Renovation
by Anitha Murthy
The dog is lying on the road when he opens his shop that morning. The road is narrow, maybe forty feet at its widest. The edge of the asphalt is cookie-crumbling into the dirty mud. It's not a main road, but since it is parallel to one of the busier roads, people often use it as a short-cut.
The shutters creak in protest as he pushes them up. The shop is what you call a "general store". It is a tiny affair, but you can get anything you want. Rope and nails to rice and biscuits, bananas and candy to cloth bags and party hats. Everything is sheathed in a kind of powdery decay, except the slab of wood that serves as the counter with its paint eroded in great big strokes by sweaty coins. A silver-plated Ganesha presides over the transactions, choking on the heavily scented incense that burns at its base.
He settles down on his high stool and opens up the newspaper. The sound of tyres squealing interrupts his daily tryst with the swinging fortunes of the Indian cricket team. He looks up to see a motorist stopped short by the dog. The motorist revs up again and swerves to avoid the beast that has chosen to occupy a spot right in the middle of the road.
The dog manages to upset three more motorists before it claims his complete interest. After all, he has nothing else to do; business is slow ever since the new departmental store came up in the neighbourhood.
The canine is unfazed by the bursts of traffic. It lies stretched out like a piece of rag, its eyes pressed shut on eyeballs that quiver within like chewed balls of gum, its left ear upright like a flag.
"Cigarette."
The thickset man in front of him has rings on all his fingers. Thick gold rings on stubby dark fingers, with uneven nails pressed deep into the skin. A man who will probably use multiple credit cards to buy a flat screen TV for his home, but will buy cigarettes one at a time.
The transaction is completed in silence. His father made conversation and little money. He doesn't think the returns are worth the effort. Same holds good for his wife. If she'd brought in something extra, like a scooter or a fridge, he might have been a bit more interested in her. She's part of the mattress now, part of the stove, and part of their son. The boy is smart, but has no guts. He whines all the time. He himself had been tough as a kid; they were too soft nowadays.
A car driver is now honking. Persistent and ear-splitting. If it continues for even a second longer, he'll personally go out and whip the chap. The dog doesn't turn a hair. It's soaking in the warmth of the sun like a day at the beach. The traffic is now piling up behind the car. An auto tries to sneak past. A cyclist wends his way through the mess, a superior grin plastered on his face. Motorists begin nosing at the uneven slabs like Moses.
He can't help grinning. What a dog, he thinks. Cocking a snook at people in broad daylight.
Three schoolboys walk up to the shop. They are dressed in khaki uniforms, hair neatly plastered, faces showing liberal and uneven traces of the talcum powder.
The leader of the gang puts down five two-rupee coins, and points to the glass jar containing Wrigleys.
There is a hurried consultation and the boys finally choose the mint. Strawberry is for girls. He slides a pack of the gum over to them, and sweeps the coins into the collection cup that fits snug in a drawer.
The boys don't leave. As the leader carefully strips open the pack and proceeds to distribute the five sticks unequally (three for himself, one each for the other two), one of the boys spots the dog.
"Hey, look at that dog, da."
Working in silent tandem, they pick up stones. It doesn't take much time to choose the odd-shaped ones with jagged edges, ones that can at least hurt or, as a bonus, draw blood.
The first stone goes whizzing through the air, missing its target by a wide margin. It lands near a scooterist who glares at the boys through his helmet. Unfazed, the boys try again. The leader is the one who will taste success. His stone finds its mark, bouncing lightly off the dog’s stomach. The dog raises its head, as if surprised by the sudden onslaught.
"Oy, don't you boys have to get to school?"
He is as astonished as they are by his interruption.
The boys glance at each other, unsure. Then, the leader shrugs, drops his pebbles and turns on his heel. The other two follow.
Now he has no choice; he must complete what he has started.
"Here, here…Tommy, Tommy." He calls out.
The dog jumps to its feet, as if all it was ever waiting for was his call. It trots towards him with cocky certainty. He opens a jar and throws a biscuit down. The dog snaps it up and settles down in front of the store. He sits down again and watches the traffic reduce to its usual trickle.
He hasn't felt this good in days.
About the author: Anitha Murthy lives in Bangalore, India. She loves reading and writing. She has been published both in print and online, and dabbles in various genres. Her home on the web is www.thoughtraker.com.
