Let me tell you a story that, in my heart, still feels like yesterday. It was the early eighties, a simpler time, when I was a child going to school in the charming Trivandrum (now Trivandrum) in southern Kerala. My father was stationed there with the army, and we lived in a spacious one-story bungalow where the door stood high enough to creak enough to hint at a secret if you left it slightly ajar.
One sunny afternoon, as I sat by the window pretending to study (my mind was wandering elsewhere as usual), there was a sharp bark outside. I looked out the window and saw a dirty brown stray dog that had somehow slipped in through the gate. I rushed out, intending to shoo her away, but when our eyes met, something in my chest shifted. Yes, she is a stray, but so beautiful that it catches you off guard, like an old painting with hidden details. Her eyes are deep and warm, full of kindness, a kind of silent love that seems to pierce my childlike innocence.
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“Hello, girl,” I whispered, not wanting to scare her away. Instead of throwing a stone or raising a hand, I rushed to the kitchen to collect the remaining bread, which she ate in seconds. That’s when I decided this dog was my family.
It was easy to convince my mom; she also has a soft heart. Convince my stern Army dad? A battle all on your own. After he came home that night, my mother brought up the subject gently, her tone a mixture of persuasion and hope. After some frowning, sighing, and reluctance, he finally agreed.
From that day on, our lives took on a new rhythm. Every day after school, my eyes would look around, looking for her, hoping she would be waiting there, tail wagging, eyes bright. She always has been. We discussed names, and while “Sundar” (Hindi for “beautiful”) felt nice, it seemed more like a masculine name. So, with a little transformation, she became *Sundri*, our beautiful girl.
Initially, she was not allowed in, so my brother and I spread an old quilt outside the gate. This became her exclusive place, and night after night, she huddled there, loyal and warm, as if guarding her little kingdom. She quickly assumed the role of watchdog, her loyalty shining through with every bark that drove away beggars and wayward visitors. She holds a place in our family and in our hearts.
A month passed and to our surprise, even my dad started to like Sandri. Her persistence and loyalty wore away his strict Army resolve, and soon she had a cozy corner of the house. I would watch her sleep, sometimes sneaking down at night to make sure she was tucked in and breathing evenly. I think it’s fair to say that I have a bit of a crush on her.
But like all good things, this peaceful chapter eventually ended. As a military family, we were always on the move and one day, the inevitable happened: my father received a transfer order to Jammu and Kashmir. Picture this – Kerala to J&K, traveling across the entire country by train. In the whirlwind of packing and planning, it dawned on me the unspoken truth: There was no way we were going to take Sandri with us. Practicality, distance, logistics – it’s all too much. Even then, as a child, I knew no one would agree.
On the day we were preparing to leave, Sandri sensed something was wrong. Her eyes reflected the same sadness we saw when we first met, that haunted look that she somehow conveyed wordlessly. As we climbed into the military jeep and headed to the station, I leaned forward to say my final goodbyes to her, tears streaming down my face, her face a blur of expression.
She started running as the Jeep rumbled forward. My heart beat with every step she took, matching our steps, trying to keep up. She ran for nearly a kilometer, her paws tapping the ground in rhythm with my pounding heart. Then the traffic blurred and the distance grew further and we lost sight of each other. All I could do was watch, my heart aching in a way I didn’t know existed.
Some memories stay etched in your heart forever, and Sandri’s memory is one of them. Years later, when my children asked if we could get a Labrador, I agreed without a second thought. Perhaps, deep down, I hoped to see a little bit of Sandri in this new friend, to bring back that distant childhood. Because some bonds—the unexpected, the unbreakable—stay with you forever.
Author: Bhanu Arora
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