The Paws & Pause is a slice-of-life column by Smitha Murthy. She writes about life, which includes her beloved dog Khushi Bun, love, and the many things our four-legged friends teach us along the way. Your ₹29 purchase helps support the writers who make these stories possible.
It’s a balmy afternoon in Indiranagar, October just wilting into November, when I reach Atta Galatta, that hallowed bookstore of Namma Bengaluru after a short ride on the Purple Line.
The store, with its combination of cafe and bookstore, is just a few minutes away from the Indiranagar Metro Station. I am early. An hour early. And nervous. I am here to host a MyndStories Conversations event. Talking to strangers unnerves me. But being amidst books calms me.
The bookstore has two levels - the upper level has a small cafe and reading area, and downstairs a wider range of books, an auditorium, and chairs and tables strewn around.
I wait on the upper level, but no one has turned up yet. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or annoyed. But standing alone unnerves me more. I head downstairs, hoping to talk to someone, anyone at all, to ease my nerves. Prerna, the manager, is behind the counter. And just behind her is a lazy display of artwork - watercolors strewn carelessly. A bird in particular, etched in sharp colors, catches my eye. I smile, thinking of a friend who is inexplicably called Birdy, and move closer to the painting.
A large pile of shaggy carpet is in my way, but I barely see it until it yelps. I draw back startled. That isn’t a shaggy carpet. It’s a large, shaggy dog, black, white and grey, sprawled on the floor. Prerna laughs. I join her nervously, glancing down at Shaggy Carpet.
But he doesn’t seem disturbed by my antics. He turns over with condescension after deciding that there was nothing interesting in my shoes. I am affronted by his rudeness.
I forget about the artwork.
In life, I have always veered toward those who reject me. I crave to please the unpleasable. Perhaps, a trauma therapist might have a story to tell me about this, but for now, I want to get Shaggy Carpet to notice me. I bristle that I don’t matter in his whiskered life.
“Such a moochiekoochiepie!” I bend down, passing a hand over his fur, not touching him, as if I was giving him Reiki. It’s the cue for Prerna, who like all dog parents, is ready to talk about her dog. She adopted him, she explains. A senior dog. I pause my Reiki and this time, rest my hand on Shaggy Carpet’s neck, my palms disappearing into a cloud of black and grey. I settle back into what I think is a nonchalantly cool position.
