Kaathu - An Obituary

Kaathu is a Thamizh word meaning wind / air. For us, the word 'Kaathu' is short for Kaathavaraayan, and synonymous with Love. Pure, unadulterated, unconditional Love. 

"Kaathavaraayan" is the name of a village deity in Tamil Nadu, meaning "the one who protects".  Our dog, Kaathu, short for Kaathavaraayan, enveloped and protected us in his cocoon of love. 

He died this morning, and what an auspicious death. In the early brahmamuhurtham time, just after Amavasya started, on Deepawali day. He leaves behind such a treasure of memories - adventure stories, fullnesses, lessons of life and love, togetherness and warmth during struggles and joys, silences and spaces, comedies and tragedies, a paw reaching out and calling for attention, a jaw gently placing itself on one's lap in quiet acknowledgement of emotion, melting eyes looking into mine with endless trust and love, lots and lots of comic play, sulks and making up, running with the wind in abandon, combats and resistances, always flowing, and holding us with such communication and sensitivity.  I will miss the space he gave me and how a deep part of me felt listened to by him. 

He had the biggest heart. There was so much space inside it that he put up with any kind of space outside. He adjusted and accommodated with all our meanderings and detours and whatnots of life with such cheer and sport. I remember, right during the 2015 floods, we were shifting bag and baggage to Tiruvannamalai. I was in this tiny Acer van, the driver on one side, me by his side, my 3something-yr-old daughter on my lap, and Kaathu at my feet. Thats all was the space for each of us for about 3-4 hours, as we took the highway through lashing rains, (lots of thunder and lightening), intimidating play of light and shadow all around as we crawled past dusk and into the night. All this frightens him, but he sat through it all, curled up and quite content, ensuring that his body was fully in contact, giving me a lick once in a while asking for attention (and/or giving it!). 

This was the way he loved - with his full loving presence and demanding the same from us. No loving quietly from the sidelines for this guy. He filled our lives with the light of his eyes and the love of his heart -
"sitting right in the middle of my carpentry tools as I chiseled and sawed that I had to encounter him constantly", says senior K;
"looking at me as I eat all the time wondering when he is going to get his tidbits, and competing with me for attention", says junior K;
"he would sit right there at the kitchen entrance as I cooked, or stretch out beside me, his entire body touching the side of my thigh and leg as I sat at my computer", says me. 
The grandmothers received his love in the way they wanted initially - without touch and from a slight distance (He knew this without being told). But over time, he won them over enough with all his beseeching looks, that they completely gave in and started patting his forehead or touching his torso carefully.  

He was just so completely there, fully present with us. And so much in silence. Except when he barked at something from outside. His bark belied his size and never failed to startle, stun or freeze anyone - human, animal or bird. It was like the roar of a lion. I took pleasure in his sound and his silence. And in the touch and feel of him. That's how he showed up.

He loved his food, and ate just about everything that we did. He wanted sambhar rice and tomato rice just as much as he lapped up pasta and pizza. He completely went for taste and refused to touch his food if it just had bland rice. Senior K has become so used to keeping aside whatever is cooked to mix in his food that this is going to be a difficult habit to lose, he said. The loss of an animal family member, that too one who had mixed himself with our days and moments so thoroughly, like sugar in milk, is difficult. He made life sweeter.  

We buried his body in a beautiful place under a neem tree, a brook gurgling nearby, surrounded by fields and trees, and in the gaze of Arunachala. As I smelt the fresh, tangy, unpolluted air, I was remembering Kaathu's doggy smell that I loved to bury my face and nose into. 

Beautiful, Ugly, Illusive, Certain, Magical, Mundane....

.... ENTER POETRYDOM! 

My 13-years-old niece wrote possibly one of her first poems and sent it across to my utter delight. I wrote back with one of my own. Not to be left behind in spontaneity, she responded soon enough with another, and yet another! Here they are in chronology: 

When the tangy aroma filled the room,,

I slapped my book down with a loud "BOOM"!

I got up, dropping my pencil stand,

and ran out of the room, whacking my hand!

I stopped at the kitchen and looked around,

and there it was! Making a sizzling sound.

