinent patience, he didn’t restrain himself. 

“FILTHY DOG! BREACHING MY PRIVATE SPACE!” he bellowed for everyone to consciously shift focus on him. To their horror, he kicked the dog away and started cudgelling it with his walking stick, rendering everyone numb for a moment or two till two girls intervened. The dog was yelping in agony, cowering behind one of them, apprehensive of further pugilistic tendencies of the aggressor.

“What’s wrong with you, uncle?” the girl with pink hair, said brusquely, “How would you like it if we start assaulting you?”

There were cries from some of the angry crowd that had gathered around the scene of incidence, advocating violence. “Drop it,” the girl who had been caressing the husky spoke up. “We don’t have to condescend ourselves to his level, just to prove our point.”

“Finally! Someone who values rationality over emotional delusions!” Mr. Sharma exclaimed, superciliously. 

“You know what, uncle?” the girl said, glaring at him, “You may not realize it, but being an empath always bestows the benisons of virtues and anything emblematic of all that is good in this otherwise callous world. By hurting an innocent animal whom you deemed to be inferior to yourself, you’ve not only deigned and sinned but also invited the curse of your bad karma, which you’ll face sooner or later.”

The passionate outpouring of words evoked an equally appreciative consensus via a thunderous outburst of applause. Mr Sharma was left red-faced, so he decided to leave the spot before he could say or do anything more that would exacerbate his character defamation.

*****************

The night was cool and clear, with no presence of any clouds looming overhead. A faint breeze rustled past fallen twigs, symphonically heralding autumn. The moon was squinting radiantly at lesser beings on earth squabbling over trifling niche overlaps. 

Two middle-aged men were strolling briskly, undaunted by the relatively dark street which was devoid of emanations of light from the arc lamps. 

“Inept people,” the plump man grumbled. “Can’t even fix a damn thing since the past week.”

“I know, right! The PwD is the worst! They never fill those potholes properly nor undertake proper maintenance. Sometimes I wonder why the heck do we even have to pay taxes? To fill the coffers of the state which spends it all on lavishing praises on themselves in their besotted election campaigning or indulge in a thrifty venture to camouflage money laundering?”

“Looks like you know a lot about it,” said the plump one, mischievously, winking at him. “You’re mixin’ up with ’em a lot lately, aren’t you?”

“Earning a penny or two every now and then unscrupulously doesn’t seriously affect the economy which is already in shambles,” Mr. Sharma opined. “Friends in high places imply you can climb up the epochal echelon and unseat the underhanded mighty.”

“Sounds ambitious and ironic at the same time. You sure want to elevate your influence in your department but you wanna do it illicitly.”

“It’s not illegal, per se, let’s just say that it’s unethical or immoral.”

“Oh you wanna give me a sermon, you dirty, naughty Sharmaji,” said the plump man, nudging Mr Sharma, mockingly. “Sure, tell me about it.”

“Some other time perhaps,” Mr. Sharma said, coolly, stopping as they reached an intersection that led to the branching of four roads. “It’s getting kinda late and I’ve to make sure that my youngest son doesn’t flunk once again. Do make sure to stop by our house once, Mr. Banerjee. My wife has mastered a new recipe of Oriental Thai chicken, which I’m pretty sure, you’ll love.”

“Sure thing, thanks for the invitation. Ok then, see you tomorrow. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Mr. Banerjee turned left and disappeared gently into the night, leaving Mr. Sharma standing all alone, pondering on what his accompanying companion had implied. Then he shook his head and continued walking straight for a while, drifting off to a northeast lane, which, albeit narrower, afforded him a shorter route to his home.

Amidst the pitch blackness, the only beckoning was the faint lights bedecking the bungalow of a retired High Court judge and occasional croaks of nocturnal frogs and chirping of crickets, who evidently seemed unperturbed to their surroundings being devoid of the usual brightness. 

Something else seemed amiss or at least not in tandem with what was the norm defining such nights -- the relative absence of the youth of his locality on the streets, otherwise sauntering aimlessly long after his exeunt. The vicinity reeked of masked sullenness and seemed to emanate some sort of foreboding. Mr. Sharma was one of a stout heart. He impressed upon himself that it was just a coincidental occurrence and any implications of eeriness were absolutely absurd to be even conjectured.

