Whooooo. The eerie silence of the cold snowy night is broken by the howl of dogs in the neighborhood. None can test the might of the freezing temperatures than dogs. In fact, dogs love winter because it brings their maternal uncle, snow, to their place, the old saying goes. They roll and play in the snow, have facetious fights, as if life is bliss for them. This felicity could be a relief to lady with blue blood who is trying to bring some mirth to canines outside Kashmir in other ways, because their maternal uncle can’t pay a visit to them at dusty plains of India.
However, the howl of dogs tonight is anything but jocular. The snowy night is carrying in its bosom melancholy for the town. The howl is adding to the despair of the town. The town has lost its innocence, yesterday, and the snowflakes seem a commiseration from nature.
I knew her. The innocence I mean. A small girl of four years with blue eyes and brown hair. She was a lone child of her parents, born after ten years of marriage. Longing and prayers had finally given them the pertinent joy after a decade. They say the family had thrown a big soiree at her birth. She was an expression of joy for her parents and was fittingly named Dua, Dua Ali.
Dua looked like a fairy child. Cherubic, as if a fairy had gifted them her own child. You could have seen her playing with the dolls, not long ago, and would have wondered whether a doll had gained life to play with its kind. Her parents, no wonder, doted on her as did those who beheld her. Her vulnerability melted hearts. She sang nursery rhymes like angels singing litanies. She had names for some people in the locality Ba Ba for her father, Ma Ma for her mother, Amu for her grandmother, Chicha for the local shopkeeper, Qandu for the baker, Muchu for the mustached milkman, and Humu for me.
They say she had brought luck for the family. Just a month after her birth, her father had got promoted at the office, her mother who had been diagnosed with chronic migraine, had had its last attack a day before her birth. The business of the family had prospered too. Some people were really convinced that the child was a magical one. They would gift her with sweets and dresses, as a benediction.
She had joined school just two years after her birth. She knew the alphabets, recited rhymes, did sums as if she was a child of eight. No wonder, she came to be looked as a prodigal child.
Yesterday, it was breezing chilly. The schools were open for the last time of the year. Dua was accompanied by an elder cousin of twelve years to the school. It was early in the morning. As they reached the bend in the road they took a shortcut through an orchard to the school. The withered winter orchard led to the school directly. Just a few yards away from the main gate of the school stood a decrepit building. As Dua and her cousin reached this building many dogs presented themselves before them. The blood froze in the children, snarls by the dogs terrified them. In the state of fear, Dua’s cousin let go off her hand and ran. Snarls turned into barks as the dogs chased her and pounced on Dua. The cries of the poor child in the throes of pain still echo in the consciousness of those who heard it.
Dua was admitted in the hospital. The attack had been ferocious and lethal. Dogs had ripped her face open and had inflicted several bites on the legs and arms. The frantic shouts by her elder cousin drew some elders to the scene who chased off the dogs with difficulty. By it was too late for the child. By the time she was admitted at the hospital, she had lost considerable blood. It took four hours at the hospital and just in the afternoon, Dua was proclaimed dead. People say she looked like a bloody, ripped doll at sleep.
The orchard looks deserted, now. People dread it. There are blood marks in the snow at the place where Dua was attacked. The town was present in full at the funeral. Patience, intoned the priest to the congregation. But the parents and those who knew Dua intimately couldn’t be condoled. They were beyond consolation and no words could soothe them.
The grief lingers in the funereal atmosphere tonight. The town is silent but the chill of the night is broken by the dreaded awareness. Whooooooooooo.