Fluffy and Me: True Story of True Friends

By Anita Krishan

For it is said— “ Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.”

He ran away with a shoe from the cobbler' s shack. Sitting in the middle of the road, chewing on a bone, he was unaware of the bus above him. Spotting a few scattered sheep and goats, he anticipated fun and action. A foolhardy fighter. But above all, the perfect companion, guard, and savior . . . Meet Fluffy, the cutest, wild-spirited Lhasa Apso! In the sleepy Himalayan suburb of Shimla, life had been quite laidback. And then one evening came a most unexpected phone call. A canine was on its way; the little girl would soon have a companion. And thus began this true story of an undying friendship. Of an inseparable bond between Fluffy and his little mistress. Join in their escapades as they glide from innocence to maturity, exploring the Himalayan wilderness. A heart-warming tale of the selfless love and boundless devotion that only canines are capable of showering, Anita Krishan' s Fluffy and Me will take you on an emotional journey full of laughter and tears, fun and fear. Moving, sensitive, hilarious, and deeply touching . . . an unpretentious story of love!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9788175993501

Book preview

t is a hot and sultry month of July. I have already endured the oppressive dry heat of Delhi’s summer by bringing to mind the pines swaying in the cool summer breeze of the mountains. It has now been years since I bid goodbye to Shimla, the town where I was born, where I grew up. But the memories of all those years spent on the lofty mountains and green valleys return doggedly, nostalgically. And I am saddened the most by the beautiful friendship I had to leave behind, a friendship none other could have offered than a selfless canine—my pet Fluffy.

It is in one of these reflective moments that I decide to pen down my memoirs for the readers, to share with them the beauty of a profound friendship, of a loving family, of neighbours ever so caring, of a divine land—pristine and untouched, of a world that vanished all of a sudden into my past.

The incidents in the following pages, however implausible they may appear, took place in a period of my life when I was growing up from a little girl to a young woman.

So much has changed since, in this span of half a century, that when I look back at those episodes, they seem incredible even to me.

Life was so different way back then, and like all, I too had embarked upon the boat of Time.

Down the Voyage of Life . . .

‘Time’ was the name of the boat

I was gifted by God, like the rest,

And when my journey commenced

I didn’t know what to expect.

I travelled through the calms and the upheavals

With co-passengers, routine ties, and friendship,

The voyage went through tides of myriad moments

Learning, observing, bestowed me with companionship.

By and by; having reached their objectives

Most escorts began to abandon the boat,

I too had reached the quiet waters, where

Tears and laughter were borne in the same note.

A faithful companion kept me company

Dependable, true to life; at times full of fun,

It filled my lonely moments—

Memories, was my most trustworthy chum.

On hot breezeless summer afternoons

When torturous heat drenched my body,

Cool wafts of memories came flooding

Oblivious to the world I surged under their eddy.

They came from far off snow-clad mountains

And pine forests dark and shady,

From the dewy land of grassy meadows

And white sprinkle of wild daisies.

Flashes of reflections began to fill my solitude

Smoke, dust, or the heat could no more annoy,

As I fervently penned down my memoirs

My twilight hour was again filled with innocent joy.

—Anita Krishan

hat is it that flies forever but can neither be seen nor caught?" Ma threw a riddle at me.

It was one of those dull days of my winter holidays with sub-zero temperatures and a heavily overcast sky which was threatening another spell of heavy snowfall. The cold and the incessant bad weather had had me house arrested for endless days now. I had finished reading three books in The Naughtiest Girl series by Enid Blyton and needed to visit the main market—The Mall—for a fresh supply. To conclude, I had reached the endurance limit of my boredom.

The only available person to bother was Ma, and I had been sending her urgent pleas from my secure spot next to the fireplace to play Chinese Chequers. But she had housework on her mind as she sat at the table peeling carrots to make carrot murabba. Making murabba had taken up all her time since breakfast and the rest of the household chores lay pending. Obviously she didn’t have any time to spare for me: which is why she so masterfully distracted me with a brainteaser.

I stopped trying to steal peeled carrots to munch on and instead focused on my intellect. All flying creatures that had registered themselves in the catalogue of my nine-year-old brain were considered one by one and rejected. Quite obviously, they could all be caught. I pulled out an encyclopaedia and sat for a long patient research. After the fruitless labour, it dawned upon me that Ma had sent me on a wild goose chase. She had been successful in keeping me from troubling her for full one hour. I rushed back to her, not for the answer, but to lodge a loud protest. By now, a row of bottles, temptingly filled with glossy carrots in sugary syrup, stood neatly on the table.

