La Vie Est À Nous

By Freyan S. Wadia

I was sitting quietly, minding my business on the last bench, when, out of nowhere, the voice of Mrs Gargi pierced my ears.

“Ferzeen Balsara,” she croaked, “Can you tell me the past participle of être?”

“Uh… ” I said, trying to gain my bearings. Okay, I was in school, it was French class and Mrs Gargi was asking me the past participle of être. Now to figure out what a past participle was.

She looked at me with apparent distaste, the way she might’ve looked at her shoe after she stepped on something particularly revolting. That’s when Mrs Gargi turned a repulsive shade of green and her skin turned to scales. She grew to three times her size (which was a lot). The scariest part was where her mouth merged with her nose and her tongue split into two and peeked out of her nostrils. No wonder she could speak the fiendishly nasal language with ease.

“Brûle en l’enfer!” she screamed at me, before breathing out a river of flames that engulfed me, burning me to a crisp.

“AAAAARRGGH,” I screamed, before falling off the bed. (Yes, Taylor Swift, I literally was “lying on the cold, hard ground.”)

I put on my glasses, still shaking. Realising that sleep was as unachievable an object as an ‘A’ in French, I hopped out of bed and make my way to the kitchen. Rusty was out of his basket and lying right next to the fridge. I think the hum of the motor inside the fridge helps him sleep. His paws were twitching, a soft growl coming from his doggy lips. An Irish setter rescue, even though it had been six months since he had come to stay, was still a rescue at the end of the day.

Was he reliving being abandoned?

He jerked awake, giving a soft howl.

“You had a nightmare too?”

He saw me, wagged his tail and gave a pitiful whine. He still misses his old master.

“Shhh… I’m here,” I said, sitting down and giving him a big hug. “Looks like the biryani didn’t agree with either of us.”

His beautiful copper coat had grown back again, save for over a couple of scars on his back and leg. People are too quick to pick up a stone and a little too slow to come to aid. It was really no wonder he used to growl and bark at anyone who approached. It took him over a month to trust us completely. People in the street are still wary of us and give us wide berth. Murmurs of “Paagal kutta he” can be heard as I take him for a walk. But Rusty’s bark is much worse than his bite. Just like mine.

He lay against my chest, licking my chin. He was looking up at me with mournful eyes, possibly afraid that I’d disappear if he closed them.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, cuddling the soft, warm bundle of fur. “Well, maybe the bathroom, but nowhere else.”

My parents found us the next morning splayed out on the kitchen floor, snoring loudly. It was a beautiful morning- not a single cloud hid the raw blue soul of the sky. That day, Rusty didn’t whine when I left for school- he knew I would come back. Mrs Gargi may turn into a T-rex or any carnivorous dinosaur you like, but I’d slay her just so that I could come home and tell my dog I did it.

I did return and with a banner of victory- an eight in my French test.

“You should’ve seen her face, Rusty, when I told her the past participle of être was été. And spelt it out too!”

By Freyan S. Wadia