The Dog's Day?

07-10-2010, Thursday

It so happens that I've to travel quite a lot to get to my new workplace. Located far away as my home is, there is a choice between a shorter route riddled with construction barriers and a longer, more unfettered route. As saving those few minutes I deemed quite important, I chose the longer route, and on one such circuitous trip, I was inspired to write thus.

The unoccupied mind tends to get on one's nerves, and because of restrictions imposed by the employer, I'm forbidden to bring along electronic devices of appeal, which leaves me either reading, or looking at the city en passant with contemplative eyes. The depth of this contemplation depends upon my state of mind, which is inclined to receive some inspirational tweaks on reading something well written. On this occasion, the proverbial food for thought turned out to be a Navtej Sarna short story.

On its conclusion, I was on the contemplative city gazing routine when I noticed a limping stray dog, and at least from his point of view, his mate, smaller, but able. The protagonist in question was on three legs as his fourth had been amputated half way.

His girl didn't share his eagerness and would've none of his attempts to set the ball rolling, coaxing on, from behind her. Firm bursts of barking were put forth to this end. However, they lacked a degree of bitterness that would've been present if she didn't approve of him at all. An interested onlooker to this ensuing drama was another dog, quite able and on all fours, silently watching these events unfold.

"Why was she playing hard ball?"

"Is it because he was a cripple?"

"Is it because she isn't ready yet? Or does the presence of the onlooker hold any bearing on her decision?"

"Was she merely playing hard to get before eager submission?"

The pleading, pitiable look on the dog seemed to ask these questions, just as I ask them now. However, the bus pulled away from the traffic signal and I never quite figured out whether it was the dog's day.

For once, I was a little sad when the bus pulled away from a signal. It is usually the case that my mind continually eggs the bus on, seeing as how traffic moves slower than a sleep-walking snail in unplanned, construction ridden, and as a result, gridlocked Bangalore. On switching buses at the Majestic bus station, a pen, paper and a well suspended, comfortable Volvo bus seat at my disposal, I'm inspired to pen down my thoughts before the will to do so evaporates. The frequently interrupting Bangalore traffic signals at hand are my allies now. I think I'm going to like this new job.