Mama you know, I can’t be fooled so easily, I declared with a pout. Ma smiled warmly. Undoubtedly, she was grateful for having been given an hour of respite.

You can’t trick me into believing in unseen flying things, Mom. I continued after a pause during which I tried to interpret her smile. Even UFOs, though sighted by people, have never been caught. So . . . I spoke with the authority of an expert jury, I don’t believe in unseen and uncaught flying objects. I challenged the viability of her riddle, standing with my little hands on my little waist.

She laughed with levity at my inclination to enter a debate on the subject which I thought I had mastered in one hour. Her sweet bright smile lit up her lovely kind eyes—What about ‘time’? She asked with her raised eyebrows.

Hmm . . . I stood with my index finger pressing on to my cheek, frowning and thinking. The idea of unseen flying time was beyond my comprehension; a confusing concept for a nine-year-old. So instead of pursuing the argument I pulled out an old storybook to read.

As I now recall that winter day of my life long ago, I realize how true Ma’s words were.

Life has indeed flown past like a supersonic jet, undergone incredible changes, new associations have replaced the old ones, and so many of those precious ties have been lost in the corridors of time. That phase of my life is now just a storehouse of memories.

I have helplessly watched time flying past and engulfing so much in the process.

THE CAREFREE DAYS

Life’s marvels had just begun to unveil

World to discover, mysteries prevailed

Starry skies, colours of nature

Creatures of God and human nature.

Mountains high and valleys deep

We targeted every corner for a peep

Each day became a voyage of wonder and joy, and

Of cherished friendship without which life is a void.

emories are timeless. Some get imprinted on the mind like photographic images. It is impossible for the passage of time to erase them. All these images get woven to tell a story . . . a story of one’s life.

I begin my story from the year 1965 when I was ten years old. I distinctly remember a Sunday of that late autumn when I had to sprint up a steep climb in the forest to save myself. Huffing and puffing and stumbling over the jutting rocks on an uneven narrow footpath, I had run up all the way home. I had managed to escape, but not unhurt. How I had wished for some company at the time. Had I someone with me, a friend perhaps, I wouldn’t have been so scared.

In retrospect, perchance it was then that my wish was heard, for it was soon to be granted. But more immediately, I had to face what I was trying to avoid.

"Just look at you, Betu! Where have you been?" Ma spotted me the moment I stepped into the house. My plan to sneak inside quietly and make myself presentable before anyone could lay eyes on me crumbled there and then.

Just below the Cart Road, Mama, I replied hesitantly, pulling at my skirt trying unsuccessfully to hide my bleeding knee and brand new tights irreparably torn. A quick change and washed wound would have spared Ma of her concern regarding my solitary gallivanting.

What have you been doing? Ma’s probing eyes inspected me from top to bottom. How did you manage to get mud on your face? And, look at your dress. Did you dive into a muddy pool? As expected, she soon spotted my bleeding knee and an immediate frown replaced her smile. Oh my God, again, another injury! She dumped her book down on the table and rushed to examine my wound.

Mama, it is nothing much . . . just a small bruise. Though I was on the verge of tears, I voiced like a brave soldier for whom small injuries were barely noticeable.

Now Betu, stand still and let me check your wound. Ma spoke a bit sternly. It is a nasty cut. How did you manage that? Where were you all this while?

The barrage of questions was as painful as the actual injury. Mama, I slipped while running up the hill and fell into a ditch. My knee hit a sharp stone. Then I asserted like a seer making a prophecy, I’ll be all right, Ma. This cut will heal soon, just like the last one. My eyes widened in sudden alarm, Will I have to visit the doctor again for a tetanus shot?

No, you have immunity for one year. I instantly breathed easy. But Ma was still agitated. How many times have I told you not to run around alone? What if you were hurt more seriously? By the way, where’s this ditch? Ma looked straight into my eyes waiting for an explanation.

Down in the pine forest, near the tadpole pool. I replied timorously. I remembered having told Ma once about the tadpole pool.

Hmm . . . And why were you running? You should walk carefully . . . slowly. Ma advised, adding ‘slowly’ as an afterthought, although, she knew quite well that I was too full of beans to walk slowly.

I had to, Mama. I expressed animatedly in self-defence. A baby monkey was chasing me. It was a naughty monkey. I hadn’t done anything to trouble it but it jumped out of its mother’s lap and began to run after me. And then its mother joined in the chase. She produced threatening noises and bared her long frightening canines, all ready to bite me. I was breathless after a hurried vocalization of my case. Ma nodded sympathetically which encouraged me. I had to run very hard to escape them, Mama. And you know when the fat, nasty monkey saw me fall, she picked up her baby and climbed up a tree. Thank . . . God!

