The three of them stood with bowed heads around the old
tree. A tall, strapping senior officer, his helper and the lady wife in her
morning walk rig, a baton in hand to keep street dogs at bay.
The officer struck a match briskly, dipping into the bag
held out reverentially by his jawan.
There was the usual clutter of marigold flowers, glittering red scarves,
earthen lamps and a smattering of meagre coins. It was hard to tell the
presiding deity from the several clay statues under the thick foliage.
At some minutes to 7 am the tiny cantonment was coming
alive. Our trio bowed deeply, hands folded, the couple making offerings and observing
all the rituals of a signature puja. In
the silence that followed, the three souls sought to connect with the almighty,
seeking the choicest of blessings. Having satisfied themselves they had been in
order, they gathered up and stepped back slowly, a glow of self-satisfaction
stealing up as they turned away and towards home.
They would have barely gone ten and a quarter steps when a
scrawny, mangy, flea ridden cur stole up to their spot, lifted an emaciated
hind limb and sprayed forcefully, all over their effort.
One being’s meat is at times, another being’s poison.
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