Wonder what happened to that dog ... that we let out of our car onto the highway, on our way to Mumbai International Airport, to catch the flight that would take us far, far away, to our shiny new lives in Dallas. My father’s friend dropped us off and then drove off in our car, which was now his car, along with our flat, our furniture, and our electronics, which were all then under his ownership. My father had done the classic lock-stock-barrel move abroad, negotiated a great price with his friend, who was all too willing to move into the home and life we would soon be vacating. But no one thought about the dog until that very hour, when we were rolling our suitcases into the elevator, to be deposited into the yawning dicky of our Toyota Innova.
Oreo walked into the elevator with us, and that’s when it hit us! My father tried to shoo him back into the flat, but his friend Bashir was quick to protest. The dog was not part of the deal, he and his wife had enough on their hands with three young daughters; and besides, Oreo had once yapped at Bashir’s middle child – sorry, the dog would have to go.
Our flight wasn’t until four hours later. My family had about thirty minutes to spare to figure out Oreo’s future. We checked with a couple of dog-owning neighbours in the building. Two of the families weren’t home. The third family refused to take Oreo in. But they provided us the number of a woman in the vicinity who could help. She was a dog-lover, fed the strays in the area and was responsible for their exploding population.
My father dialled her number on speaker, while we all sat in the car, the engine running to keep the AC on. Oreo sat by my mother’s feet, panting, looking from face to face with excitement and anticipation. My father petted him absent-mindedly.
The dog lady answered with a croaky hello. My father introduced himself and explained the situation.
‘Hmm, so you’re leaving the country in three hours, and you need to find a place for your Cookie,’ the woman recapped.
‘Oreo,‘ my father corrected her, ‘His name is Oreo.‘
‘Where are you off to?’ the woman asked.
My mother made a face of quiet vexation. ‘What’s it to her,’ she mimed at my dad, ‘Tell her Hong Kong...’
‘Hong Kong,’ my father said, ‘We are going to Hong Kong.’ He kept patting Oreo’s head. Our dog squirmed and shuffled away from him, snuggling into my jean-clad legs.
‘So, you’re taking the Cathay Pacific flight?’ the woman asked.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am, why are you asking me all these questions? Can you help us or not?’ my father snapped. He had an American visa in the passport in his jacket pocket. He was in no mood to put up with bullshit.
‘Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to be so inquisitive. You said your name was Harish Vyas?’ the woman asked.
My father rolled his eyes at us. ‘No ma’am, my name is Habib Vyas.’
‘Habib? Habib Vyas?’ she repeated. It was not the first time my father’s name had thrown someone off – it was an odd intercommunal combination, a Muslim first name, a Hindu last name, like a long-discontinued ice-cream flavour.
‘That is right…’
‘Okay, so Habib-bhai, you and your family will have to give me until tomorrow morning to make arrangements for Oreo.’
All our faces screwed up into expressions of mockery and disbelief.
‘But we don‘t have time until…’ my father began to explain.
The dog woman cut him off, ‘Yes, you do. See, Habib-bhai, no one is going to let you board the flight to wherever you are going tonight.’
A terror passed through our hearts. My father turned off the speaker phone. He got out of the car to continue the conversation out of our earshot.
‘Mummy,’ my younger sister stuck her head forward from the backseat, ‘Why did the woman say that? What did she mean?’
We watched our father pacing back and forth, speaking agitatedly into the phone. The building’s watchman knocked on my side of the rear window. He motioned us to move the car into the visitor parking. We had parked in the loading area longer than allowed.
Bashir Bhai was on a phone call of his own, standing under a coconut tree in the building compound. When he saw me approaching, he hung up hurriedly and came forward to meet me halfway. ‘Chalo, chalo, let’s leave, everything sorted with the dog?’ he began speed-walking back to the car.
‘No,’ I said, ‘Dad is still figuring it out.’
‘Bhenchod bitch,’ my dad said on re-entering the car. My mother protested the language by pointing at us kids. Bashir Bhai had the car in gear one and began rolling as soon as my father slammed the door shut.
