Ek Tha Shvaan (From Celestial Sentinels to Forsaken Strays)

By Dr Abhijeet Chauhn

This is not the story of dogs alone, but of a covenant between humanity and loyalty itself.

— A mythic elegy for the world’s oldest friendship – now betrayed in our own streets.

Disclaimer:

This work is a piece of creative non-fiction. While inspired by history, myth, and real-life observations, names, events, and anecdotes may be fictionalized or symbolic. Any resemblance to actual events, persons, or communities is incidental. The aim is to illuminate the moral and cultural legacy of dogs, and advocate for their humane treatment.

Prologue: The Forgotten Footsteps

In the hush of dawn, when temple bells quiver and the streets still dream, a silhouette appears – four legs, soft paws, eyes glimmering with a devotion older than empires.Dogs walk beside us not as animals but as echoes – living archives of myth, memory, and loyalty. From the flicker of the first fire to the glare of the last street-lamp, they have followed the trail of humankind.

They were never outsiders. They were guardians, allies, and quiet confidants – watchers of battlefields, keepers of thresholds, listeners at the feet of gods. And here begins the paradox: the species once trusted with heaven’s gates now sleeps beside our garbage bins. This is not merely their story. It is our undoing.

Ek Tha Shvaan is a tale of loyalty etched across millennia – of a covenant ancient, forgotten, and betrayed; and of the moral debt we, as humankind, must finally repay.

Segment I: The Times of Gods and Vedic History

The Divine Sentinel

Long before kings ruled over kingdoms and temples soared into the skies, humanity’s world was fire, shadow, and silence. The night was alive with predators, whispers of spirits, and the gnawing fear of being small against the vast wilderness. Yet beside man sat a figure of reassurance: a creature with sharp ears, a keen nose, and eyes that never closed even when sleep tugged at human eyelids.

This was the dog – the first sentinel of mankind.

When Vedic seers spoke of ṛta – the cosmic order that upheld the universe – they imagined guardians who kept chaos at bay. Dogs symbolized unwavering watchfulness, creatures born to guard thresholds: of homes, of temples, of heaven itself.

The Rigveda sings of them. In Mandala 10, Hymn 14, Yama, the god of death, is described as flanked by two four-eyed dogs – Śyāma and Śabala. These hounds guard the path of departed souls, guiding them safely to the afterlife. With eyes in the front and back (the metaphor of “four-eyed”), they are omniscient, guardians who miss nothing.

Close your eyes and picture it: two celestial hounds standing sentinel at the boundary between life and death, their gaze piercing both worlds. Who could walk unafraid when such guardians wait at the edge of eternity?

It was in such mythic contours that dogs first became more than animals. They became the companions of gods.

Sarama and the Stolen Cows

Among the oldest stories of canine fidelity is the tale of Sarama, the hound of the gods. In the Rigveda, when the Panis – a demon clan – stole the sacred cows of the Angirasas, Indra sent Sarama to track them down.

Across wilderness and riverbeds, Sarama pursued the trail with tireless devotion. When she finally confronted the Panis, they tried to tempt her with treasures and promises if she betrayed the gods. But Sarama remained unyielding. She returned to Indra with news of the hidden cattle, thus restoring cosmic order.

This story, tucked deep in ancient verses, is more than myth. It reveals what early Vedic thought encoded in the canine spirit: unshakable loyalty, incorruptibility, and the power to restore what was lost.

In many ways, Sarama was the first “seeker” – the one who traversed chaos to retrieve truth. And humanity, in observing the dog’s nature, elevated it into a cosmic archetype.

An Ode to Sarama

Across the river, through thorn and dust,Her paws leave prints where mortals must.The Panis whisper, “Stay, betray!”But truth is a leash she will not fray.For in her eyes the Gods reside,A seeker’s hound, a holy guide.

