We have humans who have been loyal to a cause under excruciating circumstances. Take the example of Khudiram Bose, who at the age of sixteen actively stepped into the struggle for independence from British rule in India. He was the youngest Indian freedom fighter and the first in that generation of fiery youth, to be hanged for his belief and loyalty towards his motherland. Reports say when the young man was being transported to the office of the British magistrate his fearless cry of “Vandemataram” resounded through the streets of Kolkata.

I remember hearing stories from my mother about the time when her father took up weaving their own cotton, instead of buying imported material.  It was his way of showing loyalty towards the country of his birth, his contribution to the “swadeshi” movement.  As a result his family took to wearing the coarse cotton or khaddar.

There are so many faces of loyalty it would be impossible to list them all. What does it mean to be loyal? To me it means to be faithful, to others and to ourselves. Parents are loyal to children and children to parents. A husband is loyal to his wife and the wife to her husband. Siblings are loyal to each other. You get my meaning.  Loyalty thus defined would mean “a strong feeling of support or allegiance.”

In my mind loyalty cannot be bought. It is given freely without any expectations attached.

Then there are animals – throughout history we find stories of horses, elephants, camels who have been extraordinarily loyal towards their master even laying down their lives to save some. The most famous of these was Chetak, the brave horse of Maharana Pratap, who saved his master and gave up his life while doing so.

In our family we had our own loyal pet. Romy came to us when he was barely a month old.  It was the month of December cold and crisp with the added excitement of Christmas and winter holidays on the horizon. One evening just before dinner when the dining table was being set in walked my brother with a puppy in his jacket pocket. He had been visiting a friend, and he offered this puppy out of a litter of eight. My brother had been hankering for a pet. Here was his chance, he accepted his friend’s offer with alacrity.

Romy received his name almost as soon as he arrived at our house. He was a Fox Terrier with a coat of white and black, intelligent eyes and completely adorable. The little puppy was passed around to be cuddled, I waited for my turn knowing I’ll be the last being the youngest. Finally, my brother put Romy in my eager arms – and, I DROPPED the puppy. Oh, the embarrassment! I was five at the time but that moment is etched in my mind.

He grew up receiving perfect training from my brother. One night we woke to furious barking and frantic running sounds of Romy.  When father opened the bedroom door the dog ran towards the garden wall barking madly then ran back to father, repeating this exercise until all of us stood on the verandah. At this point a distant sound of “chor, chor” (robber) reached us. We were hustled off to bed. I don’t know what transpired next but I do remember hearing the night watchman speak to our parents. Next morning we trooped to the garden, and there beside the wall discernable in the mud for it was monsoon, were footprints of our nocturnal intruder.

Romy’s barking had woken us up, and chased away the robber. Our pet had been tenacious refusing to give up until he had succeeded in doing exactly what he was supposed to, in time of need.

My mother was never fond of dogs or cats so she was vigilant that Romy did not wander into the rooms. He had his own living quarters. I believe he was with us at least seven or eight years, to a ripe age in doggie years.

One day when we returned from school Romy did not rush out with tail wagging to welcome us back. We missed the licking, the jumping up and down, the happy barking. The quiet was infinitely disturbing. Then mother came out of the kitchen. She approached us on quiet feet, we stood waiting our school bags still on our persons; mother said Romy had expired that day. Even those moments, prior to when his brave heart stopped beating, were different. Mother said she was sitting in the sun after lunch her chair close to the verandah steps, something she routinely did during the winter months, and reading the newspaper. Romy came over and lay down at her feet. Something in his stance alerted mother, and she who had never previously cuddled our dog touched him on his head. Romy breathed his last at that moment. I like to think that our loyal dog knew it was the mistress of the house who always made sure that he was fed every day and this was his way of saying thanks.

Keep Well…..Keep Smiling

Purabi Das