Newcomers To The Hood.

(18 Nov 12)

            Ever since Pussy Wotsername got pregnant yet again, the husband’s been very caring and nice to her. I was nice to her even before she got in the family way. She lives downstairs and shamelessly accepts goodies from us. Her thank yous are translated into leg rubs. She uses extracts of milk, fish and rats for the purpose. Now you know why we smell strange. Sometimes. 

This is her fourth pregnancy. The first time she delivered, I didn’t even get to see the little ‘issue’ as we call children in India. We were new to her neighbourhood, she was a young adult, unsure of herself and of us and we took time to adjust to each other. By the time we’d made friends, she had had a brood of three. She could not fend for them, so kind neighbours gave her leftovers. These three were the darnest creatures I’ve seen. They loved our car. Got inside, and refused to move when my husband was to leave for work. Once, he didn’t know that one of them was hiding inside until he was half way to work. He had to return and give an angry mouthful to the harassed mother to take better care of them. Of the three, two vanished, we don’t know how or why. We carried on feeding and sheltering mother and ‘issue’ until one day, I found its carcass draped cruelly across our gate. I have no idea how it had died. Nor why someone had kept its body so visibly, horribly on our gate. I gave it a decent funeral, and the mother eventually overcame her grief and resumed routine: breakfast, lunch, dinner, sleep.

Pussy Wotsername has a couple of lovers who quarrel bitterly with each other for her affection. It’s only after the babies arrive that we can guess who the latest paramour is. The fathers are ruffians, though, irresponsible, too. She looks after her off-spring all by herself. Sometimes with our help.

The third delivery took place in our neighbour’s terrace. The hue and cry was hushed. The two illegitimate little ones were whisked away, either for adoption or death, I was never to know. Strange that those who won’t touch the newly borns lest their eyes not open, can dispose them of and let their mother mourn endlessly for them.

This time, we fed and cared for her through the confinement. Her abdomen was huge. We weren’t going to be in Goa around the time of her deliver, so we made sure her corner was comfortable and protected from the rain. We returned to find her even huger, and crying piteously, obviously in labour pain.

Then she vanished. For two days and nights, there was no sign of her. And as suddenly returned, with six of the cutest babies I’ve ever seen.

Now I’m looking forward to them growing up, crawling in their unco-ordinated way up the stairs and down. The mother is already desperate to get rid of them from clinging constantly to her belly. My husband is prepared to park the car outside, for the kids have a habit of getting into it and refusing to get out. We step gingerly whenever we walk around in the dark for fear of trampling or injuring them.

I’m looking forward to watching them grow. The tiny paws and nails, the tails right now like thick strings, the eyes still shut, the sharp terrified mews that attract the mother’s attention instantly, all remind me how wonderful Nature is. The way Pussy Wotsername picks them up by the neck and transfers them from place to place for their safety: not one, not two, but SIX mewling brats that crows, dogs, bandicoots and their own fathers are wanting to chew and swallow. Life is hard for her as it is, they make it harder, and yet she devotedly, dutifully cares for them, fascinating me with her maternal instinct, ever protective, ever nurturing. I don’t know whether she can think like me. I don’t know whether she can think at all, though at times I believe she acts out of thought rather than instinct when a deviant child has to be brought back to the straight and narrow or when she teaches it to eat raw fish heads without choking.

Pussy Wotsername has taken over my life temporarily. I cannot understand people who don’t like animals.

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