Love is blind: of that there is little doubt. The truth of the tenet was driven home to me when, as a young tutor demonstrator in my medical college, I was privy to an unusual affair. My pay was quite pathetic (that it still is, is another matter). I had to look after a wife and run a home – both of which were far beyond my limited budget. Luckily, the landlady who rented me out a small place – took a fancy to my wretched existence, by cutting down the rent by half, and buying me with the other half, every month, an item or two for my sparse household. A water filter, a grinding stone and iron box - however, more than my woebegone life, think, it was my dog Pickles that got her fancy and favor.

She absolutely adored the mixed mongrel – for who, she even constructed a solid cement kennel with ‘Pickles’ embossed on its door. She would forever feed the mutt with one thing or other, a piece of chocolate cake, a cream wafer, a saucer of milk – and he being my dog, she had perforce to also, by default, pass me some goodies now and then. Pickles, though a genetic conundrum, was an excellent learner soon mastering a host of commands. He could sit, shake hands, roll over, bark or attack when asked. In fact he pooch was quite popular in the neighborhood for he was trained to trot to the local store-grocery, with a basket in his jaws, bringing back a loaf or bread or some such item. The curly tailed fellow could also yank the long hemp rope used to draw pitchers of water from the well – a practice that won him much munch-able manna from the asthmatic landlady. His criminal record ran long: his offences, though were exclusive, in that he simply grabbed and tore apart any hen or rooster that dared strut from the Shetian hen coop, on the compound wall that ran separating our house from the Shetians.

Poultry possessiveness is only exceeded by the fixation for coconuts in middle class India. It wasn’t easy paying for a dead and macerated chicken or two each month with my wages – and too boot, I was a vegetarian too – so Pickles usually ended up gorging on the leghorns, affectionately marinated, masala-ad or grilled by my landlady. On retrospect, I now think Pickles knew the succulent layers would be on his menu if he plucked them from the wall, a habit that cost me much.

This tale though, is not about canine IQ, but about a love affair that scandalized the lane.

This is Benedicta – the maid who works for and stays with the Shetians. Mrs. Shetian was livid: known even in normal circumstance to be a loudmouth, she truly was in her elements tonight. The gist of her plaint, I soon gathered was, not so much the coochi cooing and cuddling that was going on in her backyard, but that it was so tough to get maid servants these days. She screamed at the shivering medico, you know how hard it is to find a woman to work? Find one for me before you drop in across the wall - you @#$$##**&&&&^%%. As I feared she would assault him in her rage, I quickly bundled off the shaking student to my house, where later, he told me that he was madly and totally in love with Benny (for Benedicta).

The boy must have been twenty-two at most, and Benny was at least thirty-three plus. Besides this, the ramification of the affair cut across so many bars, barriers and bans – I shook my head and told Suresh he was nuts.

He looks at the floor and asks my wife a very, very strange question.

Madam, have you seen Kokila?
Kokila? The Kamalahassan Tamil movie?

His eyes light up,

Yes, yes, you saw how the hero gets involved with a maid and finally marries her. This is just like that, Benny and me…

I sat shut and sickened; Heavens, my mind screams, give me a break, please. Save me from this numbskull and nincompoop.

By next morning Benny was packed off to her hometown, Mrs. Shetian cussing loud and long as she smacked her soaped wash-clothes with rage and vigor on the granite stone. In a week everything became quiet. Pickles slept well and even snored. Suresh, the medico vacated the hostel voluntarily and loved into a lodge room.

Eight years later, I was on my Rajdoot Bobby bike, shopping at the market with my wife, when a Fiat stops near me…

Hi sir, says Dr. Suresh, leaning over the drivers seat. On his lap is a little kid;

My son sir – Shailesh

He leans back to let me see the other passenger beside him,

You know my wife sir, don’t you?

Sitting there is a beaming and a radiantly content Mrs. Benedicta Suresh  –

Daktarey, encha ulleroo ?

She asks, and without waiting for an acknowledgement or answer continues,

Namma Pickle encha undu?