At the Feet of Bhairava

Centuries later, dogs remain at the feet of Lord Bhairava, the fierce form of Shiva. Sculptures, shrines, and rituals portray them sitting upright, their tongues curled, their teeth ready to ward off evil.

Even today, devotees place food before stray dogs every Kaal Bhairava Ashtami, believing that feeding them pleases the lord himself. Priests will often tell you: “To feed a dog is to feed Bhairava.”

In this ritual, ancient yet alive, lies an echo of the Vedic past. The dog is not an outsider but a channel of divinity, a living messenger between mortals and gods. Its howl at midnight is not just noise; it is believed to be Bhairava’s own warning call, warding off unseen danger.

Dogs then are not just companions but ritual guardians, cosmic sentries, shadows of the divine.

The Mahabharata’s Last Journey

Perhaps the most poignant story of canine loyalty in Indian lore lies in the Mahabharata’s Swargarohanika Parva, the Book of the Ascension to Heaven.

The war of Kurukshetra long ended, Yudhishthira – eldest of the Pandavas – renounced his throne. Stripped of worldly ties, he set out on his final journey northward, accompanied by Draupadi and his brothers. One by one, each companion fell to exhaustion along the way, until only Yudhishthira and a nameless dog remained.

When he finally reached the gates of heaven, Indra himself descended in his chariot.

“Enter, O Yudhishthira,” Indra said.

But Yudhishthira shook his head. “Not without my companion.”

“Forsake the dog,” Indra commanded. “He cannot enter heaven. This chariot is for you alone.”

“Never,” Yudhishthira replied. “He who abandons one who is devoted is the true sinner. My dharma is loyalty, as his has been to me.”

At that moment, the dog revealed his true form: Dharma, the god of righteousness. It was a test, and Yudhishthira had passed.

The tale stands not only as an allegory of loyalty but as an eternal indictment: the worth of man is measured not by his victories, but by his fidelity to the faithful.

The Last Companion

At heaven’s gate, all crowns fall down,No kingdom lasts, nor jeweled crown.But by his side, through ash and fog,Stood dharma cloaked within a dog.

Segment II: Companions of Civilization

From Firelight to Hearthlight

If antiquity carved dogs into the pantheon of gods, history settled them gently by the hearth. As civilizations expanded, the dog’s place shifted from cosmic sentinel to everyday confidant.

Picture a village at dusk. Smoke rises from clay chulhas, children chase spinning tops, and women draw water from the well. By the courtyard’s edge lies a dog – not worshipped as Sarama or Dharma’s disguise, but loved as a guardian of grain, cattle, and kin. His bark warns of thieves; his presence reassures children who slip out into the dark.

Even in folk traditions, the dog’s place endured. Village temples across India carried traces of rituals in which dogs were fed first, for they were the unseen guards of the night. To harm them was to court misfortune; to honor them was to safeguard the household.

The myth had become domestic reality. More than companions, they were now protectors, symbols of vigilance, and living threads that wove together human life, faith, and daily routine.

The Royal Kennels

Yet, dogs never lost their grand stature. In Mughal miniature paintings, hounds stand proudly beside emperors, lean and muscled, bred for the chase. The Baburnama notes Babar’s fondness for hunting dogs on campaigns.

Among Rajputs, whose lives were measured in loyalty and valor, dogs held a place of rare esteem. They were warriors’ companions, guardians of fortresses, and silent witnesses to oaths of honor.

It is said that Maharana Pratap, the lion of Mewar, kept a hound named Chetakī (often overshadowed by the famous horse Chetak). Local ballads describe this dog as inseparable from the Maharana – often trotting beside him during inspections of the Aravalli outposts. Numerous valorous deeds had earned Chetakī a permanent place by the Maharana’s feet during war councils, an acknowledgment of his vigilance.

Even in their most opulent roles, however, dogs remained guardians first, companions second, ornaments never. A king might lose faith in a courtier but would still trust the jaws of his hunting hound.