That is why you shouldn’t go alone into the forest. How many times have I told you this? What if the monkeys had bitten you? You would have to take fourteen anti-rabies injections.

Ma’s statement was frightening; yet, not enough to keep me from my lonely ventures into the forest. I was scared of monkeys too, but also knew that they were great bluffers. Though there were troops of monkeys in our town, they seldom undertook such grim operations as attacking people unless seriously provoked. They mostly limited their exploits to threatening people, snatching their food packets, or frightening children probably for fun.

As far as going alone into the forest was concerned, I had no choice.

Ma walked into her bedroom and I followed her. She opened the closet to take out her first-aid box.

Then with whom should I go, Mama? I asked naïvely watching her pull out some cotton and a bandage for dressing my wound. Didi and her friends tell me to buzz off every time I go near them. They tell me I am not supposed to listen to adult talks. She kept the first-aid material on the table. What do adult girls talk about, Mama, which I’m not supposed to know? I took this opportunity to ask her what I had been awfully curious about.

How would I know, Betu? I never hear their discussions. Ma promptly and cleverly closed the subject. Now go. Quickly change and wash that mud off yourself before I dress your wound. I followed her instructions and was back for the first aid.

There, the dressing is done. You must rest the whole evening. Try to keep your wound dry.

I will, Boss. Does it mean I don’t have to bathe tomorrow? I asked with an ear to ear smile on my face. In the dipping temperatures of Shimla’s autumn, it was very convenient to miss my bath once in a while.

Now don’t get naughty. Apply a thick layer of Vaseline on the cut before bathing in the morning. I’ll bandage it again before you leave for school.

Ma got up and walked towards the kitchen. Then noticing me directly dashing for the door she halted. Don’t scurry down again behind my back. Stay at home. With these instructions Ma left me alone for the rest of the evening.

In my ten-year-old life, I followed a predictable routine—rushing to school, bringing back homework, reading stockpiles of storybooks, and roving in the forest adjacent to our house. Although I was happy and contented, especially with my solitary explorations in the dense coniferous forest of the Himalayas, I deeply felt the lack of excitement, especially when there was so much happening in the lives of the characters in my storybooks. They solved great mysteries while I unsuccessfully explored the forest day in and day out to find one.

We lived in Shimla, in a double-storeyed red and yellow brick cottage with a red slanting roof. A prominent chimney, which became even more prominent when functional in winter, protruded from the top of the red roof. This chimney served many purposes. It became home for a Himalayan flying fox in summers, though the nightly scratching sounds this furry bat produced were not funny. Where did it live in winter when heat and smoke began to exude from the chimney? I could never uncover.

Our house was located on the Observatory Hill which was three kilometres away from the main town and the shopping Mall. A thick forest of gigantic pine, oak, and easily climbable rhododendron trees bounded it. I would often return home from my lonely sojourn with my lips and mouth painted purple after having munched on red tangy rhododendron flowers. That was acceptable to Ma as these flowers were absolutely edible. At times I brought these flowers home for Ma to fry us red pakoras.

With a sparse habitation, our locality consisted of only a few scattered houses. We had to walk uphill for about six minutes to reach our closest neighbours.

That day, after being left alone with my bandaged and painful knee, I sat on the porch sipping the sweet intoxicating air richly scented by the honeysuckle creeper growing in our garden. I glanced at the distant Churdhar peak of the opposite hill. Pa had told me it was so high that it often snowed there even in summers. A few fluffy cottony clouds were hovering over the peak. I wondered if it was snowing there now.

There was a sharp drop from the mountain into the valley. I watched a few jet black ravens emerging from it and flying away cawing desperately. They were being chased by a large eagle as if it was a headmaster running after some naughty boys. I laughed aloud recalling how in our craft period that day Dorin had tied our teacher’s chunni to the chair. As Miss Camphor had walked away, she had dragged the chair along and the class had burst into loud laughter. She immediately knew Dorin was the culprit as she had been standing next to her chair for an unusually long time. She had then chased Dorin round and round in the class and then out of the class, just like the eagle, while the whole class was in splits. School was great fun, especially when there was non-stop entertainment in the form of girls like Dorin. But evenings at home were different, especially like today when I was forbidden to explore the forest.

With my chin rested in my hands, I listened to the noisy chirping of flocks of sparrows, bulbuls, mynahs, and a pair or two of robins as they settled down for the night in the thick thorny raspberry bushes growing on the slopes. About half a dozen swallows, diving out from their mud brown community nests constructed on the exterior wall of our kitchen, caught my attention. The nests looked like a miniature village of numerous mud huts. The birds flew up and down so fast as if trying to beat each other at steeplechase. As the sun dipped further, the swallows again disappeared into the wall. Other birds too fell silent. In the fading twilight the mountains became dark silhouettes of gigantic figures against the pale pink sky. Suddenly I felt lonely. At that precise moment Pa returned from office. I followed him indoors and waited only enough for him to remove his shoes and get into his slippers.

