By Samaashrita Addoor
I.
Things are built. On forests. Cleared.
Buildings, flats, shops, pre-schools, universities, hospitals, police stations, factories, retail stores, auditoriums, temples, churches, mosques, parks, clinics, day-care centres, fire stations, climate research centres.
Human settlements in the form of things.
Things.
II.
The precursor to these things- area with a cover of green. Spurring between the trees are the species of survival. The animals of ambition. The rogues running to escape the dark. The feathers spread over the range of tantamount religiosity.
Wild dogs run. Run to catch and feast on the dead run over by speeding cars. Wildness is a well-practiced rehearsal. The hunting of bandicoots, rabbits and rats- the next meal dissolving in wild dog stomachs. The reigning temperaments of the adaptive way of living. Hooded ears and the mighty posture hunched over the smaller creatures.
III.
I join my mother grocery shopping in the brand new supermarket. Nearing the closing time. Lights strong enough to induce dizziness in every customer in and out. The billboard hung next to the parking lot looking over the cars and the restless fathers in them, eager to scream at you the latest mega discounts. Another from the opposite of the junction displays sumptuous burgers and corresponding meals with deliciously delectable offers.
I get down from the four wheeler, in my hand five plastic bags to keep up the reduce reuse policy. Music in my ears paused to listen to my mother’s elaborate instructions. I step down to the hard cement floor just to be greeted by a creature of civility.
He barks. I stand my ground. Stomp my feet to assert distance. He moves. I have no treats to give. I never do. The fear has always been- a block permanently cemented in my inner walls. Exposure therapy is still an option.
Shutters half drawn on the entrance. "Just a matter of five minutes"- my mother says to the guard. He lets us in. I stand near my post near the baggage counter. Mother gathers. I bag it. Strange looks shot by the store clerk. Mother says sorry.
I peer out when I hear some howling. A pack of dogs cooing their claims over the territory.
Howl.
Howl. Ouuu.
Howl.
The friendly creature had joined in.
Rushing out to the lot after paying the bills. Apologise to the guard. Clutching five bags filled with groceries to satiate some uninvited guests the next day.
A scene of the undead past. A dead rat the subject of a meal. Surrounding the frail disintegrating body, a pack of street dogs. They are the Rulers.
The Kings and Queens of the open parking lot.