CRACK! An audibly loud sound of a random twig buckling under pressure seemed to arouse some tension. Mr. Sharma squinted down to see whether he’d inadvertently stepped on something. There was nothing beneath his legs. Dismissing it as some sort of hallucinating acting up as a result of his exhaustion, he continued prancing on.

CRACK! This time he was so sure that it wasn’t an inanimate object that had chanced upon his feet that he slowly turned around to discern the genuine source.

A melanistic black panther was standing some yards away, its emerald green eyes gleaming in the dark and accentuating dread and doom. It seemed to be prowling around obliviously in clear juxtaposition to the heightened senses of a man watching him frightfully. 

SWISH! An entire branch of a neem tree, laden with its fruits collapsed with a splat, temporarily disorienting and startling both Mr. Sharma and the panther. The event seemed to have apparently originated from a mansion adjacent to where Mr. Sharma was standing.

 As a result of this exiguous, rather insignificant disturbance in an otherwise tranquil, insipid night, the panther swerved around fixating its eyes upon Mr. Sharma. The piercing gaze of the beast was met by an equivalently horrified stare of the cowering man. 

For a few tense minutes, the two invertebrates remained rooted to their respective spots, perfectly immobile. Then the panther started advancing slowly towards Mr. Sharma, probably exultant of having found something other than a rooster to prey on, for a change. With each step that the panther took, Mr. Sharma retreated doubly as fast. 

CRACK! To add to Mr. Sharma’s woes, a large trunk came crashing down behind him, effectually blocking out any chance of straight egress that he had earlier. This, in turn, made the panther even more avid not to lose his prey at any cost, come what may. It started bounding onwards and a momentarily petrified Mr. Sharma endeavoured to sprint away from the black beast as fast as he could in an adjacent alleyway, trusting his legs for dear life.

His luck ran out, however, after a couple of minutes when he accidentally trod on a mess of cow dung, causing him to slip and fall. With a palpitating heart and stone-cold, frenzied face, he covered his face with his arms, as if destined to go down. The panther was about to pounce on him, its fangs bared, when another creature leapt and thwarted the attempt. Mr. Sharma was surprised when he saw who his unexpected saviour was.

It was a Siberian Husky, presently engaged in a tussle with the mightier panther, endeavouring to grab it by its legs. Instead, the panther, being an experienced predator, swiftly parried any strikes that the canine came up with and managed to sink its teeth into the hide of the poor dog, which then gave out an ear-shattering howl of pain. 

The momentary flame of hope that had lit up in Mr. Sharma’s eyes died again, as he watched in desperation the great black brute assiduously overpowering the domesticated pet, who seemed to be no match for his tenacity. Just as things were about to get worse, however, yet another husky came to the rescue – it leapt from behind and the panther, caught unawares, swerved aside, only to be pinned down by two of its pugilists at different points and the erstwhile supercilious growling had now transformed into an anguished howling.

Witnessing the battle of two ferocious species was too much for Mr. Sharma to bear. He felt the night closing in on him, as he swooned out of the overwhelming anxiety. When he regained consciousness, he was laying on his bed and a sea of consternated faces of some of his family members were peering at him. 

“Oh thank the good lord! He’s alive!” exclaimed his nephew.

“Of course, he’s alive, he passed out due to shock rather than the actual brunt of the beast,” said the doctor attending to him, crossly. 

“What happened?” he asked, groggily.

“What do you reckon?” the pink-haired girl said, with a face betraying a grimace. 

Behind her was her companion from the park, along with a vet, attending to the two Siberian Husky dogs who had saved his life. They were badly wounded from the ordeal and had been bandaged in places where the panther had seemingly breached their hides and sunk its claws and canines into bare flesh.

Mr. Sharma got up from his bed and walked up to the dogs. They still seemed highly agitated partly due to agony, or partly because of Mr Sharma’s intimidating, towering presence, one could not tell. Then, Mr. Sharma did something unexpected, something that caused even the girl duo to gasp – he went down on both knees and gently stroked their furs, muttering softly – “THANK YOU.”