The black cat was among a long line of descendents of an orange-white-cat (I do not remember whether there was a shade of black on her) who I or my motherâmaybe it was both of usânamed Aiswarya Rai. I think that more than two decades later, the name Aiswarya Rai still evokes in me the colours orange and white. Maybe that was the real statement that for the first time in my life pinned down that the definition of best beautyâaccording to some association of courseâwas to be found in Aiswarya Rai. If I were to have named the Miss Universe, I would not have selected Aiswarya Rai. Maybe that is when I realised beauty is not what it is defined as in everyday life. The black cat perhaps one of the many combinations in which an orange-and-white cat can reincarnate. All of this is to say that the black cat had a long line of beautiful precedents and only a tiny line, perhaps a hyphen, of descendants. Daughter named TD, and TD’s Kids Gen 1 and Gen 2. While I thought of black cat, TD, and Gen1 and Gen2, I felt they occupied a significant chunk of my life; although someone bigger such as Darwin or God would have probably seen an almost invisible dot walking towards its impending end.
The black cat died recently.
She was a grandmother. A gentle but firm grandmother. She showed me how gentleness and grace break apart even the tightest, fundamental beliefs which dictate that a life be imprisoned. Despite being an oily even black with a tiny frame, the black cat taught me what a higher-being is. She was all-sacrificing, slow, patient, trusting. She had the face of someone who trusted a higher power and knew that god’s mills grind slowly, but surely. Whenever we fed the family fish, which my mother had cut into biteable pieces, the black cat would wait till everyone had enough, and even though there was always more than enough for all, she would wait for a long time after the others had eaten, and only then, grab one of the pieces. She would watch over the entire family, the matriarch, always cautious, always sure of all animals living around her, even Chellam, our golden retriever. She often would tease Chellam with her tail hanging right above Chellam’s reach.
She did not hold onto sureties. She would lie down on the terrace where the sun hit the concrete hard, and she didn’t seem to mind the heat. Maybe she liked the warmth. I wonder whether she had time to think of us, her children, the sun, and the warmth before she died. I am sure it must have been a gruesome death, for the dogs came in a pack and must have mauled her. It is a tragedy that she, the lithe tiny cat, could not run somewhere and escape the jaws of death. She must have been in a reverie, or must have died trying to protect her kidsâwhat was left of her kids. There is a bengal cat left of TD’s Gen1, and I hope she continues the lineage of her grandmother. How much can a man hope for?