The Regal Hound

No jewels upon his collar shone,Yet near the throne he found his own.For loyalty, in imperial lands,Was weighed not in crowns, but in steadfast stands.

Side-Story: The Nawab’s Dog

In Lucknow’s archives lies a curious anecdote: a Nawab’s dog, once accused of biting a nobleman, was brought before court. Witnesses were called; evidence was weighed. Finally, the Nawab himself declared:

“This creature has guarded me longer than most men in this room. If it bit, it must have had cause.” The case was dismissed, the nobleman compensated, and the dog rewarded with a gold-threaded collar.

Such was the gravity of canine loyalty – weighed and defended even in courts of law.

By the Village Hearth

Move from palaces to villages, and the story takes a humbler but no less profound form. In rural India, dogs were indispensable. They guarded cattle from wolves, warned of wild boars, and slept at the thresholds of mud homes.

A farmer in Maharashtra might tell you: “If a dog refuses to eat, know the rain will come.” Folklore wove them into the very fabric of rural life – as weather guides, omens, and protectors. Even their deaths were mourned.

In many communities, when a dog died, a small lamp was lit, and rice was offered – a miniature rite for a silent family member who had never asked for anything but scraps of food and scraps of affection.

The Village Watcher

Not written in scripture, not carved in stone,Yet every mud house claimed him its own.A bark at midnight, a wag at dawn,A nameless guardian, till breath was gone.

Dogs and Saints

Spiritual history, too, embraced the dog as companion. The Bhakti poet Kanaka Dasa of Karnataka was said to be followed everywhere by a faithful dog that shared his food. In Maharashtra’s Warkari tradition, saints often blessed the feeding of dogs as equal to feeding pilgrims.

And then there is the tale of Sai Baba of Shirdi. Villagers recall that dogs often lingered near him, fed from his hand, and followed him about. To harm a dog in Shirdi, it was said, was to invite Baba’s displeasure.

These stories reflect a deeper truth: dogs were not only protectors of property but also mirrors of compassion. They reminded saints and villagers alike the meaning of humanity – for if a man could feed a dog, he had enough mercy, humility, and justice to take care of everybody around them.

Colonial Courtyards

The arrival of the British added new hues to the canine-human bond. Colonial officers brought foxhounds, terriers, and spaniels. Kennels were raised in cantonments; dog shows became fashionable and pedigrees were meticulously recorded.

But beneath this imported culture of breeding, the Indian street dog endured – leaner, hardier, and infinitely wiser to the ways of survival. In colonial memoirs, one often finds a grudging admiration for the native pariah: how it slipped through bazaars with uncanny instinct, guarding alleys and thresholds as if by ancient right.

As one such account observed, these dogs had “no masters, yet they obeyed the rhythms of the town; no collars, yet they guarded every street as though it were their birthright.”

The irony was sharp. Foreign breeds basked in pampered care, while the native dog – the oldest sentinel of Indian soil – survived on scraps. Yet even in neglect, it thrived, its resilience a quiet defiance against both empire and indifference.

Side-Story: The Loyal Pariah

A popular anecdote from 1930s Calcutta tells of a judge who, night after night, was silently escorted home by an Indie dog. The animal would wait at the court gates, follow him across the dimly lit streets, and sit at his doorstep before vanishing into the city’s shadows.

When asked why he placed such faith in a nameless stray, the judge is said to have smiled and replied: “Because in this city, loyalty is rare. Yet I find it nightly in one who asks nothing.”

The tale spread, and soon locals began feeding the faithful guardian. For a time, the dog became the court’s silent celebrity – a parable in fur, reminding all who heard the story that devotion often arrives not from pedigree, but from the unlikeliest of places.

Companions of Memory

Poets and writers have long immortalized dogs. In Munshi Premchand’s rural tales, a dog often lingers in the background – not a character, but a presence, symbolic of quiet loyalty amidst human chaos. Rabindranath Tagore wrote of a stray who followed children to school, “tail wagging as if it knew the alphabets better than the boys.”

