Until the Last Wag

Ridhima liked new cities. That was the idea, anyway. Reality had other plans. The flight was long. Pune to Shimla, direct, but long. When the plane started coming down she looked out the window. The hills came up fast. Like the city was leaning in to get a look at her. Shimla airport was small. Small enough that calling it an airport felt like a stretch. The second they stepped outside, the cold got there first. The cab was already booked. Driver loaded the bags, they got in. Papa was in a formal shirt and trousers — Maa’s rule, proper clothes even while travelling. The road kept turning. Highway, then not-highway, then that one bend where the air changes. Network went from bad to nothing. She put the phone away. “Cold?” Papa asked. “Thoda,” she said. A little. Driver turned the heater up. Then it was quiet again. It was a comfortable quiet. The kind you only get with someone you’re completely fine with. Ridhima liked this. She didn’t get much of it at home.

The house wasn’t what she’d pictured. Smaller. Older. The wood around the windows had seen better years. The gate made a noise when it opened. Not a squeak. More of a complaint. “Safe area, this,” Papa said, keys already out. Ridhima just nodded. Next door were the Mishras. Vijay — his father Shekhar used to be an MD, retired now. Ridhima had known Vijay and his sister Pooja since she was a kid. Old family connection, through Papa. Nothing here was new. Just the house. Inside smelled like a house that had been shut for a while. She opened a window without thinking about it. Cold air came in. Better. “Settle down in a bit,” Papa said. “Hmm.” She was already looking for wardrobe space. · · · The whole day went into setting things up. Kitchen basics. Bed made. Clothes in the wardrobe. It was mechanical enough that there wasn’t much time to think, which was fine with her. Papa worked quietly the whole time — bookshelf assembled, geyser switch found, and the stove, after two failed tries, figured out. “Left one. Use the left one,” he said, pointing like he’d known this his whole life, and not for the last five minutes.

“Noted.” At some point, folding clothes, it hit her — everyone at home was probably doing exactly what they always did. Maa in the kitchen. Veer in front of the TV. Life running there on its own schedule, whether she was in it or not. It was an odd thought. She put it away and kept folding. · · · She found the appointment letter while emptying her bag. She stood there a second. Not reading it, just holding it. The paper had a crease. She smoothed it out with her thumb. It brought the day back to her. The letter had come a month earlier. Since then the house had had a certain restlessness in it — Maa’s doing, mostly. She’d rearranged Ridhima’s wardrobe three times in one week. A different system each time. Woollens on top, then cottons on the bottom, then woollens back up, then a third version Ridhima never really understood. Papa hadn’t said much. One evening he sat down and asked, “Sab theek hai na?” “Haan, Papa.” “Achha.” And back to his newspaper. Except he hadn’t actually finished it that day. She’d noticed.

Veer had gone quiet too, that last week. Which was strange, because Veer always had something to say — school, friends, some video. That week, not much. He mostly stayed in his room. Once she passed his door and heard him on his headphones, saying something to himself. She didn’t stop to check what.

Three days before she left, she went out to put the dustbin out — Gudiya was off that day — and Veer came through the gate holding a puppy. Small. Coconut-sized. Fighting his grip with everything it had. “Didi, ek din ke liye rakh lete hain na—” “No.” She didn’t need to think about it. “Maa won’t like it. Take it back.” “But it—” He stopped. Held the puppy tighter. “It keeps coming back, didi. Third time I’ve left it in the next lane. By evening it’s back at the gate.” She hadn’t paid much attention to that part. “Veer.” He walked off with that theatrical sadness only younger brothers seem to manage — puppy pressed to his chest like he was walking it somewhere final. The postman came right after. The joining letter. Bank of India, Shimla branch. Joining date — next Monday. She stood at the gate, house slippers on, dustbin bag still in her hand, and read it three times. Shimla. The hills. She had always wanted the hills. It was a want so specific it was hard to explain, even to herself. Nothing big. Just a pull. Toward cold mornings, pine trees, roads that curved off and disappeared. She had never really told anyone this. Some wants get smaller the moment you say them out loud. And now here it was. On government letterhead.

Papa left the next morning. Another goodbye at the gate. Ridhima noticed, a little amused, that most things in this house seemed to happen at the gate. Papa had that look people get when they’re worried and trying not to show it. He was in his off-white collared T-shirt, the one he liked for the drive back. “Call karte rehna.” “Karungi.” “Maa ko bhi.” “Haan, Papa.” He put a hand on her head for a second. Then got into the car. She watched until it turned the corner. Then she stood there one more second, in the cold morning, properly alone for maybe the first time in her life. It wasn’t scary. Just quiet. Quiet enough that she could hear her own breathing. That felt strange for a moment. Someday, she thought, there would be someone here to wait for. Not yet. Right now it was just her, and a house still learning the sound of her voice. She went inside and started folding clothes again. Routine helps. It gives the hands something to do when the mind doesn’t know what to do with itself.

The rain started without any warning. That’s how it goes in Shimla. One minute a rumour, the next fully committed. She was walking back from the market. Basic groceries, plus a couple of things she didn’t need but bought anyway. By the time she got near the house, the rain had stopped. Just like that. She lowered the umbrella. Exhaled. And right then — the puppy shook itself dry. It was standing right next to her. No idea how it got there. One full-body shake, like this was the most important thing it had to do all day. Cold water landed straight across her kurta, her bag, and the one part of her that had somehow stayed dry. She looked down. It looked up. It was — she’d only admit this to herself — very small. White coat, a faint cream around the ears. Round dark eyes, the kind that belong to something that has never once been told no. But there was something else in the look too. Like it was searching for something. Or someone. Something it hadn’t found yet. “My God.” She looked down at her kurta. “I kept everything dry the whole way and this chutku—” The puppy wagged its tail. She looked at it. It wagged its tail again. She walked on.

It followed her. She heard it before she saw it — small feet on the wet road, tap tap tap, like it had somewhere to be, and that somewhere was directly behind her. She stopped. Turned around. It stopped too. Looked right at her. Innocent. Not sorry at all. She held the umbrella out in front of her, like a barrier. “Don’t you dare follow me. Go. Shoo. Jao.” The puppy watched her say all of this. Tilted its head, maybe fifteen degrees, like this was a mildly interesting performance it was willing to watch but not join. She turned back around. She walked the rest of the way home telling herself it had stopped following. She didn’t look back. She was good at that — not looking at things she’d already decided weren’t her problem. It was an old habit. She couldn’t say when it started. Never gave it a name. Just did it. But behind her, faint, came a sound. A whimper. She didn’t stop. But her steps slowed down. Just a little.

Chapter One — End