Christmas time was coming up, and I decided to go to a short Christmas retreat, to what else, but an ashram in Rishikesh. My first day there, before I even get to my room, I'm greeted with Swami's and helper Swami's with ...
"Good, you're here. Someone dropped off a litter of motherless puppies; you can take care of them. They're all girls, no one here [India] wants girls, that's why they left them."
Oh, ... sure ...
Unofficial care, of course. So much for retreat. This would mean early wake-up times, as in 4 a.m. for puppy breakfasts, a second breakfast after 7 a.m., lunch, two dinners, medicating, shopping for food, with all this in-between the rather rigorous schedule of the "Retreat." Anyway, they are adorable, and I get "rock-star" living quarters for the duration of my stay at the ashram; most unusual for a first time visitor, of no name or fame. Thank you puppies. My own kitchen, bathroom, hot water, and a million dollar view of the Himalayas, the Ganges, and greenery and serenity in between. Thank you God, Shiva, Shakti, Laxmi, Hanuman, Ganesha, and all the ashram Swami's who wanted the puppies to have a chance ... unofficially, of course.
They are tucked away by a back entrance, close to the living quarters of some workers and locals of the ashram of lower caste status. It's also located by a short cut down to the main square for some of the villagers. Tucked away, but still visible enough that whoever placed them there must have hoped that someone would take a liking to them, and possibly take one or give them some form of care that they could not. The community seems to be rallying around their survival. Although the people who live near here have very little materially and financially, I find scraps of food left for them, a water bowl regularly re-filled, and passers -by who quietly take count when they walk by ... one, two, three, four, five! I see monks and swami's slowly walk by, thinking no one is looking, and bits of food are discreetly tossed down, and I see them take count ... one, two, three ...We all seem to hold their breath as we take count. Survival here is hard, and somehow, hopes are pinned to these small pups, abandoned, undesirable for their gender, and yet innocent, precious, and unsuspecting of what the future may hold.
The stars must be with them, as the five mini-goddesses have three earnest protectors; three exuberant pre-teen boys who regularly fill their water bowl, come to play with them, and have taken on the task of building appropriate shelter. The playful, smiling boys have become engineers and carpenters as they set about house building. They approach the project with great care, ingenuity, and zeal. The puppies had been placed by a large pile of scrap wood, providing endless building materials for the volunteer builders. The first house, although sturdily built, and truthfully a correct size for these little pups, was not grand enough for the imaginations of the young engineers. It lasted a day. Immediately following the calculated demolition it was replaced by a far more complicated architectural design . Alas, what this design gained in imagination, was paid for in engineering shortcomings. It also lasted only a day, but now, crumbling from the weight of exuberance and excess load. The boys spared no materials as the scraps of wood were heaped and heaped upon one another. Collapse, but no injuries. Only a broken crock pot that held the pups water. The boys were not daunted by defeat, and quickly rebuilt. Logs, warped plywood, tree limbs, and a new design, this time seeming to show more care for structural strength, soon reveled an entire dog house complex. This was far more than the single sleeping room. This house contained a sleeping area, a dining room, an activity center, a front porch, and a veranda for sun bathing. The boys proudly awaited my mid-day arrival hoping for a sign of approval from me. Approval indeed! I smiled at their enthusiasm, their ingenuity, and their sincere concern for these little pups and their survival. We added scraps of old tarp for weather proofing, some old sacks for bedding and flooring, one formerly luxurious sweater provided by me, and we were in business. This dream house was built to last. Chocolates and fruits for the boys later that day to celebrate the grand opening of the new complex. Extra milk and curd for the abandoned pups in their new abode fit for the goddesses that they were.
There were clear signs that some local person was taking care of them as best he or she could, but no one wanted to come forward as the one who was feeding, and caring for them, almost embarrassed that they cared so much for this abandoned litter. But care for them we did. They were "unofficial" of course, and it was better not to draw attention to them. But we formed fine friendships in our care of these little girls, always with the understanding that we never knew when it would be the last time we would see all five. The odds are truly against them. They are out in the open, frail, and in an area of bold monkeys, hungry leopards, and in territory closely guarded by the slightly "more official" ashram dogs.
