Worrying about the Moral Conduct of Dogs
His friends told him he should have the horse put down at the Richmond Crawford Animal Hospital. But he couldn’t. His father became sentimental at its very mention. He said, ‘Today it’s your lame horse. Tomorrow it will be your crippled father. The ladies and pets of respectable households show themselves in public for the first time after they die.’ He had had three wives die on him, so he must have known when it comes to horses. Rahim Bakhsh was also very much opposed to killing the horse. As soon as it was brought up, he mentioned his thirty years of experience: if we’ve heard tell that history is really the biographies of rich people, then for Rahim Bakhsh, his autobiography was in fact a biography of horses. Hardly had one horse left his life when another entered it. He told the story of his three ex-bosses, each of whom had got a vet to put down a horse. The first boss died within three days. The second suffered a stroke that left his face contorted so that the right side of his mouth touched his earlobe. One day he happened to look at himself in a mirror by mistake, and he almost died gagging on the spot. The third’s wife ran off with a jockey. If you are the discerning sort, you will recognize that the one who died immediately met the most respectable fate.
It was then that a groom came with the news that in Larkana there was a reddish-brown mare being sold for absolutely nothing, meaning, three hundred rupees. Mr Vadera, the owner, had grown sick of her. From his sugarcane harvest’s profits, he had bought a big American car that he measured with a length of sugarcane. ‘If he likes your face, it’s possible he’ll just give her to you for free,’ the man said. At first, I was the one who argued against this, and then it was Basharat’s father. In those days, I had just grown really interested in dogs. I brought them up in every conversation. Suddenly, I had so much respect for their species that I began referring to female dogs not as bitches but as ‘she’ dogs. I warned Basharat, ‘For God’s sake, don’t buy a mare. In Amil Colony, Mr Dastgir got a she-dog. A well-wisher of his had told him that angels, old people, and robbers avoid houses with dogs. But this fine soul hadn’t told him that only dogs will come by. Now all the adult dogs of the city are laying siege to his mansion. The chaste one herself has taken sides with the enemies. I’ve never seen such a generous body-giver. Her motto is the very one the Boy Scouts use—be prepared. Meaning, she’s ready to cooperate bodily with each and every assailant. Opening the front gate is now out of the question. The women of the house have stopped going out. The men have set up a stool that they use to jump the gate as well as the mass of dogs outside. Mr Dastgir feeds the dogs on a regular schedule of twice daily so that they don’t take to preying upon the calves of passers-by. Once he had their food poisoned. The dogs’ corpses lay in heaps in the alley. He paid for their burial out of his own pocket. That night, one man’s dog, having fallen into bad company, had slipped out of his house and come by to look on. He too died. The vacuum that arose from the demise of these good dogs was filled in the same manner that vacuums are filled in literature and politics: the youths of the new generation sprang forward so quickly that the void wasn’t big enough for everyone to fit in. I know only too well that the only vacuum that arises after the death of those who think they are indispensable, absolutely unique, and unparalleled is that of the six feet of earth removed and then immediately covered over with their corpse inside. But that’s another story. Mr Dastgir is very worried. His she-dog is purebred. He is fearful that some low-class dog will ruin her pedigree. So I told him that he should get a female mutt to divert the dogs’ attention. Then at least he could stop worrying about that. Then he could sleep at night. He’s the only person in history to take upon himself the duty of worrying about the moral conduct of dogs.’
Miserable Company
I told him this story to teach him about life. Basharat’s father was opposed to getting a mare for another reason. He was very upset because Basharat didn’t believe in his miracle cures. He was prone to cursing out people. He didn’t openly curse out his son, but he said that if he needed to have a purebred mare to keep his line going, then, please, go ahead, but he himself wouldn’t set foot in such a house, not even for a minute. He also threatened that he would go wherever Balban the horse went. The fact of the matter was that his father and the horse had become so close, that if the family had not forbidden it, the old man would have kept the horse tied to his charpoy’s leg while he slept at night. When the horse approached, he would lower his head so that Basharat’s father could stroke him while seated. He would put his nose to the horse’s muzzle and, for hours, bitch and moan about the household’s members, including his daughters-in-law. For the kids, the horse was a live plaything. Basharat’s father said that since they got the horse, his hands shook less and he had stopped having nightmares. He had started calling the horse his son. Everyone gets sick of a chronic patient. One day, he lay moaning on the charpoy for four or five hours. No one paid him any mind. In the evening, when his heart symptoms (and his depression) increased, he said to the cook, ‘Please bring Balban, my son.’ The sad horse was the man’s only companion in his old age and failing health.
Something Good to Eat
He couldn’t yoke the horse to the cart. He couldn’t sell him. He couldn’t get him put down. But he also couldn’t afford to feed him without getting anything out of him. What was there to do? When a black mood descended upon him, he would think that the era’s bad name was due to the villainy and corruption of big businessmen, capitalists, the Vadera caste, feudal landlords, and high-ranking officials. But the piece-of-shit Cruelty Cops weren’t any better. He had never been one to think conservatively or in such a contemptuous way. But now a cynical feeling of annoyance entered into his thoughts — that of one man wronged by another. He thought, ‘The people are poor and oppressed, but whom do they spare? The night watchman is also poor. When does he spare a fruit-seller? And last night, the poor fruit-seller slipped two rotten apples into the kilo the customer ordered. He always underweighs the fruit by a little; but it’s only just a little because he can’t get away with underweighing it any more. Schoolteachers deserve a lot of mercy and respect. For years, Master Najmuddin has gone around dressed in rags bemoaning the state of society. I gave him 430 rupees; only then did he boost my niece’s final high-school exam scores. And who could be more pitiable than Rahim Bakhsh, the cart-driver? Oppression ruins the tyrant and the oppressed alike. When the wheel of oppression comes full circle, the oppressed enacts what was done to him. Boa constrictors swallow their prey whole. Sharks chomp their prey into bloody pieces. Lions, as doctors advise us to do too, chew their food thoroughly before swallowing. Cats, lizards, spiders, and mosquitos, all according to their needs and abilities, suck blood. My God! No one spares anyone!’ Then he remembered how he lied on his income tax, and he smiled, ‘My God! No one spares anyone! We are each other’s fodder. We rip and claw at each other with great zeal. Only then do we have something good to eat.’