‘What happened? What did she say?’ we all asked.
As my father recapped the conversation, our hearts fell, and mouths widened. The dog woman said she was going to notify her contact in the External Affairs Ministry – they would put out a red alert for Habib Vyas and prevent him from boarding any international flight that night unless he could prove that his pet dog had been formally adopted by someone.
‘Formally adopted? What does that...’ my mother began framing the question before Dad cut her off.
‘It means the adoption has to be registered with the local Animal Welfare office.’
I held up my phone to show the FAQs page on the Animal Welfare site. ‘Formal adoption can take up to three days!’
Bashir Bhai began driving us through the exit gate of the housing society. ‘Where are you going, Bashir?’ my father asked, ‘Did you not hear, that woman has made sure we can’t fly tonight...’
Bashir Bhai sniggered and spoke to my dad in the rear view mirror, ‘Boss, you already sound like some naive NRI. If that woman has a Ministry contact, we also have our own contacts. She’s just trying to scare you, no one can stop anyone from flying out, not over a bloody dog. Just say I have taken him, after you all leave, I’ll find some place for the dog.’
‘So then, motherfucker, why couldn’t you offer that before I began making calls?’ my father spat in rage, ignoring my mother’s quiet pleas to watch his language before the kids. ‘Earlier you acted like this dog has rabies or something. If we can‘t fly tonight, we have to come back to our flat, got it?‘
Bashir Bhai did not say anything and kept driving. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll fly tonight. We’ll make sure you do.’
We looked down at Oreo, who was now sniffing and licking my new shoes. Our mildly entertaining mini Australian shepherd had suddenly become majorly loathsome. We hated the dog. I wish we had never got him in the first place. And I wish we had just abandoned him when we had the chance.
‘Habib, please, I don’t care what happens tonight, you have to watch your language before the kids,’ my mother warned my father quietly.
‘Fine, whatever,’ he said.
Bashir Bhai suddenly stopped the car on a deserted stretch of the highway. ‘What happened?’ my father asked.
‘Just open the door, let him out,’ Bashir Bhai said. ‘If we have him with us, we won’t be able to deny anything in case that dog woman has actually reported you. But if we don’t have the dog, we can just claim there’s been a mistake, we never had a dog in the first place.’
My younger sister was the first to cry out from the backseat. ‘No! No, we cannot leave Oreo here like this!’ She had named him after her favourite biscuit, she was closer in size and age to him, they shared a bond that none of us did.
My mother reached out in the backseat to hold my sister’s little hands, ‘Come on now, Bunny, don’t you want us to go to America tonight? When we get there, we’ll get you a new dog, you can call him whatever you like!’
My sister wept as my father opened the door, got out, and lured Oreo to follow him. A massive truck thundered past our parked car, swirling dust and exhaust into our vehicle.
‘Wait!’ my mother said. She pulled out two chicken sticks from the bag of treats we kept in the car. And she poured some water in a spare bowl. ‘At least leave him with something to eat and drink!’
‘Stay! Stay!’ my father commanded Oreo. And our dog obeyed, scrunching down on the road, just a few feet from pitch-dark marshland that posed God knows what dangers to a two-year-old house-raised pet. Oreo watched expectantly as my father laid down the bowl of water before him and then placed the two chicken sticks on the ground, next to the bowl. Stupid dog was so distracted by the treats, he didn’t pay attention as my father returned to the car and slammed the door. As the vehicle began to pull away, I watched Oreo’s reaction. As soon as he realised what was happening, he jumped up and began chasing our car. ‘He’s chasing the car,’ my younger sister said quietly. My parents were on their phones. ‘It’s okay, beta,’ Bashir Bhai said, ‘He’s an animal, he’ll be fine.’
The vehicle soon hit highway speeds and we could no longer see Oreo’s white furry mass bounding at us. The darkness behind us had swallowed him up.