Mahatma Gandhi, who often walked with goats and cows by his side, saw animals as companions in the moral experiment of ahimsa. In Young India (1926), he wrote: “The greatness of humanity is not in being human, but in being humane.”

Over time, this sentiment was adapted into the well-known adage reflecting his spirit – that a nation’s greatness is mirrored in how it treats its animals.

Though not his exact words, the essence echoes Gandhi’s philosophy – the truest measure of progress lies in our compassion for the voiceless.

The dog, thus, seeped not only into ritual and household, but also into memory and imagination – a constant companion in ink and anecdote.

Silent Companions of Empire

By the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries, dogs had become woven into the Indian imagination at multiple levels: the royal hound, the village guardian, the saint’s companion, the colonial showpiece, the nameless pariah.

They existed everywhere, yet belonged nowhere entirely. Unlike horses or elephants, they were not wealth. Unlike cows, they were not sacred property. Unlike cats, they were not aloof. They were simply companions – loyal, tireless, unnoticed, and essential.

This, perhaps, was their noblest role: to be both everywhere and invisible – the quite guardians of the ordinary.

From Thrones to Thresholds

If Segment I crowned the dog as divine, Segment II celebrates it as human’s truest companion – by the hearth, by the throne, by the roadside. They asked for nothing but a place by our side, and we gave it – sometimes with love, sometimes with neglect. Still, they stayed.

In the soft glow of history, one truth endures: when empires fell, and kings died, when colonizers sailed away, the dog remained – the eternal companion, waiting still at the threshold.

Segment III – Stark Reality Today

The Fall into Strayhood

The descent from revered companion to reviled “stray” was no accident; it was authored by us. Colonial towns, obsessed with order, labelled free-ranging dogs “nuisances.” Municipal ledgers of the 1800s record culling by poison, strychnine, drowning – lives erased in ink. Independence rewrote the flag, not the mindset. The “street dog” ceased to be a community guardian and became a civic inconvenience.

Even Mahatma Gandhi, urged kindness towards dogs, writing in Young India (1927): “The greatness of a nation can be judged by the way its animals are treated.” His words rang like bells of warning, largely unheard.

Urban expansion built walls not just around homes, but around hearts. Sterilization drives languish, shelters overflow, and cruelty masquerades as “public safety.” The covenant between humankind and loyalty itself began to fracture – not with violence alone, but with indifference.

Raju and Meena – Tales of Betrayal 

In Old Delhi, a temple dog named Raju once thrived on scraps after aarti. But when the temple underwent renovation and a notice banned dogs, he was chased out. Raju lingered at the gates, tail wagging at old devotees, but no hands reached down anymore. One evening, children pelted him with stones until he limped away into an alley, never to return.

In a small Rajasthan town, Meena fed two street pups near her house. Neighbors mocked her, accusing her of “inviting danger.” One morning, she found the pups poisoned and lifeless. Their limp bodies were dragged to the garbage heap, nameless and unwept. Meena’s kindness died that day, not from venom, but from ridicule.

Raju and Meena’s stories echo across millions of streets – a silent indictment of neglect, the human betrayal of the guardians we once trusted. Each dismissed bark, each flung stone, each poisoned meal pushes us further from the covenant. We must admit plainly: dogs did not choose strayhood. We imposed it on them.

Such is compassion in modern India – bright in ritual, dim in routine.

The gods look on, and we pretend the lesson has been learned.

Kindness in Fragments

In contemporary India, compassion blooms like a festival flower – vivid for a day, wilted by dusk. 

During Kukur Tihar, which is celebrated in Nepal and some parts of eastern India, dogs are garlanded, fed, worshipped as messengers of Yama. The next morning, the same creatures may be chased with sticks or scolded for curling near a tea stall.

