Forty-six

Sai looked out of her window and couldn’t tell what all the noise was about.

The judge was shouting: "Mutt, Mutt." It was her stew time and the cook had boiled soy Nutrinuggets with pumpkin and a Maggi soup cube. It worried the judge that she should have to eat like this, but she’d already had the last of the meat; the judge had barred himself and Sai from it, and the cook, of course, never had the luxury of eating meat in the first place. There was still some peanut butter, though, for Mutt’s chapatis, and powdered milk.

But Mutt wouldn’t answer.

"Mutty, Mutt, stew…" The judge walked around the garden, out of the gate, and walked up and down the road.

"Stew stew -

"Mutty Mutt? MUTT?" His voice became anxious.

The afternoon turned into evening, the mist swept down, but Mutt didn’t appear.

He remembered the boys in their guerilla outfits arriving for the guns. Mutt had barked, the boys had screamed like a bunch of schoolgirls, retreated down the steps to cower behind the bushes. But Mutt had been scared, too; she wasn’t the brave dog they imagined.

"MUTT-MUTT MUTTY-MUTTMUTTYMUTTMUTT?!"

She hadn’t arrived by the time darkness settled in.

He felt more keenly than ever that at nightfall in Kalimpong, there was a real ceding of power. You couldn’t rise against such a powerful dark, so enormous, without a chink. He went out with the biggest flashlight they had, shone it uselessly into the jungle; listened for jackals; waited on the veranda all night; watched the invisible mountainsides opposite as the falling lanterns of drunks plummeted like shooting stars. By the time dawn showed, he was frantic. He ventured to the small busti houses to ask if they had seen her; he asked the milkman and the baker, who was now at home with his battered tin trunk, which contained the khari biscuits and milk rusks Mutt so enjoyed.

"No, have not seen the kutti."

The judge was angry at hearing her referred to as a "kutti" but restrained himself because he couldn’t afford to shout at those whose help he might now need.

He asked the plumber, the electrician. Uselessly, he gestured at the deaf tailors who had made Mutt a winter coat out of a blanket, with a buckle at the belly.

He received blank faces, some angry laughter. "Saala Machoot… what does he think? We’re going to look for his dog?" People were insulted. "At a time like this. We can’t even eat!"

He knocked on the doors of Mrs. Thondup, Lola and Noni, anyone who might be kind, if not on his behalf, then for Mutt, or for the sake of their profession, position, religion. (He missed the missionaries – they would have understood and would have been duty-bound to help.) Everyone he called on responded with immediate doom. Was this a hopeful time? They were already reconciled to Mutt’s fate, and the judge wished to strangle them as they spoke.

Mrs. Thondup: "Was she expensive?"

The judge never thought of her that way, but yes, she had been expensive, delivered from a Calcutta kennel specializing in red setters. A certificate of pedigree had accompanied her: "Sire: Cecil. Dam: Ophelia."

"La ma ma ma ma, must have been stolen, Justice," Mrs. Thondup said. "Our dogs, Ping and Ting – we brought them all the way from Lhasa, and when we got here, Ping vanished. The robber kept him captive to breed pups, mated and mated him. Good source of income, no? Just go to thirteenth mile, you’ll see watered down versions of Ping running about everywhere. Finally he broke away and escaped, but his whole personality had changed." She pointed out the victim, drooling out of his old man’s mouth, glaring at the judge.

Uncle Potty: "Somebody must be out to rob you, Justice Sahib – getting rid of obstacles. That Gobbo, he poisoned my Kutta Sahib, years ago now."

"But we were just robbed."

"Someone else must have decided to do the same…"

Afghan princesses: "Our dog, Afghan hound, you know, we were traveling with our father and one day she went missing. She was eaten by the Nagas, yes, they eat dogs – they ate Frisky. Even our slaves – yes, we had slaves – we threatened them with their lives, but still they didn’t manage to rescue her in time."

Lola: "The trouble with us Indians is that we have no love of animals. A dog, a cat is there just to kick. We can’t resist – beat, stone, torment, we don’t rest until the creature is dead and then we feel very content – good! Put it down! Destroyed it! All gone! – we feel satisfaction in this."