Day of the dog

This is an old story I wrote some time back. I am re-publishing it here (mostly unchanged) because it is very close to my heart. I hope it finds a place in yours.

There is an enormous backyard somewhere. It is full of dogs. Every dog has his day. They are all seeking theirs. Actually, they are all chasing their tails, convinced that the day they have their tails between their teeth will be theirs.

Dogs of all ages strain themselves. Some are more determined than others. Some are really not into it. They are just doing it because everyone else is. Many have been doing it for years and think they can’t stop now. In any case, everyone is going round and round.

One day, one of them, after having flexed his body to degrees unimaginable, gets to his tail. As he holds on to it with his teeth, all others around him stop. Soon, there is a crowd around him. Some dogs bark their appreciation. Some growl in envy.

Some come to him to seek his secrets. But the dog is too busy holding on to his tail so he can’t share his way of doing it with anyone. Eventually, they all go back to chasing their own tails.

The dog holds on to his own tail. He is aware of hundreds of dogs all around him, looking at him in awe and wonder. They consider him unique. He has accomplished what they have only ever dreamt of.

The dog is pleased, but a part of him is full of questions. He had always thought that this was his day. Maybe it is. But how does that change things? What is he to do now? The other dogs see in him a content and happy being. He sees nothing. There is only emptiness ahead of him. An eternity standing right there, with his tail between his teeth.

It is then that a smell comes to him from somewhere outside the backyard. He can’t see beyond the high fence. But as the smell assaults his nostrils, he is reminded of the days when he was a pup. Back when he used to bound about the garbage dump with his brothers and sisters, sniffing for good, wholesome leftovers.

The dog’s mouth waters. The tail almost slips away from between his teeth. But he can’t let go of it. He has spent too much time on it. His image… his very life hangs on it. He begins to fear the smell. He convinces himself to hate it. He tells himself it is something evil, sent to take away his life from him, leaving him insecure and unsafe. Without his tail, he would be right back where he started. He has his day and he is not going to let go of it.

Time passes. One day the gentle wind brings a wave of smell to him again. Fighting the impulse to follow it, he bites hard into his tail. It bleeds and he opens his mouth a little to let out a whimper. The tail swings free. He snaps at it several times in vain, but he is standing straight now and can’t get back to it.

He goes round and round for a while, unwilling to believe that he has lost it. Then he notices that he looks like everyone else now. Fear and a sense of loss come crashing down upon him and he howls out loud, disconsolate.

A few other dogs stop and come to him to share his grief. But as before, they don’t stay long and return to their own tails.

Then the smell comes again and a part of him feels happy. He seeks refuge in his childhood and the memories flood his mind. He doesn’t have the energy to fight them this time.

Eventually he opens his eyes, and gets up on his feet. He finds his tail wagging and feels odd. He doesn’t remember the last time this happened. Turning to face the source of the smell, he takes slow, leisurely steps. Then he breaks into a trot. The other dogs appear creatures from a bizarre dream now. He looks at them in mild amusement as he passes them. None of them notice him.

He follows the smell out of the backyard, far away and beyond the sea of dogs. As the smell grows stronger, his trot dissolves into a run and he bounds forward like the wind.

At long last, he comes across a garbage dump. There is a puppy running around it on its little legs. The dog feels happy to find the puppy’s glee reflected in himself. His tail wags harder. He runs across to the puppy and barks to him in happiness. The puppy answers with a small, enthusiastic bark.

The dog takes the puppy around the dump. He teaches him to find less steep slopes -- easier to climb up. Then he teaches the puppy to leap. He tells him how to use his hind legs to propel himself forward and upward. The puppy tries and fails many times. The dog nudges him on.

Soon, the puppy makes it to the top of the mound and retrieves a slice of pizza. It is still soft and untouched. The puppy starts eating, hoping that the dog will help himself to it. But the dog doesn’t. He waits for the puppy to finish.

Then they walk, both of them, side by side. They are happy, and it is unclear which one is following the other; or whether they are following anything at all.

How to believe

I grew up a staunch atheist in a family where the gods had their own separate room. Ideas and theories bunking the God concept were (still are and always will be) plentily available. I knew plenty of ways to get at you if you were out to prove God's existence to me. What's more? I was proud of having thwarted seasoned believers at the game.

Atheism was good training ground for me. It trained my mind in reason and taught me that whether I believe or not, God is something that would haunt my mind always.

But this was not just about God. It was quite some time before I started to see this as being about plain old trust. Believing in myself, my dreams, my vision of life, other people's opinions and convictions. It was about working in the absence of evidence. About not being trapped by what is considered the very purpose of our existence -- knowledge.

The need to know

We work under the assumption that when we are born, we know nothing. That we learn as we grow up and have learnt all there is by the time we are grown-ups. And yet, we conveniently forget that practically all the knowledge we gather in our formative years is based on an act of faith. We are told things and we believe them.

Faith therefore, is a quality we are all born with. It seems to exist in the absence of knowledge. Small wonder then, that we equate faith with ignorance.

Truth is, we never really stop believing. You don't exactly know how your computer's keyboard or TV remote functions. But you believe what the techies tell you. You believe advertisements. You believe signboards that tell you "road blocked ahead" and take the suggested alternate routes to your workplace.

Imagine what it would be like if you insisted on knowing everything!

What is the point of knowledge then?

Knowledge is important. But as I said, it has no independent existence. In my eyes, knowledge is an aid to faith. Jumping off a cliff believing you can fly is an act of pure faith (or pure stupidity, depending on your perspective). But if you have flown before, it helps you believe that you can do it again.

Knowledge is good to have. But it is not indispensable. Nor is it opposed to or superior to faith. It complements faith. In fact, you need faith to know. The most reliable encyclopedia will serve you no purpose if you don't believe what it says.

Knowledge can be incomplete or fragmented (it often is). Faith can only ever be absolute. There is no middle path for the believer. Doubt, fear, and misery don't walk alongside faith. If you truly believe in something (God for example), then there can be no doubt and hence no fear. If you are in doubt, you obviously don't believe. Think about it. (I have written about this before)

Faith is a vastly superior quality than knowledge. It does not cripple. It is not a handicap. Those who believe can afford the ultimate freedom -- fearlessness.

So we can believe whatever we want?

Yes. You probably already do that. You wouldn't hear a word against your only son, would you? Even though your neighbours may know of him having broken into a local shop. Similarly, you believe in what your favourite charismatic politician says without giving a tweet about popular opinion.

Sometimes, it so happens that you want to believe something or someone, but simply can't. With all due respect, it is NOT SO. If you want to believe, you can. You don't have to learn faith. You were born with it, remember? I like Richard Bach's way of putting it in his book Illusions:

"Humbug on faith. Takes zero faith. What it takes is imagination...

Two thousand years ago, five thousand, they didn't have a word for imagination, and faith was the best they could come up with for a pretty solemn bunch of followers.

Consider this. There are millions of melodies, all made of just seven musical notes. The notes you can know, but you need to imagine the melodies in order to be able to make them.

Why the ant hates me

There is a suicidal ant in my loo. Almost every time I go in for a leak, I have to use a brush to sweep it out of the pot and drop it on a dry spot on the floor so that I don't accidentally flush it to its death.

What bugs me is that it always fights back. I have probably broken more than one of its legs in attempts to keep it from its watery grave. Every time I drop it on the floor, it circles the spot in anger and confusion.

I got thinking about the things we complain about in life. The little setbacks, the accidents, the apparent tragedies. Did something higher than us just 'sweep' us out of the path of even greater damage?