Time Out

Our appeals and protests obviously fell on deaf ears, as they pushed and shoved the cow, trying to get her to a tree where they could tie her up to carry on their sport with the maximum ease and convenience. Belatedly, we realised that our loud agitation was only egging them on, as they pulled her tail harder, or hit stronger with every gasp we let out.

Of course, no onecared. Not one of the onlookers even flinched. Heads leaned dangerously out of balconies and windows, only to pop back in, once their curiosity was satisfied. The mighty building watchman yelled at us in turn, criticising our audacity at disturbing him while he prolonged a leisurely lunch in the parking lot, his never-used danda lying placidly by his side. The sabziwallah resting by his handcart decided to stare fixedly away from the scene, trying hard to maintain a look of someone struck by a case of temporary, though acute, deafness.

“Bacchon ko khelne do,” reprimanded a pedestrian. And a couple of passers-by in Diwali finery even laughed… the ageing black cow with marigold garlands bedecking her neck and feet cried, silently.

When we threatened to get the police, the boys laughed louder and burst another cracker under her feet, while we looked away, unable to watch it any more. “It’s our Diwali procession,” said one of them with gulal all over his shirt. “We do it every year when we want tofinish off our crackers,” he added, eyes glinting with sadistic pleasure at the alarm written all over our faces.

Dismayed at our own helplessness, we tried the number of the local Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA) office, only to learn in frustration that even the SPCA needs a day off sometimes, for all we got at the other end those long minutes, was an unanswered ring.

When we walked outside again, the four boys and their hapless cow were yards away… and we dejectedly left it at that, only too aware that all we had succeeded in achieving was to drive an ugly reality just far enough from the boundaries of our homes and visions, so we could block it from our minds. We had done just enough to allow us to sit back on the sofa and try in vain to ease our conscience by telling ourselves that well, at least we had tried.

The stories then flew fast as one of us recalled a Diwali when the neighbourhood kids had made friends with and cuddled an amiable little street dog, only to light along chain of cr-ackers on its tail and clap in glee as the spooked and surely injured creature fled, screaming in agony.

Stories of crackers lit and flung from balconies that landed dangerously close to the unlucky snoozing dog or even an unsuspecting pedestrian. Of rockets directed by crazy kids at a solitary gruff old man whom hardly anyone liked, when he ventured for his evening walk during Diwali days…Of kids who dream of only toy guns as presents. Kids who rush outdoors after school hours to indulge in mock shootouts. Kids whose parents look on encouragingly even when they tease and hurt animals or their weaker classmates. Kids who are growing up with expensive and destructive toys of violence that gradually rob them of feeling and sensitivity.

I sure dread coming across any one of them a few years down the line, grown up as remorseless adults with independent control over their brute strength and actions.