Kindred animals

The cat was definitely malevolent. It could narrow down its translucent green eyes , and out stare you. It curled itself up on the abandoned mattress stuffing on the terrace and listen to the conversations, gossip sessions , fights going on in the house below. Her eyes would be tightly shut. Pretending to be asleep . What gave away was the cocking of the ears at the sound of any human shout or cackle of laughter or scream.

 Finally, she would tire of eavesdropping,wake up with a yawn and a stretch, and go in search of food.
The dogs, sniffing her evil presence , would go into a barking frenzy.

The widowed sister of my neighbour, Mr Mehta, would shoo away the dogs, and feed her milk straight from the breakfast table , much to the chagrin of the finicky Mrs, Mehta. The widow would pour the lukewarm milk into her own plate and allow the cat to lap it up. She saved the cat , Another thing that saved the cat was the cat’s phenomenal speed . With the hiss of an angry goose and a loud miaow , she would take off, a blur of gray fur, with the dogs in hot pursuit.

She would climb unreachable places , like the roof of Mr. Mehta's garage, or the top of Mrs. Mehta's cucumber vine frame, and sit there , calmly cleaning herself, while the dogs below , barked themselves silly.

Mrs. Mehta never appreciated the cat. Neither did she appreciate the widow much.Grapevine said that the daily act of feeding the cat the milk meant for her, was done to spite Mrs.Mehta. Others said the widow was checking if her milk was poisoned. Either way, it pissed off Mrs.Mehta, big time. She would silently register a protest by picking her plate off, and drinking her tea in the kitchen, alone . She also started segregating the widow's plate . In the neighbourhood, the widow came to be known as the "cat lady".

They shared a strange bond , the cat and the widow. Kindred spirits they were. The widow would sit on the balcony, with the newspaper on her lap, and stare at every passerby , sternly, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. Maids would hastily pass by , with a cursory, unanswered greeting; the milkman would give her a toothy smile , which made her look sterner, and the street urchins, rag pickers would ignore her. The cat would slumber on the roof top, directly above her.When their friendship deepened, the cat would lay at her feet, on widow's chair cushion, wrapped up in the warmth of widow's pashmina shawl, which Mr. Mehta had bought for her from Kashmir. Mrs Mehta fretted and fumed , as the list of ostracised items (and rendered untouchable , having touched "the stray" , as she called the cat) increased in number and cost.

Then disaster struck. On one of  her furious encounters with the dogs , the cat was struck by a speeding car and died. She was picked up by the garbage truck chaps , after prolonged haggling , and eventually having settled for Rs.100, very reluctantly shelled out by Mrs . Mehta, as the dead cat lay right at her doorstep. The widow watched everything from her balcony, sitting there , frozen , as if made of stone .

Then she picked up her cane and hobbled in. Turned and shut the door . The balcony remained bereft of any human or animal presence , for the rest of that winter. Cold winds , howled at the door , seeking admittance , and blew up dry ficus leaves in great heaps . A maid would periodically sweep them away.

Word spread around that the widow was sick, very sick. Some said the cat spirit had come to claim her. She couldn't get off the bed , and wouldn't eat.Every day a doctor would be called to see her. Mr. Mehta stopped going for work. Mrs. Mehta , forgetting her warfare, would be found engulfed in distressed sobbing at odd places, at the grocers, or standing in the queue at the vegetable truck. Servants' said it was just a matter of days. 

The widow lay staring at the ceiling, saying nothing, wishing, or so it seemed , for death to relieve her. But death does not follow orders.Days stretched into weeks . The widow turned gaunt , a shadow of her former self.

  Few days later, one of the stray bitches gave birth to a litter of puppies. Driven by cold wind and hunger, they took refuge in the dry drain outside Mrs. Mehta's balcony, burrowing in the heaps of ficus leaves. 

By some strange quirk of fate , their hungry squeals woke up the widow. Propping herself on her elbow , she asked Mr. Mehta to feed them milk. 

Next day , a miraculous sight greeted the neighbourhood. In the balcony of the Mehtas, sat the widow , gaunt but smiling with contentment, with her newspaper and glasses-perched -on-nose-bridge,while a litter of puppies frolicked on chair cushions (Mrs.Mehta having happily donated her entire set of five cushions ) having torn the pashmina shawl threadbare, and licked a large bowl of milk clean.

Mr. Mehta also joined back the same day. Mrs. Mehta took to smiling, and cracking jokes in the vegetable truck queue.