Are Indians, individually and as a society, kind or cruel to animals? On the surface, compassion should come naturally. Many worship the cow as a mother, revere the monkey as a manifestation of Hanuman, and celebrate the elephant-headed Ganesha as a symbol of wisdom. Yet, beneath this reverence often lies a troubling contradiction — even as we elevate animals in faith and folklore, the way we treat them in everyday life is actually very different.
Let me begin with a
Are Indians, individually and as a society, kind or cruel to animals? On the surface, compassion should come naturally. Many worship the cow as a mother, revere the monkey as a manifestation of Hanuman, and celebrate the elephant-headed Ganesha as a symbol of wisdom. Yet, beneath this reverence often lies a troubling contradiction — even as we elevate animals in faith and folklore, the way we treat them in everyday life is actually very different.
Let me begin with a confession. I love animals, and in particular, I love dogs. For years, we have had at least five dogs as pets in our home, and even now, we have four. It has also been my family’s practice, whenever possible, to adopt strays — our own native breed.
It is ironic that in a country so quick to invoke swadeshi (native) in other contexts, we display an almost colonial hangover in our preference for foreign dog breeds. The sturdy, intelligent and resilient Indian “pariah” — now affectionately called the “Indie” — is often overlooked. This is despite the fact that the Indie is superbly adapted to our climate, resistant to many diseases, low-maintenance, and, in terms of lineage, arguably more “pure” than many overbred pedigree dogs.
Indeed, if pedigree means an unbroken line of descent, the Indie stands on formidable ground. For centuries, its bloodline has evolved naturally on the subcontinent, unmanipulated by aesthetic fads. Foreign breeds, in contrast, are often the product of deliberate inbreeding to accentuate specific traits — flattened faces, unusually short legs, excessive fur — sometimes at great cost to their health.
Why, then, this reluctance to adopt Indies? The answer lies in our enduring anxiety about social hierarchy.
We have internalised the idea that imported is superior. The foreign dog becomes a proxy for class mobility. To walk a Labrador in the colony park is, in subtle ways, to parade one’s aspirations. The Indie, tragically, is associated with the street, the ordinary, the “lesser.”
It is sad that even within our compassion for animals, hierarchy intrudes. The pedigreed dog receives air-conditioning and gourmet food; the Indie is shooed away as a nuisance. In the upwardly mobile middle class — the engine of aspirational India — the choice of a pet is often a statement, signifying “arrival,” cosmopolitanism and a proximity to the West. The dog becomes an accessory in the theatre of status.
Sultana, a female Indie, walked in from the street into our driveway and was adopted. When I was posted as High Commissioner to Cyprus, she accompanied us, transiting through Dubai in a superb pet lounge.
Less than two years into my tenure in Cyprus, I received a call from Shri Brajesh Mishra, principal secretary to Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee. The Prime Minister, he informed me, had a request: he wanted me to take over as director of the Nehru Centre in London.
I said I was honoured that the PM had thought of me. I would be the first Indian foreign service officer to be offered this assignment, as it had hitherto been a political appointment, with predecessors of the stature of Gopal Gandhi and Girish Karnad. Still, I asked for 24 hours to give my final answer. Mishra was a little piqued, but we agreed to speak the next day.
In the time I had, I first checked with my wife and my mother whether they had any objections to moving to London. They did not. I then called the British High Commissioner in Cyprus to ask how I could take Sultana along. He checked and informed me that a sample of her blood would have to be air-freighted to Athens. If cleared, a microchip would be implanted in her neck, and six months later she could enter London without quarantine. I then conveyed my acceptance to Shri Mishra.
Sultana cleared her blood test, and a chip was implanted in her neck. We then left her behind in Cyprus with dog-loving friends, along with one member of our household staff. A few months later, Sultana walked into our home in tony Mayfair and accompanied me on my daily walks in Hyde Park.
From London, I was posted back to Delhi, and after three years, I left to take charge as Ambassador of India to Bhutan. Sultana, along with three other dogs we had acquired during our stay in Delhi, accompanied us. She was in her element, enjoying the expansive and beautiful estate of India House. Unfortunately, just before I left Bhutan, she passed away, having lived — for a dog who had once wandered in from the street — a rather eventful and globe-trotting life.
Among the dogs we have now is Lucy, an Indie. As a pup, she was found injured on the street in our neighbourhood in Delhi. A Lithuanian diplomat picked her up, treated her, named her Lucy, and later put her up for adoption. We did not hesitate to respond.
While I love all dogs, including pedigreed ones, this column is a special appeal to readers to consider adopting Indies. This simple act of kindness can rescue these fine dogs from the uncertainties of street life and bring immense joy in return.
(Pavan K Varma is an author, diplomat, and former member of Parliament (Rajya Sabha). The views expressed are personal)
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