An Update on IT

IT died.

I have noted that writing about sadness helps wipe it away. Not completely though, for remnants persist, like water stains that linger on table tops after you have wiped them clean with a wet rag. But enough to lose their power to hurt. I think its called catharsis.

She (for IT was a 'she') seemed to be perking up, learning to hold my 2 ml syringe with both front paws and suckling so fast that the syringe plunger sailed forward without me having to press on it from outside. Her eyes had opened into two large nightsky blue orbs, all iris and no sclera. She seemed to like the feel of my hair dryer under which I placed her after washing her under by washbasin tap. She seemed to like crawling all over my orange room, tottering like a drunk on unsure limbs, searching for what I could not fathom. I called this wandering of hers, 'duniya dekho'.
And thus, things were moving quite nicely, including her bowels over which I had initially worried like an overanxious grandmother.

Then I moved to the hills.

For me it was such a relief: home, hearth, coolness, mountains, garden, flowers, early morning teas, friends, fun.....
But something did note bode right for IT, there in the mountains.

Was it the cold?
Was it the dogs who sniffed at her and then kept their distance?
Was it that the feed I was giving her that was not right?
Or was it not enough?

I am not very sure.

But one day, she just stopped feeding and in the evening I found her dehydrated and mewling in distress. She refused to feed at all and my medical sixth sense told me she would not live.

She didn't. Next morning, I found the body in the box, stiff and cold, and IT long gone.

I am left still searching for the reason why.

My vet schoolfriend, now practising in the UK told me that sometimes when a mother cat knows that a kitten is not destined to survive, she abandons it. So, she said, IT was not supposed to survive and that Nature had taken its course. And that I should not feel bad.

But then there are things that nag me:

The veiled unhappiness behind Other Half's question: You're getting a kitten here???? The dogs may not like it! Why don't you leave it with someone there itself?
My washing of my own hands each time I touched IT, for fear of some unknown cat borne zoonoses.
My plans to hand her over to the foreign NGO run animal shelter in the village behind our home.
Kuttush refusing to even acknowledge IT's existence.
Mimie barking at her, unsure, a little alarmed and then taking to retreating under the bed the moment I called out to IT.
And finally, my waking up one morning with a raging fever, chills and shivers, and announcing with petulant disgust : I must have caught a bug from that damned cat!

Did IT sense this undercurrent of resentment, this vague air of unwelcome that lurked in the coolness of my home under the mountain?

And then sensing it, did she, like a conscientious house guest who did not want to stretch her hosts' hospitality, curve her little tail with its hairless tip gracefully around her emaciated body and curling gently into her rag-lined shoe box, died?

How many things does one grieve for in this sorrow infested world?

Amidst a jungle of sadnesses and hurts and pains, each of hue darker than the next, the dying of a six inch long incredibly ugly baby cat does not even make it to the list of sorrows.

And so I have not grieved. I have consciously tutored myself not to waste my emotions on inconsequential things like sick, dead kittens.

But the soul has a mind of its own and it is its own master, taking orders from none. And mine has decided it must grieve the passing of that ugly, homeless, motherless baby cat.
In the bargain, it has caused me much discomfort, at odd moments forcing embarrassing emotions out of my reluctant eyes....

Hence, the need for this post, like I  said before, for catharsis.

In a four feet tall nameless, potted plant flanking our main door, a Himalayan Bulbul couple have made a nest and laid three purple streaked eggs.

In this place with hundreds of tall leafy trees and thousands of meadows with thick dense bushes, why my home, I am forced to ask again. The Universe, it seems, is up to its games once more. But I am not going to fall prey to its shenanigans this time. Let the Bulbuls manage on their own. My involvement will be limited to taking a few photographs on my cell phone and the odd cheery good morning to the roosting parent bulbul when I am on my way in or out of the house. That's all.

(I was thinking: watching first the eggs hatch and then the baby bulbuls learning to fly would be fun. Maybe, I'll place a bowl of water beside the pot and some birdseed too. The mummy and daddy Bulbul would not need to fly far for lunch and dinner then.)


I wonder : can a kitten reincarnate as a bulbul?