A half acre or so below the five mini-goddesses, the two "somewhat official" females of the ashram had given birth to their own litters. In contrast, these were the "golden ones." Accepted, in full public view, and very well cared for. Does caste system extend even into the canine worlds with our projections of class, status, and worthiness? These dogs were not only well fed, but given supplements, canine milk and honey, and literally cared for around the clock. The mothers and father of these packs guard their territory with ferocity. Canine intruders are not accepted lightly. The small pups are also in danger of being spotted by these females, who will kill to protect their territory. At this young an age, these lowly born little females would not have a chance to defend themselves against the strong, bold, defenders of the land.
GLUTTONY
Routine settles in, with the retreat schedule, feeding schedule, and social schedule. The schedule of the retreat was not easy, up at four and booked until nearly 10 in the evening. Finding time to run out and find food everyday was time consuming, and not always possible. The meals we were given in the ashram were fantastic, frequent, and plentiful. It was sometimes necessary to stock up from my meals a day for the pups, rather than to go outside and shop. I would fill my plate with far more than I could eat, and hold my head high as the fellow diners looked on with disbelief at the amount of food heaped on my plate. I would take my plate to my room, and store the extra in canisters for the pups until their next feeding time.
"It's always the little ones who eat like pigs" I heard one not so discreet fellow retreat member remark as I passed through for seconds. Never mind, I told myself; As my friend Cindy would say on her way to the gin shop just outside of town (Rishikesh is dry, and women never stock up on the booze themselves, anyway) "just hold your head high, and carry on as if nothing is amiss."
OK, then ... I would remember her advice and hold my head high and smile as I passed by amazed onlookers with my heaping plate of food. Sneaking food; pathetic, but these girls need their calories. It didn't stop there of course. The building attendant would watch me leave the building after meal times with the food canisters, and just shake his head. He thought I was going to the dining hall for more food for myself. One day he said, "Madam, do we not give you enough food? Do you have to go eat more, so soon?"
I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. They think I'm a glutton; I make few friends on this retreat.
THE DAYS OUTSIDE CONTINUE
Outside the ashram, in another side of Rishikesh, on a day of rest, another animal sight has caught my eye ... A mother and her two pups are lying on a burlap sack, in a corner of an intersection. They are resting, and the babies are trying to nurse. It's an o
dd spot for a mother to take a rest as it's very close to cars and buses passing by; they are literally in the street. I look more closely, and see that they look bad. The mother is emaciated, with broken fur, raw skin, and sores all over her body. The two little brown pups appear to be confused, but trying the best they can to figure things out; something's not right. I look more closely and see. The mother dog can't move, her feet are mangled, and she tries to get up. It looks like an injury to her left side, and both the front and back left legs are a mess. She gets up, awkwardly, puts her right front foot forward, and collapses, unable to balance on just the two good legs of her right side. She gets up, takes another step, and collapses
again. This is how she has to walk. Slowly, falling with each step, but having to get up again, and fall, again, first moving the front leg, falling, and then the back leg, falling. Movement is slow, and this is the only way she can travel, for food, water, or shelter. The bewildered pups follow; trying to nurse, but mom keeps falling down, and picking herself up again. She's trying to cross the street, and unbelievably, they make it out into the middle of the intersection, with full traffic blasting by them. I buy them some food, and get them back to the corner, at least out of the middle of the intersection. I routinely carry medicines with me, as there is an endless use for them here for the street dogs, and apply medication for mange, fleas and internal parasites. But it looks impossible; how can they manage under these conditions.
The legs of the mother show no immediate injury; no blood, no open wounds; but rather two mangled and gnarled limbs. Her feet are deformed, and the nails are curled and growing into the pads of her feet. Is it congenital, or an old injury somewhat healed, leaving her permanently crippled? How can she have survived for as long as she has in these conditions; not only having to care for herself, but now, with two struggling pups, following her for food, not knowing the dangers of traffic, and humans. All they know at this age is to try to follow their mother.
Still, they look bad, and there is no place, no shelter, no hospital I can take them to. All I can do is come back again the next day to feed the mother, hoping to relieve her of having to struggle for at least one meal a day. I first see one of the pups, exactly where they were the day before, but it's not good. It's a body, but it's lifeless. A crow has already started to feast on what is now a carcass. Not far, off to the side side, the mother comes forward, and leans her head down to her pup. She sniffs, she nudges, she sees me and looks up at me with direct eye contact, looks back to her pup, then me, again. We both know there is nothing to be done, and she walks on and away, as best she can, struggling, with her tail held low.
Where's the other pup, I have to wonder? Is it also dead? These are the things one has to face here everyday. A local man comes forward. He shows me a closet, with a locked door. He takes some of the food I have for the dogs and tosses it under the door. I hear shrieking. The pup screams and I shudder, waiting for the cries to stop.
