Night(s) Of The Dog(s)

Shortly before Independence, a memsaab was traveling long-distance, first class, by train, with her dog. It was no ordinary canine. She had paid a hefty sum for the dear (pun intended) creature, whose pedigree was only a wee bit shorter than the reigning king of England’s. The animal was securely padlocked in a well-padded cage, kept well-fed and watered in a nook at one end of the comfortable carriage.

The lady made visits every few hours to make sure all was well. Night fell and she tucked herself within clean sheets for repose.

Meanwhile, the ticket-checker (TC) came to have a chat with the guard on duty at one of the stations. The former was saying his farewells to all his colleagues, for he was due to retire in less than a month’s time. Both stood by the carriage door exchanging pleasantries. The TC was fiddling with the lock and latch of the cage in which the memsaab’s valuable cargo sat. There is no explanation for the why and how of most accidents happen. All of a sudden both men were startled when the door of the cage was flung open and the dog bounded out. A leap and he was on the platform, and in a twinkling lost to their sight. Before they could do anything the whistle had shrieked and the engine chugged forward.

They debated upon the best course of action to be followed. The dog was the guard’s responsibility, but its escape was the TC’s fault. Together they hit upon a plan. At the next long halt, whilst the passengers snored, they captured one of the least protesting of the sleeping mongrels that they found lying on the platform and shoved it into the cage, this time ensuring that the latch and the lock were secure.

In the morning, all hell broke loose. The memsaab wanted to know where her precious pet was. The guard insisted that it was the same animal that had been put in. He pointed out that the lock was there, intact, and insisted that he was mortally scared of all four-legged creatures, so he hadn’t been up to any mischief. Under threat of losing his job and probably a thwack or two from a sturdy stick, he confessed the truth and the TC was put in the dock. The man’s retirement dues were withheld until the case was resolved. He suffered partial loss of both prestige and provident fund and was unhappy on his last day of service.

The man who told me this tale five decades later, was another TC who also was soon to retire from service. The incident had happened when he was a very young man, he said. Now he was facing a similar situation. I was traveling with my huge, ultra-affectionate Labrador and I wanted to keep him as close to me as possible. I asked the TC whether the cage could be kept in the same compartment rather than in the hot and stuffy brake-van. He said I could keep my dog with me, right under my seat, till the end of the journey. He waved off my exuberant thanks by telling me about the incident, adding that he didn’t want to suffer the same fate as his predecessor.

More recently, a friend’s dog had to be ‘walked’ to the bushes at the edge of the platform to answer Nature’s call. Winter, small station in northern India, approximately 0430 hours. He stepped out in a sweater, colourful shorts and rubber chappals and carried the chai he’d bought along with him whilst the dog sniffed around, emptying its bladder.

Then, two things happened in one instant: the engine shrieked ‘goodbye’ and the dog lunged at a stray he took a fancy to. 

Our friend had a hard time convincing the Station Master that he was a senior officer of the Government of India, that at the moment he had not a rupee with him, nor any identity card, that he needed to borrow a mobile phone to make a call to his wife who was sleeping in the very train that had left the station. His request was granted. Inside the train, the very sleepy wife assumed it was a wrong number since it was an unfamiliar number ringing at such an unearthly hour; she switched off the phone and snoozed off again.

The Station Master kindly agreed to let our officer travel ticketless, in the unreserved compartment of the next train that halted there, which was heading towards Kanpur, the closest big station. As an under-dressed human with a pedigreed dog, he was the centre of attraction in that dibba stuffed with samples of India’s poor. Stinking, grimy blankets, worn and full of holes were wrapped around undernourished bodies. Unshaven, gaunt faces, smiling in spite of their obvious discomfort. Plastic packets containing channas were offered to him and his dog. Chai, too. Everybody shares personal information on trains, especially in the unreserved and second-class compartments. When they knew what had happened to this gentleman, there were lots of suggestions as to what he should have done and what he should do next. One young man had a rupee’s worth of ‘charge’ left in his mobile phone. He offered it to the officer.

The wife, by now closer to Delhi, was wondering where dog and husband (in that order) were. When the phone rang this time, she answered it and called back as ordered.  He briefed her to tell the Movement Control Officer (MCO) at Delhi station to inform his counterpart at Kanpur to help out.

At Kanpur, the MCO was disbelieving but helpful. He gave master and animal breakfast and more chai, convinced a post-paid taxi-driver that he would get his fare at Delhi and dispatched our friend on the last lap of his journey. At one toll-naka, the driver confessed to the chap collecting the cash that neither he nor the Saab at the back had any money. The naka supervisor looked inside and gathered that this must be some VIP ka chakkar, else why would he be travelling at this hour in a brightly checked undergarment, basic footwear and fancy dog. He let them go.

By the time they reached Delhi, our friend was exhausted, but the dog’s batteries were recharged at the sight of his ‘mom’. After tail-wagging, licking and hugging was over, he sighted another stray and decided to give chase. That was when our friend lost him temper and whacked him then and there on the station, to the amusement of some and concern of others.

Our own dog-travel by train has been less exciting. We were going to  Coimbatore from Madras, with an energetic black Labrador, when we were informed that the carriage wasn’t going to be attached. There were other families like us all heading towards the same destination. Whilst the menfolk were busy sorting out the paperwork, we wives bonded instantly, opening up our bags and making ourselves at home in the waiting room where we eventually spent the night smelling strongly of mosquito repellent cream.  We had managed a nashta of sorts with the help of the station chaiwalas and our own packed fare: oily karela sabji, chivda, fruit cake, boiled eggs, and the inevitable milk powder which this dog of ours didn’t mind. She was well-behaved. Even when, at our destination, the train stopped such that we had to get off on the tracks instead of the platform, when a trunk fell on my husband’s thumb causing a bleeding wound, and we had to leave her unattended, she behaved.

          But our next dog, whilst travelling from Jodhpur to Bareilly helped us age faster than all our experiences put together. He had barked himself hoarse on the overnight journey to Delhi, protesting home-sickness, irritating all the co-passengers.

Crossing over the extremely crowded rail-bridge on old Delhi station, he took a peek at a train below. A sudden shriek and puff from that engine, and all forty-four kilos of him decided to squat and not move, come what may. We cajoled him, whacked him, a crowd gathered, there was trouble in the offing, but our guy wouldn’t budge. His bark, raised to decibels of a fog-horn, could be heard over the din. There were no cops around, otherwise we might have been fined for ‘causing nuisance’. Finally, his doggy brain figured he couldn’t live atop noisy trains with so many unfamiliar human beings and strange smells, and meekly followed us.

Thanks to the clickety-clack journeys across the sub-continent by train, I’ve made friends with cattle-owners taking their ‘bacche’ to the district government animal hospital as well as poultry-owners taking their ware to be sold at the closest haat.

Nowadays, I hear people carry the four-legged members of their families either by air (if they can afford it) or trucks (less hassles involved). The station-staff has thus been deprived of many fun adventures. These incidents are now pleasant memories, to be documented in the annals of rail history.