Deep-rooted values behind the idea of Petroo

In Kolkata, the season of Barshakaal is a time when the world seems to dissolve into a rhythmic, relentless drumming of rainfall against the windowpanes. On a certain afternoon, the rain never felt like stopping, and my mother was in the kitchen, probably preparing to cook us a delicious lunch, when she heard a sound that didn't belong to the wind or the rain. It was a thin, desperate cry, high-pitched and fragile, almost swallowed by the thunder.

She stepped onto the veranda, where she saw two tiny puppies shivering with fear huddled against a stack of discarded bricks near our gate. Without a second thought for her clean floors or her own dry clothes, she waded out into the ankle-deep water. When she brought the fur babies inside, the scene was far from a polished movie moment. It was a gritty, realistic struggle for survival. The puppies were so small they fit into the palms of her hands, their ribs protruding like the hull of a wrecked boat, and their skin translucent with cold. They were barely breathing, their tiny bodies racked with tremors that seemed too violent for such small frames.

Mummum immediately put on her thinking cap. Mothers always have solutions for problems, it seems. She didn't have fancy pet heaters or specialized blankets at that time, so she reached for what she had. Her old Dhakai cotton saris, softened by years of washing until they felt like a second skin. She wrapped the puppies tightly, rubbing their chests with her thumbs to mimic the warmth of a mother they had likely lost to the storm. The kitchen, usually a place of strict culinary tradition, became a makeshift infirmary. Mummum warmed a bit of milk, diluting it carefully and adding a tiny pinch of sugar for energy. Since they were too weak to lap from a bowl, she found an old vessel from my childhood days, what we call a jhinuk in Bengali, sterilized it, and began the painstaking process of feeding them drop by drop. Every time a puppy swallowed, a small flicker of hope returned to the room. The initial care was a battle against the creeping cold of the monsoon, a fight fueled by an unbreakable emotional bond that views every living soul as family.

As the evening deepened and the rain showed no signs of showing mercy, Mummum realized that domestic warmth wouldn't be enough. Despite the flooded streets and the fact that no rickshaws were venturing out, she managed to barely find one and start her journey with the two fur babies towards the nearest vet clinic, hoping it would be open. Cabs for pets, pet cab services in Kolkata, at that time, were a myth. I was young and scared, but I chose to accompany her. To our luck, the vet clinic was open. The doctor assured us that he would do his best. We watched as they were given fluids and tiny doses of antibiotics. My mother's refusal to give up reversed a tragic end to a new beginning.

In the weeks that followed, our home transformed. There were newspapers spread across the floor, the sound of tiny claws clicking on the mosaic, and the constant, rhythmic wagging of tails against the furniture. Mummum taught them the rules of the house with a mix of sternness and affection, her voice a constant melody they followed from room to room. They learned to recognize the sound of the Sankha being blown during evening prayers and would sit perfectly still by her feet during her evening pujopath.

Looking back, those two survivors, whom we eventually named Lalu and Kalu, became more than just pets. They became symbols of the resilience inherent in our culture. They were the Desi dogs of the street, the ones people often walk past without a glance, yet in our home, they were royalty.

The rain still falls every year in Kolkata, turning the world dark and grey, but the shadows of that near-tragedy have long since been replaced by the warmth of two healthy dogs sleeping at the foot of the bed, safe.