Amphigories by Puralika

The above Sanskrit sloka may be translated as:

“The five qualities of a student are—he should persevere like a crow, focus like a crane, sleep lightly like a dog, eat scantily to suffice his needs, and stay away from the material illusions of domestic life.”

The ancient sages, in all their wisdom, have praised the dog for its alertness and loyalty, and for the longest time, I had full faith in their words. But that

was until I was suddenly put in charge of a stray indie rescue dog. She is lovely and sweet, but she is nothing like literature has led me to believe.

Every morning, I wake up to find her sleeping like the dead beside me. No amount of coaxing, poking, or jerking can get her out of bed. But she must wake up for her walks, so I pray to the Devatas to lend me the strength I need and yank her sheets away. She lays there, a shivering, annoyed ball of fur.

After I have marvelled at her lazy, unmoving form, I proceed to put my arms

around her and carry her to the backyard, where I put her leash on and force her to walk with me.

By the time we reach the gates, she decides to humor me. She waits patiently as I unlock them—then, with the most malafide intention, she lunges out

with the force of ten horses, dragging me in the process.

Sitasandhya, or Sandhya (as we lovingly call her), has fashioned her gait into a peculiar equine trot. She happily gallops in whatever way her heart desires, leaving me bruised in her wake. I suspect these first few hellish minutes of the walk are her little vengeance against me. Thankfully, after we have walked some distance, she calms down, allowing me to leisurely experience the beauty of my locale.

I must confess: the paths I walk are no scenic natural masterpieces. More often than not, they are littered with occasional stray cattle or other animals. But the specialty of Odisha is the greenery that surrounds us—almost every

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single home on my route has some sort of tree or, at the very least, a vast array of plants.

There is one house in particular that I enjoy visiting. In front of it, a wild plant of sorts has grown into a small tree, beneath which lies a carpet of white flower petals. As I walk past, I can smell its scent—somewhere between the intoxicating Rajanigandha and the sweetly mild Malli. I once inquired about it and found that it had grown on its own; the owner of the house has merely protected it.

However, I cannot stand and enjoy its scent for too long, as Sandhya tugs on the leash and urges me to move on.

We walk forward, greeting random strangers along the way—some kind enough not to ward off a hyperactive Sandhya jumping at them, others too scared of her to even say hi. They shun us, and I pull Sandhya further along.

Some days, we trudge familiar roads and meet unfamiliar faces—a new dog in the locality looking to assert its dominance, or a little schoolboy looking to play with a friend (which Sandhya is only too glad to oblige).

Other days, when we are feeling poetic, we take the road less travelled by and meet familiar faces—a neighbor buying groceries or a cat sneaking around to get some fish. And I have found that both experiences are pleasurable and make life complete.

Hence, in this manner, we go around, and once Sandhya is done with her business, we start back for home.

We often return through a shortcut by the field. It is a beautiful paved road with trees lining its edges—the only problem being that a pack of dogs lives at the end of it. The dogs themselves are peaceful, but upon Sandhya’s provocation (I am inclined to think she has a sailor’s mouth which enables her to so easily arouse the passions of the stray creatures), they come at us, and every day, it becomes a fight for honor—one in which I must pull Sandhya away before she says anything else.

Once we have crossed that rough patch, we walk for a minute before reaching home.

At home, I take her straight to the bathroom, where she cleans herself, and then we come out to sit down and rest before getting on with our respective work—me with my studies or chores, and Sandhya with her expert imitation of a ping-pong ball.

After all this, if you ask me, What is the point of writing about morning walks?

Nothing special happens on them. There is no mystery to solve, no romance to witness—nothing.

Then why?

The answer is simple: we need to romanticize our mundane day-to-day lives.

It doesn’t have to be exciting—just something we continue to do. It provides us with clarity regarding ourselves from a third-person point of view. And most importantly, it is out of the simplest places that the most intriguing stories grow.

Therefore, we need to start romanticizing our life and thinking of ourselves as the main characters in our own little worlds. Because if we don’t, life will continue to pass us by, and all the little things that make it so beautiful and

divine will go unnoticed.

So, we should do all the little things that make us feel better, even if only by a little bit—like stopping for an extra minute to feel the cold breeze, savoring the last gulp of Lingaraj lassi on a hot summer day, or relishing the final sip of pakhala pani before the mandatory afternoon siesta.

It is only by paying attention to these details that we truly live in the moment and practice mindfulness—every single day of our lives.

Amphigories by Puralika

-Editor

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