The mongrel

The dog isn't supposed to be there. This isn't a complex where street mongrels are encouraged. Here, pure breds are led out for their morning walk by ever stylish people and nylon leashes. They wag their tails in modern service lifts. They know where they have to go and poop. Their poop is also collected in bags if done at the wrong place. So, the dog isn't supposed to be there. But it's there. Standing. Unashamed. Dirty. Lean. Battle marks on the head. An ear partially torn. Happy go lucky. Unaware. Uncaring. Alone. It does not need care. It can take care of itself. It will, for food, jump through the bushes, jump across the railway tracks and walk all the way to the market where they cast off meat ends, bones and knuckles. It will gorge on yesterday's sambhar rice left off by that small canteen that caters to PG hostels nearby. It will finally have good food. By it's standards. After all, software engineers also have the same rice and go to the nearby tech park to work. But it comes to this plush neighborhood for a walk. To see the privileged strut about. Shampooed hair, nylon leashes and poop bags. It stands beneath the shadow and watches. Mouth open. Wondering. Thinking. It won't make friends here. There's the classification at work. They are pets. It is a mongrel. They get mentioned too, a mongrel. A mongrel. Like among us, a Dalit.