Dogs: The Quiet
Teachers of Our Streets
They live among us, yet never quite with us: silent
inhabitants of our streets, moving through the same mornings and nights that
shape our own lives. We pass them without pause, our footsteps steady, our
minds occupied, while they linger at the edges of our awareness, present yet
overlooked. I often find myself watching them, drawn not by curiosity alone but
by a quiet sense of unease: wondering what they eat, how they survive, and what
unseen instinct guides their search for sustenance in a world that offers so
little.
When I place before them pieces of bread, cooked vegetables,
or rice, they approach with hesitant curiosity. There is no immediate trust, no
eager acceptance. Instead, they sniff cautiously, their noses close to the ground,
their tails moving gently, not in joy, but in uncertainty, as if weighing
experience against possibility. For a moment, it seems they might accept what
is offered. And then, just as quietly, they turn away. It leaves behind a
lingering question: what sustains them, if not this? What silent knowledge do
they carry that teaches them where to look, what to accept, and what to refuse?
Perhaps they survive on what we discard, finding nourishment
in forgotten corners, in scraps we fail to notice, in leftovers abandoned
without thought. Perhaps their lives are shaped by an intimate knowledge of the
unnoticed world, a map of survival invisible to us. As the sun rises, I see
them asleep, curled into themselves on cold pavements, their bodies folded
tightly as if to preserve warmth, or stretched out in rare patches of sunlight,
absorbing what little comfort the day allows. Yet even in rest, they are never
fully at peace. Their ears twitch at the slightest sound, their bodies remain
half-alert, as though life has taught them that sleep must always be cautious,
that safety is never complete.
At times, without warning, they leap into motion, chasing a
passing scooter or bike, barking into the air with an urgency that seems to
come from somewhere deep within, something instinctive and unspoken. It is not
always aggression; often, it feels like a reflex, a response shaped by
countless encounters, remembered and unremembered. And just as suddenly, they
stop. The chase ends as abruptly as it began, and they return to their place,
as though nothing has happened, as though that brief eruption of energy has
been absorbed back into the quiet rhythm of their existence.
They bark at rag pickers, at strangers, at unfamiliar
movements, guarding spaces that give them a fragile sense of belonging. In a
world where ownership is denied to them, they claim small territories through
presence and persistence. A street corner, a pile of debris, the shade beneath
a tree; these become, in some quiet way, theirs. And when they bark at us, there
is often more fear than anger in their voices. A simple gesture, like bending
to pick up a stone, is enough to make them retreat instantly. In that moment,
something deeper is revealed, a history of harsh encounters written into their
memory, lessons learned through pain, carried forward into every interaction.
They move in groups, bound not by choice but by survival.
There is a silent understanding among them, an unspoken agreement to remain
together, to share the risks and uncertainties of their lives. At night, their
voices rise together, howls and barks echoing through empty streets. To us, it
may sound unsettling, even frightening. But beneath that sound lies something
profoundly human, a shared existence, a collective expression of presence,
perhaps even of loneliness.
And still, despite hunger, heat, cold, and uncertainty, they
wag their tails at small kindnesses. A piece of food, a gentle voice, a moment
of recognition, these are enough. In that simple movement lives a quiet hope, a
fragile yet persistent belief that not all hands will harm, that not all humans
will turn away.
It is perhaps this very quality, this silent endurance, this
unwavering attachment, that the great Sufi poet Bulleh Shah saw as a profound
spiritual lesson. In his verses, he turns to the humble dog not merely as an
animal, but as a mirror held up to human nature, revealing, with striking
simplicity, how far we often fall short of the devotion we claim to possess. He
writes:
“Raati jaagien, karein ibadat...
Raat nu jaagan kutte, taithon utte...
Dar
maalik da mool na chhad de...
Bhaanve
sau sau pavaunde jutte, taithon utte...
Rukhi
sukhi roti khaande...
Atte
ja rodi te sutte, taithon utte...
Kutteyan
de kol wafa hai...
Insaanan
vich kithon labhdi ae, taithon utte...
Chal
ve miyaan Bulleya, chal yaar mana le...
Nahi te baazi lae gaye kutte, taithon utte.”…. Punjabi
(Original Verse):
(You stay awake at night, offering prayers...
But
dogs remain awake all night too — they are better than you...
They
never leave the doorstep of their master...
Even
if they are beaten a hundred times — still, they are better than you...
They
eat dry, simple food without complaint...
And
sleep on bare ground or stones — still, they are better than you...
Dogs
possess true loyalty...
Where
can such faithfulness be found in humans? They are better than you...
Come,
O Bulleya, reconcile with your beloved...
Otherwise, even dogs will surpass you.)…. English
Translation:
Perhaps that is why, when we truly look at the street dogs
around us, not with fear, but with attention, we begin to see them differently.
They are no longer just wanderers of the road or voices in the night. They
become quiet embodiments of resilience and loyalty, living reflections of
truths we often overlook. Their lives are harsh, uncertain, and frequently
invisible. Yet they continue without bitterness. They accept what comes, endure
what must be endured, and remain where they find even the smallest sense of
belonging. They do not demand fairness from the world; they simply persist
within it. And when kindness appears, however briefly, they respond with trust,
as though holding onto the possibility that the world is not entirely unkind.
In their silent presence lies a lesson we rarely pause to
learn: that love does not demand perfection, that faith does not seek
recognition, and that loyalty, in its purest form, asks for nothing in return.
These are not ideas they express, but truths they live, moment by moment,
without awareness of their own example. And perhaps, as Bulleh Shah gently reminds
us, if we fail to recognise these truths, if we remain absorbed in our own
claims of virtue while overlooking such simple, living expressions of it, we
may one day find that those we ignore so easily, the humble, the voiceless, the
forgotten, have already surpassed us in the very qualities we hold so dear.
Perhaps the next time we pass them, resting in the shade,
watching from a distance, or quietly moving along the edge of our world, we
might pause, if only for a moment. Not out of pity, but out of recognition. For
in their watchful eyes and cautious trust, there is something that reflects us,
not as we are, but as we could be.
( Avtar Mota )
Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.