The airport was a blaze of lights, traffic and noise. Bashir Bhai and my father almost came to blows in the parking lot. My dad’s friend insisted that we had nothing to worry about, there was no way we would be prevented from flying to USA, no crazy old woman, no matter how well-connected, could prevent that over a bloody pet dog. My father snatched the car keys from Bashir Bhai, my mother snatched the flat keys from his shirt pocket. She left a rip in the seam on his chest. ‘Bloody animals, you both have become!’ Bashir Bhai shouted, as we began unloading our luggage into two airport carts, ‘At least wait till you have reached America before abandoning your humanity!’
‘I gave you a great deal on the flat, the car, our things! But if we can’t fly tonight, we need a place to live till we leave. Why can’t you understand that?’ my father yelled back.
My mother added in her high-pitched screech, ‘And your wife and daughters aren’t homeless. My kids and I also need a home to go back to if needed tonight.’
We were attracting the attention of airport security. ‘Police is looking,’ I said, ‘Stop shouting.’ The three adults looked at me like they could murder me.
‘You people are just over-reacting,’ Bashir Bhai said, ‘You will fly tonight. Nothing can stop you. Don’t forget to give me the keys back. Your things are my things now.’
Airport security refused to let Bashir Bhai in without a ticket. He tried to explain why it was crucial for him to escort us to the check-in counter and see us go past immigration. The CRPF officer wouldn’t budge.
‘Give me the keys!’ he yelled, as we began pushing our trolleys past security and into the cavernous airport. ‘Habib, Nadia, what is wrong with you people, give me the keys!’
His yelling caught the attention of a senior security officer. ‘What’s going on here? Sir, why are you shouting?’
My father was trying to rush us along, so we could get in and away from the fracas Bashir Bhai was kicking up. The senior officer called out to our family, ‘Hold on please, hello, you four. Stay right there. Why is that man shouting out there? What’s going?’
My mother said, ‘He is trying to take advantage, sir, he knows we are flying out and he wants to trouble us purposely.’
Bashir Bhai must have heard snippets of my what my mother said. He began yelling from outside the airport in a voice so loud, that it was clearly audible inside, past the air curtain. ‘She is lying. I have bought their flat, their car, and now they are leaving without giving me the keys! Look at this tear on my shirt, that woman attacked me. See here, on my phone, I have scans of all the transfer documents. I don’t need that key, I can make duplicates. But everyone should know what cheats they are!’
We tried to shrug it off but were called back to the entrance. The senior officer was overly involved now. ‘This man outside, your friend, he is saying you people abandoned your dog by the side of the road on the way to airport?’
‘He is lying,’ my father said, ‘He is making up stories to cause trouble for us. We never had a dog.’
The officer relayed this response to Bashir Bhai. We could see our father’s friend hold up his phone. ‘Habib, I think he is showing our photos with Oreo to the officer,’ my mother whispered. I could sense the dread in her voice. ‘Do something! Stop that mad friend of yours! Our flight leaves in two hours!’
The officer ordered two of his constables to take us to the side. My parents’ protests were ignored. ‘Please, Sir, just give us 5-10 minutes to sort this out, we‘ll make sure you don‘t miss your flight.’
Bashir Bhai had asked the officer to look up my father‘s name on the no-fly list. Sure enough, there was a Habib Vyas who had been deemed a flight risk due to potential animal cruelty. My mother began tearing up when she heard the officer‘s verdict, ‘We cannot let you fly. What your friend is saying about the dog adds up with the tip the External Affairs ministry received regarding your failure to find a suitable home for your pet.’
My father did something no child should ever see their father doing. He fell at the senior officer’s feet. ‘Please sir, don’t do this, don’t fall for all these lies. We are being trapped. This man outside is the one who probably made a fake complaint about us and the dog. We don’t have a dog. The photos he showed you are of our neighbour’s dog...’
The senior officer’s bureaucrat mask fell off. ‘Stop, stop,’ he pleaded, as he pulled my father to his feet, ‘Your family is watching, control yourself!’ My mother, my sister and I were all weeping.
‘Go out, sort it out with your friend. Don’t worry, you’ll take your flight, your family will leave, but settle the matter with your friend first. Hurry!’