Laws exist – the Animal Birth Control (ABC) Rules of 2001, 2014 amendments, and reinforced provisions of 2023 – yet streets still run with the quite blood of indifference. Free-living dogs are still beaten, starved, burned, or run over, often in public silence.

Step outside at dawn: a mother dog curls around her pups in an open drain, shielding them from the chill; a wounded stray drags himself across the road, only to be chased away.

Strays huddle beneath parked cars, waiting for the mercy of a biscuit, or risk their lives dodging traffic in search of scraps. Their ribs are skeletal harps of starvation; their eyes, still soft with loyalty, plead silently – and we, tone-deaf, throw stones.

Transition

From silent microcosms of cruelty and fleeting mercy, we must confront the larger truth: the betrayal of India’s guardians is not accidental, nor is it borne of necessity. It is a moral failure, written into law and lived out on our streets. And here, humanity reveals itself as the true betrayer.

Man as the Betrayer

How did the guardians of gods and companions of kings become street nuisances? We bred them for hunts, war, and vanity. When their purpose ended, we cast them out.

The Supreme Court in 2014, reaffirmed in 2023, mandated protection, sterilization, and freedom from abuse for strays. Yet enforcement is paper-thin, funding sporadic, and awareness minimal. Municipal bodies, under pressure to maintain “sanitation,” treat them as pests. The very hands meant to safeguard life have become instruments of cruelty.

The streets whisper stories too grim for courtrooms: poisoned meat slipped into gutters, acid thrown on barking dogs, boiling water poured over chained strays, animals tied to railway tracks or burned in “removal drives.” Each act is framed as “precaution,” yet beneath lies a darker truth – a habit of indifference, a moral blindness hardened over generations.

Even when compassion flickers, it is stifled. In Jaipur, a child sneaks food to a limping stray behind her school gate. She is scolded: “Don’t encourage these animals – they carry disease.” The irony is bitter: humanity fears infection more than the rot of its own conscience.

Once, hailed as “man’s best friend,” today we are the devil in their lives. This is not evolution; this is betrayal painted in cruelty.

We wrote justice, but live indifference everyday.

Everyday Antiquity

And yet, this betrayal clashes painfully with our ancestry. Excavations across India reveal dog burials beside humans, collars of carved bone, and cave etchings depicting hunting hounds in action. In Vedic villages, the dog was gṛha-pāla – guardian of the household, as vital as fire or water.

Imagine a reed hut by the Saraswati. A family sleeps inside. At the threshold, half in shadow, sits a dog – ears pricked, eyes glowing in the firelight. He does not belong to man, and yet without him, man’s world collapses.

This was not ownership. It was kinship.

The Moral Indictment

Dogs did not need humanity to make them sacred. They were already divine in essence. We, instead, needed them – as guardians, seekers, companions, and mirrors of our moral selves.

Antiquity linked their pawprints with the footprints of dharma, binding them forever to righteousness.

Strays are not intruders – they are the heirs of our neglect. Each poisoned pup, each abandoned carcass, each kick against a starving animal is not cruelty alone – it is the breaking of an ancient covenant. In denying protection to those who once protected us, we reveal ourselves as the very demons our forefathers warned against.

And yet, across centuries, as humanity grew in power, we forgot the humility of that inheritance. In simple words, we have not evolved; we have betrayed.

The Global Contrast

Across the world, nations choose compassion over cruelty. Bhutan sterilized and vaccinated every stray, integrating them safely into public life. The Netherlands enforces strict penalties for abusers, with prison terms up to five years, and bans the killing of pets or strays without veterinary or legal oversight.

Belgium enshrines animal welfare in its Constitution, recognizing animals as sentient beings deserving protection. In Istanbul, a city of 15 million, stray dogs are tagged, vaccinated, fed by communities, and allowed to roam freely – citizens and guardians in equal measure.

And then there is India. Despite millennia of reverence – from Vedic times to royal courts – we often choose the opposite. Sterilization funds are siphoned, rabies vaccination drives falter, municipal authorities capture and kill instead of caring. Strays are poisoned, beaten, abandoned, or sold for profit.