"Auto, auto", he tells me.
The other pup had been struck by the auto as well, but this one survived. Which one was the lucky one, one can't help but wonder. It's not his building, and he does not have the key to unlock the door. I'm half relieved I don't have to see another mangled pup.
I feed the mom, and walk away. I keep walking, sad and numbed. There's still a crying, injured pup locked in a closet, with no way to help it. Some one's trying to help, I suppose, by getting it of the street, but what to do other than come back later and hope I can find the right person to open the door. But with no veterinarians here skilled in anything beyond minimal care of injections and dispensing meds, what can be done if the injuries are severe? And what if it's a female? No one will want it, anyway.
On the next road, on the path in front of me there is a giant black bull, lying down with his right front leg extended out, covered in a cast. Bulls have no value in India; they are a nuisance. A female is useful, and provides milk, but a bull has to fend for himself and live in the streets. Accidents are common. That someone has taken the time and care to bandage his injury is beautifully touching. It was done only out of compassion and kindness. I'm saddened by the conditions I've just seen, and touched by the acts of kindness.
A few more steps down the road ...
I look to my right. I am now on a busy street, with heavy traffic. I see a beautiful black and white dog running as fast as he can behind an auto rickshaw that is accelerating quickly. This is not just a dog chasing cars. The rickshaw is piled high with luggage on top. Western luggage, backpacks ... This is the time to get to Haridwar, to make the afternoon train to New Delhi, probably to catch the international flight home. It's a common sight, when it's time for the foreigners to leave, and we all recognize the timings, and the look of tourists leaving.
The dog is running at a pace that is now frenzied. His mouth is stretched in distress, and his eyes are starting to bulge. Foreigners often make friends with the street dogs here, but it's a temporary relationship. They eventually have to leave. The dog is running so fast I start to worry ... he knows what's happening, they are leaving him. If he keeps running at this pace, his heart will burst; if he stops running, it will break from pain. He knows he will never see them again. He is running for his life, for the life he has had of love and care, and he is watching them leave him, and he can't stand it; he has to make an attempt to literally run for his life, the life of care and kindness that is running fast and far away from him. He won't catch them of course, and they can't take him with them. It breaks my heart.
The sights of the day are not yet over for me. I walk on with tears in my eyes, with my head low, while a wheelchair is being quickly pushed in my direction. An old style, wooden wheelchair, rattling on the uneven road. I hear it before I actually see it, and I glance upward. It's being pushed by a young boy, no more than eight or nine. I remember seeing a smiling face, a beautiful face, of a woman with green eyes, and a quick nod of the head. But there is only a torso under the head and neck ... there are no arms or legs to support her, but still there is this beautiful face with a perfect smile.
The boy was obviously pushing her as fast as he could to get my attention, hoping for a large donation from what many people here believe are wealthy westerners. I wish I could say I emptied my purse and gave them everything that was inside ... but instead, I recoiled, in shock, and fear, and some form of disbelief . He ran towards me looking for help, and I lowered my head looking for escape. By the time I composed myself and looked back to find them and offer them money, they were not in sight. They disappeared into the busy traffic, sights, and sensations of India.
I still don't know what to do with this multitude of sights from that afternoon. As I made my way back to the retreat of the ashram I could only hope that the evening puja and satsang would help me re-enter the world of bliss ... remind myself this is all an illusion ...
It's said we will keep coming back [in reincarnation] until we have no attachments to the physical. But which is the illusion? The physical, or our need to retreat from what is there right in front of us.
Part of the time in the ashram is spent in the Puja Hall in a ceremony of prayers, chants, and offerings to the Gods. The closing, the climax, is set off by a loud mechanical drum, the blare of conch shells, and the clanging of bells. These reach decibel levels that go through the body challenging and potentially changing every cell's structure, in vibrations of purification. Smoke, lights and sounds fill the senses and blind the eyes. One can't help but be transfixed, and transported under this assault to the senses. This particular ceremony knows how to use the vibration, and volume of sound. Noise.
One member of the retreat calls this ceremony "blood-curdling." He meant it in a good way.
India, ...blood curdling, ... indeed.
I end the night with the feeding of the pups, who hungrily await their night time meal. They are thriving. What fate awaits these little ones, who can say? I hold my breath as I take count this night, ... one, two, three, four, ... five