‘I swear, officer, that thing about the dog is not true!’
‘It doesn’t matter, just finish the matter with your friend and hurry back, I’ll escort your family to your flight gate. Hurry!’
I looked away, I couldn’t bear to see my father reduced to a relieved supplicant concealing his lies and terror behind a facade of put-on earnestness.
We watched our father stride out of the airport entrance. Bashir Bhai and he collided as he guided his friend to a corner, to settle matters privately, away from prying eyes.
‘Where are you all going?’ the officer asked my mother.
‘To Dallas,’ she said, mouthing the lies we had all been trained in, ‘For a vacation.’ A vacation that we would never return from.
The officer could see through the lies. Bashir Bhai had made it abundantly clear that we had sold everything to him and were moving abroad for good. The officer chose to respectfully look away from the pathetic condition our family was in.
My father returned after seven minutes and forty-three seconds. That’s how I passed the time to avoid dwelling on my rage and disgust. ‘Chalo, let’s go, it’s all sorted. Sorry, officer, it was all a huge misunderstanding. Everything is sorted now.’
The officer looked past the glass wall. Bashir Bhai was waving at us from outside, giving his thumbs up signs, shaking his folded hands to indicate he was sorry. ‘He’s my childhood friend,’ my father continued to explain, ‘We love each other as furiously as we fight with each other.’
The officer did not speak one more word to us. He simply accompanied us through all steps and stages preceding international travel. Airline check in, immigration clearance, finally depositing us at the departure gate.
‘How can we ever thank you!’ my parents gushed, as we parked ourselves within line of sight of the departure door. I could see the aircraft that would take us up and out of this country to that far-away mythic land, America.
The officer dismissed my parents’ gushing with a wave and began walking away without a word. He suddenly stopped and came back to us. Only I saw how my mother’s plastered smile soured imperceptibly.
‘Don’t come back,’ the officer said.
‘Sorry?’ my father said in all earnest.
The officer leaned into us. His expression had changed into something cold and unforgiving, like he no longer saw the human in us. Maybe he never did. ‘I said don’t come back to this country ever again. The sooner we get rid of you people, the stronger we’ll be as a nation.’
My mother and father continued to smile as the officer sauntered off after having dealt that final blow. No further explanation was needed. It was abundantly clear what he meant by ‘you people’. Habib and Nadia Vyas had been shown how welcome they truly were in the country of their birth, in the nation of their ancestors.
The final thirty minutes were the longest of our lives. My parents expected the officer or some other airport official to come over any second and inform us that the authorities had changed their minds, that we wouldn’t be allowed to fly after all.
We exhaled only after the aircraft had lifted off the runway. ‘My stomach is giddy,’ my younger sister said, and we all kissed her.
It was somewhere over the Atlantic, during the second leg of our journey, that I allowed myself to think of Oreo. I wondered what had happened to him. I hoped that he had been run over by a speeding truck, or devoured by some wild animal from the marshland. Imagining his violent but swift end allowed a tragic but final culmination to Oreo’s brief life. But there was the other possibility, a far worse alternative. It was more likely that Oreo was still waiting there, by the side of the highway, with the dark terrifying marshland behind him, in that exact same spot where we dumped him with two chicken sticks and a bowl of water. Watching every passing vehicle with the dumb, unthinking anticipation that only Oreo was capable of, expecting one of these vehicles to stop, the door to open, and for one of us to come out and yell his name and order him back into the car.
*
Altaf Tyrewala is the author of No God In Sight, Penguin 2005, and Ministry of Hurt Sentiments, 2012 and Engglishhh: Fictional Dispatches From a Hyperreal Nation, 2014, both published by Fourth Estate. He is also the editor of Mumbai Noir, HarperCollins, 2012. Altaf’s works have been published and anthologised around the world including in Out of Print – Ten Years: An Anthology of Stories, Westland, 2020. He was awarded the 2011 DAAD Artist-in-Berlin Literature Grant. He lives in Dallas.