While the world bends towards mercy, we bend the law towards cruelty and indifference.

Voices of Compassion

Yet amid the neglect, random acts of rebellion shine. Across cities, small groups of feeders risk harassment daily, carrying biscuits at midnight, tending to wounds with meagre earnings. They are derided as “anti-social,” yet without them, thousands more would starve.

A Delhi schoolteacher carries chapattis for ten strays each morning. Mocked as the “mad dog woman,” she walks on, her disciples wagging their tails. In Kolkata, a tea vendor leaves scraps for an aging pariah every evening. In Chennai, an NGO worker vaccinates and feeds strays from her backyard when municipal drives falter.

These voices whisper the possibility of another India – one where compassion is not seasonal, but habitual. Tiny, fragile, luminous, they show that humanity is not beyond repair.

Future Pathways: What India Can Learn

The solutions are neither alien nor impossible. Public education, sterilization, and vaccination programs can scale if corruption loosens its grip. Community feeding need not be charity – it can be shared guardianship.

Small acts – opening gates, leaving water bowls, reporting abuse – become ripples in a pond of indifference. Municipal cruelty can be checked only when cruelty is punished as crime, not disguised as “sanitation.”

Temples, corporate houses and RWAs could pledge not just festive celebrations, but consistency in food, water, shelter, security, dignity, and medical assistance. Schools could teach mercy as hygiene for the soul.

Communities must adopt “street guardianship” rather than “street eviction.” And policies must recognize strays as sentient citizens of the pavements.

The path exists. India has precedent. What remains is will.

Closing Punch

History will not ask how many sterilization drives were announced or how many laws were passed. It will ask: when a hungry dog whimpered at your gate, did you feed it – or did you chase it away?

Civilizations are tall not because of monuments, but because even the smallest, most overlooked lives – strays in the streets, children in our alleys, the silent and ignored – are protected, cherished, and allowed to live with dignity. By that measure, we stand exposed.

Every carcass on a railway track, every pup writhing from poison, every howl muffled in the night is testimony not to their weakness, but to our decay.

If dharma once walked beside us on four legs, today it limps, bleeds, and hides in our alleys. Until we face this truth, we remain a nation that worships gods in marble but crucifies their guardians in the street.

Their fall is not theirs alone – it is the mirror in which our humanity looks away, ashamed.

Elegy for the Forsaken

They ran with gods, they hunted with kings,They bore our trust through everything.Yet in the alleys of our modern days,They beg, they suffer, they hide in haze.

Bhutan’s hills echo with care,Istanbul’s streets breathe life everywhere.The Dutch decree and Belgium guards,Yet ours lie beaten, behind locked yards.

We called them friends, we called them kin,And then we cast them from within.The mirror cracks, the conscience frays,We are the thieves of their golden days.

“Whether they rise again is no longer their test, but ours.”

Night settles over the city like remorse wearing a shawl of smog. A lone dog sits beneath a flickering street-lamp, eyes reflecting constellations once drawn by gods who trusted his kind to guard the gates of heaven.

He does not beg. He waits. For what – a crumb, a caress, or perhaps our awakening? The silence between his breaths is an indictment; his patience, our mirror.

In the scriptures, the faithful hound followed Yudhishthira to the edge of heaven – proof that loyalty outlives flesh. Today, his descendants follow us only to the edge of traffic lights. Between myth and metropolis, something sacred was lost – and must be found again.

Compassion is not charity. It is ancestral memory – the whisper of the first human who shared fire with a waiting shadow. To light a diya this Deepawali and feed a stray is not kindness; it is remembrance. A covenant renewed.

“Our ancestors gave them to us as guardians. We made them strays. Let this generation make them family again.”

Because Deepawali is not just a festival of lamps – it’s the rekindling of light in every heart that still remembers how to care.

By Dr Abhijeet Chauhn