In a very business-like pose with my hands behind me, I put forward my plea, Papa, why don’t we live nearer to the town? All my school friends live there. I would have so many friends to play with in the evening.

Pa had picked up the newspaper and I knew he would be drowned in it till he finished his tea. But he immediately responded without even looking up, Live near a market place? Never! Betu, this is a carefully chosen house. Then to my surprise, he kept the newspaper back on the table. Holding my hand he pulled me up onto his lap. Putting his arms around me he continued, Have you seen the congested localities of the main town area? Would you get to live in such vast openness there? Would you ever get peace of mind in that noise and bustle? Don’t you think it is blissful to live in these divine surroundings? Look out . . . he pointed at tall pine trees visible from our window. In the fading light they seemed to me like soldiers in dark uniforms standing at attention at a passing-out parade. Together we watched them and listened to the silence interrupted sporadically by the rustle of the leaves or an occasional vehicle plying on the Cart Road.

That gave me enough time to reflect on Pa’s statement. I slowly nodded like I had seen adults do. You’re right Papa. I love it here.

That was so true. I loved the tall pine trees, their fragrance, the haunting sound of the breeze blowing through them. I loved the wild flowers, the clusters of ferns growing out of the mountain walls, the wild creepers winding around trees and then hanging down their branches like rope ladders, and the scuttling tiny insects, and the birds singing through the dense foliage, even the eerie sound of the howling jackals at midnight: I loved them all. Above all, I intensely loved the forest that held magical attraction and undiscovered mysteries for me. Even so, I thought with a sigh, some companionship in the evening would be nice.

My fellowship with solitude was not only rooted in the fact that we lived in a very quiet suburban locality of Shimla, but also in that I was the youngest of the four siblings and there was considerable age difference between Didi—my elder sister—and me. Badi Didi, the eldest, and Bhai, who was next to her, were already at their respective universities and came home only during their vacations. So, there were only Didi and I at home with our parents.

Didi was lucky to have a few friends living close by and often walked to their houses for their natter. Very often I accompanied her, not that she was by any chance keen on me tagging along, but only because Ma insisted that she should take me along. There is safety in numbers, Ma would elucidate and I would feel like a brave soldier, guarding six years my senior, helpless sister. But the first instruction I would receive after reaching our destination would be to buzz off and find my own source of amusement.

Many a time her friends would visit us too. Though it would be wonderful to have company at home, I was not allowed anywhere within a radius of ten metres during their conferences. That was why I would go for small excursions, all by myself, into the dense pine forest situated below the main motorway of Shimla called the Cart Road.

During one of my wanderings in the woods, I accidentally discovered a hidden paradise. Intrigued by intense chirping and the possibility of spotting fledglings, I climbed up a steep and rocky hillside I had never explored earlier. Holding on to the grass tufts and the protruding roots of trees, and stepping over the projecting rocks, I managed four metres of almost vertical ascent to reach a flat grassy plateau. There was a miniature waterfall fed by a spring that emerged out of the hillside. It plummeted into a small pool of crystal clear water before cascading downhill.

That was not all; wild daisies, yellow dandelions, violets, cowslips, buttercups, primroses grew in such abundance that they had laid a bazaar of colours. It was an enchanted land, straight out of a fairy tale.

I couldn’t find a nest there but walked right into a garden party of a flock of sparrows. They had hired some show artists too—colourfully and gorgeously dressed butterflies—who were presenting their performance to the accompaniment of a bee-orchestra. The sparrows were cheering full-throated. It was their excited tweets that had caught my attention. Sadly, the sparrows exhibited blatant annoyance at my unwanted intrusion and took off immediately. The butterflies were more tolerant and carried on their show. I sat on the velvety grass appreciating the musical till the fading light reminded me that it was time to go home.

My excitement continued unabated as I followed Ma for the rest of the evening, reporting minute details of my discovery. Mama, this pool has a waterfall too and is far more beautiful than the tadpole pool. It has its own garden of tiny flowers, like stars sprinkled on the earth. Ma was the only one at home who had ears for my exploits and recounts. She never had the time to undertake such adventures herself, and I believed she wouldn’t be as nimble climbing up the straight rocky walls. So I had to make her aware of all the hidden treasures I discovered.

From that day onwards my habitual enterprise to join the