CONFESSION
Bhaiya sat down and said: Bruno, write a letter to maa for Mother's Day.
I looked at him. Bhaiya. Have you gone completely insane. I do not write. Also — what even is Mother's Day. Some new scheme.
He said try. He said he would help.
So.
This is a letter. It is for Mother's Day, which bhaiya says is one day a year. I told him every day is Mother's Day in this house, duh. He gagged. Then he moved on.
He is typing because paws. He is also editing me. I will try to mark where he lies.
A DAY
5:58 AM — I am awake. You are not. This is a problem.
6:03 AM — Still asleep.
6:04 AM — Paw on face. Works every time.
6:30 AM — Walk. Papa holds the leash. He thinks this means he is in charge.
6:45 AM — A small dog appears. I must address this.
6:46 AM — Addressed. Papa is shouting. Worth it.
8:00 AM — Breakfast. Roti, dahi, papaya. The papaya is the point. The rest is paperwork.
9:00 AM — You leave for somewhere. I sit by the door. I am working.
1:30 PM — Lunch. Then the sofa. We nap on it together. You think this is coincidence.
4:00 PM — You are on the phone with someone. You are telling them about me. I can tell from the tone.
6:30 PM — Papa is home. Sanchit is home. You give them the Bruno report. I listen. I sometimes correct you under my breath.
9:00 PM — Tika still on my forehead from morning. I am holy. The neighbours' dog is not.
10:30 PM — You sleep. I check the doors. Nobody asked me to.
THE LISTENING
I heard you tell papa I do not listen.
Maa. I listen. I just do not always obey. These are different things.
When bhaiya tells me to sit, I sit. When you tell me to sit, I think about it. This is not disrespect. This is comfort. With bhaiya I have to perform. With you I am just home.
If a stranger asks me to do something I do nothing. If you ask, I do something half the time. If you ask twice, I do it. If you say Bruno! in the voice — the voice — I do it immediately.
Three times out of four I am pretending not to hear. The fourth time is real. You have never figured out which is which. I am not telling you.
THE FUSS
You think I do not know about the cameras.
I always knew. The wall says my name in your voice and I look up and there is nobody. The first time it happened I dropped what I was eating. The second time I sat by the wall waiting. By the tenth time I understood: even when you are not here, you are here.
This is one of the strange privileges of being your dog.
The other privileges. You cook for four people and one dog. The dog gets his own dish. Roti torn smaller. Dahi cooler. Papaya in a shape only I recognise. When I sneeze, you put a hand on my forehead. When I limp half a step, you call the vet. When I am quiet for too long, you check. Sometimes I stay quiet just to see how long. Forty minutes.
When you go away for more than a day, bhaiya comes. From wherever he is. He drops things and gets on a plane and comes to Patna. He thinks he is doing me a favour. I think you called him for me. I am right.
When you are home, you are doing other things — sort of. The kitchen, but I am at your feet. The puja room, but I am in the doorway. On the phone with someone, but your hand is on me without you noticing. You orbit me. Or I orbit you. We have not figured out who is the planet.
This is — let's be honest — a lot.
I am not complaining. I am writing it down so it is on record.
I am the most fussed-over dog in the building. Probably in Patna. I am not lonely. I am loved. Different thing.
THE LIST
There is a list of things you do to me every day.
You brush my teeth. I have opinions about this. You proceed anyway.
You brush my fur until it shines. I look ridiculous. People say I look beautiful. I know it is the brushing.
You wipe my paws after every walk. Each paw separately. I lift them in order. I have learned the order.
You comb out the bits I bring back from the world.
And then, after puja — every day, after puja — you put tika on my forehead.
I let you.
Bhaiya says I am a spoiled dog. He says it like it is a complaint, but he is smiling. He is not wrong. I am spoiled because somebody is doing the spoiling. Every day. The roti is torn smaller because you tore it. The dahi is the right temperature because you checked. The fur is brushed because you sat down with the brush. The tika is on my forehead because you stopped on the way out of the puja room.
None of this happens by itself.
I notice.
I am not a good dog.
I am your dog.
Different thing.
A WISH
I do not know what to wish for you. You already have everything.
You have papa. You have your boys. You have the home you cannot stop cleaning. You have the dance you have been doing for three years. You have the morning sitting-quiet. You have me.
So I wish you smaller things. A papaya that is exactly ripe. Dahi that sets the first time. Bhaiya calling more often. Your knees not hurting during dance. Papa saying thank you for a meal without being asked twice.
And one more thing.
You said once that I do not listen. You said it on the phone. I heard.
Listen now. I listen. You are my favourite person in the house. Possibly in the building. Probably in Patna.
That is enough. Bhaiya says don't oversell. For once he is right.
Happy Mother's Day, maa.
— Bruno
(P.S. There is something on the kitchen floor. I did not do it.)
BRUNO SE POOCHO
Ask Bruno anything. He will reply. Sometimes truthfully.