To Cat: A Tribute

I have to write about Cat. I have mentioned her in two or three other posts—but those have been in passing. She has been so much a part of my existence that I have to write about her—to capture the person I was, to capture those moments that were some of the best in my life, to redeem myself, to exorcise the past.

Well this has become a fairly serious beginning. The post is not going to be a serious one though. I spent the happiest moments with Cat. Here, I will write about the time we had a really serious fight. (For the unbelieving, for those who feel one cannot communicate with animals, this is not the post to read.) Cat and I communicated at all levels. When I was sad, she gave me endless comfort; when I was happy, she unstintingly shared in my joy; when I was tired, she knew exactly how to make me feel good. (In the latter case, she usually draped herself around my shoulders like a muffler with her head hanging on one shoulder and her tail waving gently around my opposite ear.)

Back to the serious fight—serious because we stopped talking to each other for the next two days. I was in the 12^th standard then and suddenly waking up to the fact that board exam was uncomfortably, disconcertingly close. December seemed to have slipped straight into February skipping January altogether. I was in a mild state of panic. (Readers of my blog will know that I spent a great deal of time in my bookstore taking care of the books, stocking up, attending to customers, playing with Cat, and much less time at my study table.) The outcome was a pile of books, notes, and whatnots that had to be assimilated. Study leave had begun. Teachers had warned us not to waste time. My parents, being the darlings they are, never said a word. Only I overheard Baba telling Ma, “Dekho, o thik bhalo korbey.” This one sentence was the cause of my panic. I could not bear to let him down. I told Baba that he would have to count me out of Katha-O_Kahini for the next one month and dusted all the notes I had been gathering for the last six months, did some serious calculations, drew up an elaborate time-table that I intended to follow (forgot to account for lunch breaks and dinner; thus the time table was not very workable), coloured each subject differently, put it up on my soft board, and spent about five minutes admiring my handiwork and dedication. One subject was in red—this was my Waterloo, my Achille’s heel, my point of disaster. Chemistry…!!

Chemistry was the third exam but I decided to tackle it first. Here I must write a bit about how I studied. I had a lovely, old mahogany roll top desk that had belonged to Baba’s grandfather as my study table. I would sit at this table with Cat on my lap or perched on one corner of the table. I would read aloud, write a few points, and so on. If I got stuck with an answer, I would lift up Cat by her midriff, put her on the table so that we were face to face (almost nose to nose), and proceed to explain the answer to her in my own words. She was an extremely patient listener, and never uttered a miaow. Only when I stopped talking would she jump down back into my lap. That day, when I began to study Chemistry, I realized that it was going to take a lot more effort than I had calculated to complete revising the entire portion. Suddenly, even Cat could not comfort me. The more panicky I got, the less I assimilated and remembered. (I didn’t know about high Affective Filter and all that back then.) I went on from one chapter to another, muttering points aloud, feverishly writing equations that had suddenly ceased to make sense, and generally wondering how knowing about amino acids or Carbon compounds was going to affect my existence. I forgot all about Cat sitting patiently on my lap. I forgot to pat her, caress her, scratch her behind her ears—small gestures I would constantly make. Suddenly, when I was in the midst of the most acute angst because I simply could not get an equation right, Cat sprang up from my lap, landed on my Chemistry notes, frantically scratched at it so that the sheets resembled white, oddly shaped streamers, leaped down onto the floor and vanished. I sat stunned. My first thought was, “That does it. I will fail in Chemistry.” I looked at the now mutilated-beyond-recognition fluttering bits of notes (one or two pieces were drifting to the ground) and wailed. After spending about three and a half minutes wailing, I was overtaken by a murderous rage. I had to find Cat. I was determined to thrash the living daylights out of her. (This idiom used to mystify me because I could not fathom how living daylights can be thrashed out of anyone. I understood the meaning that day.)

I knew exactly where she would be. She was perched on the roof of the shop and looked extremely discomfited and guilty. I jumped down on to the roof from our verandah (never thinking how I would get back up), caught her by her neck, lifted her up till we were once again nose to nose, raised my hand to hit her, and couldn’t. I just dropped her back on the rooftop and went and sat in the other corner. (I couldn’t climb back up, you see. Baba would have to get a ladder and get me down. At that point, I didn’t really care whether Baba got me down or I spent the rest of the day there.)

I just ignored Cat. That was the worst I could have done to her. I went back to my studies with an angry determination, fervently wrote answers, solved previous five years' papers, and refused to acknowledge to myself that my lap felt miserably empty without Cat’s warm, soft weight. I refused to admit that my concentration was down to zero without her presence around me. I made silly excuses to not have lunch and pecked at my food when I did. Cat was nowhere to be seen. After 48 hours had passed, Ma came to ask me where Cat was and I burst into tears. I told her what had happened. She immediately set Baba to look for Cat and we scoured the roof tops of all the adjacent houses. (In the old College Street area, all the houses are almost attached to one another and we could jump from one roof to the next. Moreover everyone knew us, and we soon had all our neighbors looking for Cat.)

Finally, we found her crouched under the staircase of a house at the corner of the road. They knew her of course and brought her back. She had evidently not eaten for two days and her fluffy, glossy white fur looked dull and dusty. She had cobwebs around her soft black ears, her milky white paws were grey with dirt, and her glorious, midnight blue eyes dull and lifeless.

Then, at that point, a profound realization hit me. I did not care if I failed my exam. I did not care if I never saw my Chemistry notes again. Cat was immensely, intensely important to my existence. Without her, I was half a person—she had taken my identity with her when she had gone away.

Till date, I have not allowed myself to become emotionally dependent on any human being the way I had depended on Cat. As I grew up and grew older and, perhaps, a shade wiser, I realized that human beings--even in the closest of relationships--will come to you only when they need you. When that need is fulfilled, you will suddenly find yourself alone. Cynical as it sounds, it is nevertheless true.

Cat never failed me when I needed her. I know now that I needed her much more than she ever needed me. She sat on my lap and sought my attention to please me, to make me feel wanted, to make me feel loved. In my stupid arrogance, I thought I was taking care of her. Little did I then realize that I had shaped my existence and identity around her till she left never to come back again.

Maybe, one day, I will put up the letters that I wrote to Cat after she was gone. As they exist, they are too redolent of the pain I felt. They have to be made more objective before I can put them up here.