All That Matters!

By Kalpana Kumari

I am at my aunt’s place, excited because we have gone there for a special reason- to adopt a dog. On our way back, we stop at the house where the puppies are. I look at their mother, a white Pomeranian, and at some distance, four or five puppies curled up together. I am too excited to touch them, but someone says, “Not now, this one is coming to your house,” pointing to the weakest and yellowish one among them. I do not know whether to feel happy or upset that my pup is the weak one, infected with ticks. At first, it feels like bad news, but then I think we could take care of her and make her healthier than the rest. The adults discuss which pups to give away. They want to give the females, and my father says it is not a problem. I ask if we can take her with us, but my cousin wants to bring her later.

We go home and wait for her to arrive. I remember sitting at the doorstep waiting. It was a bright afternoon when my cousin brought her home, carrying her in a small clear plastic bag. I was overflowing with happiness. My sister and I ran ahead, fighting over who would hold her first. We both kissed her and held her with four hands on a tiny body that could fit into one. That moment became my oldest and clearest memory with an animal. Even before this, I had always loved them, though I was too young to know why.

Another memory from around that time taught me how to treat animals. We had a small garden in our backyard, fenced and filled with purple flowers that fell in summer from the tree above. My father grew vegetables in one section, and in another stood a mulberry tree, low enough for us to reach. My sister and I would stand on a chair, collect the berries, and stain our hands and dresses maroon. We liked collecting them more than eating them. My father often picked flowers and handed them to us. We had even started an “ant hospital,” where we would put drops of water on injured ants in an attempt to save them. In most cases, we were the ones who had hurt them, and we buried the dead ones under small stones. It sounds funny now, but that was where care began.

One day it rained, and my mother told my father that a dog had entered the garden and might cause problems for our new puppy. My father went to check. He came back and said the dog was getting aggressive. I worried for him and wanted to dislike that dog. But when he returned again, he said quietly, “She’s pregnant.” My mother asked what to do, and he said, “Make something for her.” My mother replied, “I’ll make halwa.” I was confused. Weren’t we supposed to chase her away? My parents explained that we should not let a pregnant dog suffer. That day I understood that love does not need to be divided. We can care for them all. I stood beside my mother as she cooked, asking if I could be the one to feed her.

That moment became a turning point in how I saw animals. The dog stayed for a while, and we called her Ruby. She became part of our lives. Years later, when she grew old and sick, she sat on the stairs outside our house. I came home from school and looked for her every day. When she disappeared, my father said she might have gone away to die. I cried for days.

There were other animals too. At our neighbour’s house, I first saw kittens. I was told one had been eaten by its mother. I could not understand why a mother would do that. Later, I watched one of the kittens being run over by a car. That was the first time I had seen something so cruel. I was heartbroken and angry, going back to that spot every day as if waiting to confront whoever had done it. I never forgot it.

Around the same time, we brought home fishes from a fair. We set up a small aquarium, convinced we could care for them, but one by one they died. Their silence and stillness hurt me in a way I could not explain. I felt guilty and ashamed. Eventually, we gave the remaining ones to a shop that sold aquariums so they could be cared for properly.

In school, there was a room full of bats, and everyone said they were evil. One morning, someone said a bat had died, and I went to see. It looked peaceful, almost innocent. I felt ashamed that I had ever been afraid of such a creature. I waited for the cleaning staff and asked them not to throw it away roughly.

There were other moments of learning. I once caught butterflies and tried to keep them in bottles, only to realise they could not survive. When I saw a dead yellow butterfly later, I promised myself never to catch them again. I also remember the guilt of killing ants that had bitten my toes and then trying to justify it. Once, a garden lizard ran over my hand, and I cried for a long time. I washed my hands again and again, and to this day, I remain afraid of lizards. I wish someone had taught me otherwise.

My biggest lessons in love and care came from my father. He was the quiet kind who never spoke much but did things silently. I learnt that we do not always need to make noise about kindness. It can exist quietly and still mean everything.

As a child, I once saw a senior at school kick a dog that had wandered into the assembly area. Without thinking, I stepped out of line and stood there, waiting until the dog was safe. That was the first time I realised that standing up for something sometimes happens before you even know you are doing it.

Over the years, I began to live like my father. Whenever I saw puppies under cars or shivering in the cold, I could not walk past. I wrapped them in my scarf, shared my lunch, and sometimes missed classes to feed them. My mother started packing extra food because she knew I would give mine away.

It was not always easy. When I was about twelve, returning home late one night, I heard a dog being run over by a car. The sound of its cry stayed with me for years. That night, my parents said we could do nothing. Later, I proved them wrong. I rushed to every street when I heard an animal crying. I learnt to take them to hospitals and to comfort them even when they were beyond saving.

I remember one evening when my father brought home a baby sparrow he had almost run over with his scooter. We cared for her for days. Her parents came in the afternoons and fed her while we watched. When she finally flew, she went only a few floors above and sat on a neighbour’s window. I went upstairs, asked permission to enter, and brought her back. A few days later, she flew away for good.

Life continued like this, full of animals, full of small acts of care. Over time, I began to realise something deeper. It was never that I shared my love with them; it was that they had shared theirs with me. Whatever gentleness I have comes from them. They are the purest part of our world, though we often forget to see them that way.

There were endless stories, hundreds of dogs and birds and creatures that crossed my path, each one leaving something behind. And somewhere, all of it circled back to my father, who had once brought home that first puppy because his teacher had told him it would bring peace to our family. Maybe it did.

When I look back, I can see how it all connected. It began with happiness, the kind that makes a child wait at the door for her first puppy. Then came confusion, when I learnt that kindness does not need to take sides. After that came guilt, the kind that teaches responsibility. Then grief, when I learnt that love cannot stop loss, it can only make you gentle within it. Later came anger, when I saw animals being hurt and could not bear to stay quiet. Over time, all of it became habit, and habit became something else; something I still do not have a name for.

Years later, someone asked me why I liked animals so much. I didn’t have an answer, so they answered for me. They said it was probably because they did not judge me. That day I realised it was not only about saving them. Maybe I needed them more than they needed me. Maybe, through them, I was trying to reach myself. I learnt love not only by loving them but by being loved by them. Every animal I met left something behind in me, a tender memory, a lesson, a piece of softness that stayed. Maybe all this while, I was not just trying to save them. Maybe I was trying to save myself.

By Kalpana Kumari