A Possessive Cat

A Delayed Response to a Prompt

The stray cat which has made our home its own, thinks my father belongs to him and didn’t think much of me, or pay me any notice.

My father has given him a room of his own, complete with a comfortable, cushioned chair, and pieces of cloth and paper he can play with, if the mood takes him.

The room is kept locked at night, and in the morning when he hears any movement signifying that my father is up and about, he leaps down nimbly from his perch for the night, walks to the door on padded feet and waits.

The moment my father opens the door, he stalks out, bushy tail held aloft and my father and he carry on a conversation that has me in splits most of the time.

My father calls him by whatever name comes handy and asks, “Are you hungry?”

The cat replies with a long drawn-out series of meows suggesting acute starvation. Then it sits down and allows my father to pet him. If my father shows any sign that he is going to walk away from the cat, he leaps up in indignation, and begins a series of short sharp mews and then runs into the kitchen, back again, until my father follows him, and looks from the bottle of cat feed kept in the kitchen, to my father’s face, until my father laughingly gives him some in his bowl.

After this necessary early morning pre-breakfast ritual, both my father and the cat go out into the farm. My father plants, waters, weeds, burns rubbish, scatters ashes on plants; the cat runs around exploring. In case I come out to join my father, the cat keeps a wary eye on me, suspecting me of kidnap or murder. Then both of them go back into the house, carrying on their interrupted conversation. My father, a confirmed and very strict vegetarian, goes out to buy idlis for the cat’s breakfast, and fried fish for his lunch.

My father lives on his own most of the time, guarded by very fiercely protective neighbours. He stopped cooking for himself since he started becoming more forgetful; sometimes to the point where he would begin cooking something, forget about it, and the food used to burn, evaporate, and the vessel almost melt down. My father, blissfully unaware, would be on the farm: and then all the various neighbours would come running to our house, to alert him. So now he has a tiffin service coming in at all times, with his food.

This past week in my home in Kerala, I led an idyllic existence that went something like this. Get up in the morning, boil drinking water, make tea, and then cook oats for my father. Then read a book till breakfast arrives. After which, we eat. and then I read till lunch time-and food-arrives. Then I read some more; or sit on a tussock in the farm and talk to my father as he works. Or I have a brief cat nap, in the room my sister and I grew up in, and read some more….My father will never enter the room, without knocking. Excessive courtesy? Perhaps. But this is the way we grew up, with the sense that everyone’s space and privacy are important, whatever their age.

I am back in Mumbai now: and there are a lot of pending meetings with people I love, before I possibly, start a new job. Another college. Another group of students. I am excited…I sincerely hope my students are, too.

©️ 2022 Suma Narayan. All Rights Reserved.

A response to a prompt by Liberty Forrest, Author

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