I picked up a spoon and tasted what was so attracting,

Oh, yum, yum, yum, it was most amazing!

Next to it, in a pan was potato fry,

finally, I can eat it with Puliyotharai!!!!!!!!!'

The response: 

Welcome to the world of magic and miracles -  

Chambers of secrets ;-) and flying bicycles, 

Rainbows at night, 

The philosopher's sight; 

Oh, the pink talking pumpkin -  

And most preciously, the Beauty within.  

For, Poetry can take you to this world, 

And leave you bewitched and bedazzled. 

A world of priceless value, 

The one right within You. 

Imagine my Ecstasy at encountering 

Humour, a necessary component to be able to pierce through the depth of life and its nuances; 

A Romance with words and their meanings (the dancing and playing with words that adds the spice); and 

Willingness to give Time & Attention to the Soul's flight, in the following piece: 

Thanks a lot for the awesome reply,

about the yummy puliyotharai

and the delicious potato fry!

I will continue to write poems like this,

remembering it, I will not miss!

I will learn more new words,

and write about animals and birds;

about frogs and lizards,

witches and wizards;

plants and trees,

Rome and Greece;

bows and arrows,

joys and sorrows;

libraries and books,

anchors and hooks...

I will stop here...

if I write much more,

it would become a terrible bore!!!

And one more,

I asked amma and appa about the blog,

They said they have no problem at all!

Though I don't know much about blogs,

I'm thinking about writing a poem on dogs!

Please do send a link to it,

I am waiting... I will not quit!

---------------------------

I remember what one of my all-time favourite poets, Mary Oliver says about this Willingness, the meeting of "poetry and soul":

"If Romeo and Juliet had made their appointments to meet, in the moonlight-swept orchard, in all the peril and sweetness of conspiracy, and then more often than not failed to meet — one or the other lagging, or afraid, or busy elsewhere — there would have been no romance, no passion, none of the drama for which we remember and celebrate them. Writing a poem is not so different—it is a kind of possible love affair between something like the heart (that courageous but also shy factory of emotion) and the learned skills of the conscious mind. They make appointments with each other, and keep them, and something begins to happen. Or, they make appointments with each other but are casual and often fail to keep them: count on it, nothing happens. 

The part of the psyche that works in concert with consciousness and supplies a necessary part of the poem — the heart of the star as opposed to the shape of a star, let us say — exists in a mysterious, unmapped zone: not unconscious, not subconscious, but cautious. It learns quickly what sort of courtship it is going to be. Say you promise to be at your desk in the evenings, from seven to nine. It waits, it watches. If you are reliably there, it begins to show itself — soon it begins to arrive when you do. But if you are only there sometimes and are frequently late or inattentive, it will appear fleetingly, or it will not appear at all. 

Why should it? It can wait. It can stay silent a lifetime. Who knows anyway what it is, that wild, silky part of ourselves without which no poem can live? But we do know this: if it is going to enter into a passionate relationship and speak what is in its own portion of your mind, the other responsible and purposeful part of you had better be a Romeo. It doesn’t matter if risk is somewhere close by — risk is always hovering somewhere. But it won’t involve itself with anything less than a perfect seriousness. 

For the would-be writer of poems, this is the first and most essential thing to understand. It comes before everything, even technique."

Its a New Love Story

What do you do

When you fall in Love

All over again? 

You've been with him,

Twenty years. 

Touched heights of ecstasy,

Together,

And sunk to the depths of despair. 

You've been with him,

While separated and apart

Not understanding - 

Why & how he's within. 

You've been with him,

Thru' the times without. 

While he'was changing

To a different he.

And you'ere changing 

To a different you.

Time leaves her marks. 

It's another he, now.

And another you. 

Inexorably drawn together

Yet again,

By some ancient, secret rhythm-

That makes you dance with him. 

For him. 

Names have not changed;

It seems like,

The same old husband-

And wife,

Making comfortable home & hearth.

And yet. 

It's a new Love Story,

That you both are narrating. 

Fresh, like the morning dew. 

Of hearts in tune - 

Learning to sing together,

The many songs of life,

Blending, seasoning... 

So, what do you do? 

You write a poem,

About falling in Love again,

And the promise

Of being held by it

And holding it.