It was pouring buckets the day Suzy, the light brown terrier pup from the animal shelter, was delivered to the ground floor doorstep of my clinic, cradled tightly within the capable elbows of my friend and associate Rachna Nimkar of the Pramodhini Foundation, an animal adoption NGO that rescued strays from the street and brought them to me for proper medical care.
I had at that time a client by the name of Niladri Bandhopadyay, a distant relative of the Gaekwad royal family, who had been referred to me by the Baroda Institute of Veterinary Studies for the treatment of a now deceased pet peacock named Rameshwari. He owned a large bungalow on the outskirts of town, and had scarcely a guard dog in the locality to look after the property.
“How old is she?” he asked, as he examined the wet dog.
“Two months old,” said Rachna, scrubbing Suzy dry in the hope of making her more presentable. “Even vaccinated by Dr Sonthalia here,” she added, pointing towards me.
“That’s right,” I nodded. “Had her rabies shots, no ticks, perfectly toilet-trained.”
“She’s very loving!” Rachna assured him.
{{/usCountry}}“She’s very loving!” Rachna assured him.
{{/usCountry}}We managed to facilitate the transaction without much hesitation from his end.
Once he left the clinic with the scrawny terrier cradled in his arms, wading back into the pouring rain, we both let out simultaneous exhalations.
I started to switch off the lights and fans of the clinic after we split the proceeds, spreading out an umbrella to cover the two of us up till we got to my Hyundai i20, parked in a distant corner of the compound. On the count of three we made a run for it, already soaked by the spills from the parapet while locking up the front door.
My phone started to glow as we got into the car. My younger child had been calling me since dinnertime to inform me that a slum near the Subhash Bridge was flooded. I gazed through the foggy windscreen, and spun the wheel around with a jerk, adjusting my spectacles so as to squint through the speckled high-beam.
“I can’t see a thing,” I blinked, as we hit the main road. A distant thunderclap sounded over the soggy scenery.
We were crossing the bridge that spread out upon the Vishwamitri River when I noticed through the entangled shadows a settlement of shanties perched on the banks of the swamp. As the car splashed into a puddle, the tyres crunched over something that seemed softer than a zebra-striped speed breaker or a tree-trunk. I immediately squealed to a halt and we both got out of the car in an instant, leaving the headlights on and rushing back for a closer look at whatever lay on the road. While approaching it, the two of us soon became aware of the scaly silhouette of a crocodile. The snout had been entirely trampled, and the tail partially torn.
Rachna rushed to the aid of the bedraggled creature without flinching, but just as the half-open eye caught sight of her outstretched arm, it suddenly snapped at her, nearly tearing out the same elbow that had moments ago so lovingly nursed another helpless beast. She let out a shriek that probably rattled the croc, which left its mouth open long enough for her to escape its grip. Then, snarling at her care and consideration for it, it scampered about the bridge and slid back into the mucky recesses it came from.
We stood there stunned, getting drenched and looking into the swamp. I knew a storm was coming. The rain slowly graduated into a torrential downpour.
Author bio: Son of veteran actors, Naseeruddin Shah and Ratna Pathak Shah, Vivaan Shah garnered acclaim for his role in Vishal Bhardwaj’s Saat Khoon Maaf. But his writing debut Living Hell, a murder mystery set in Mumbai essays his skills as a fast-paced fiction writer with a penchant for dark humour.
Illustrator bio: Parth Garg is a Delhi boy who, at 24, is a millennial himself. In addition to illustrating for HT Brunch, he is currently involved with a project that promotes education for all.
Additional reporting by Lubna Salim
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From HT Brunch, August 18, 2019
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