I’m staring at the ceiling, contemplating whether or not to get up from the bed. My sisters are nowhere in sight. I hear their distant laughs and screams from the living room. My mother is speaking to someone on the landline: a daily ritual she practiced every few hours or so. I should probably get up before the avalanche of screams and shouts decide what to do for themselves. My feet shuffle onto the carpet of the living room and I look up, my eyes still adjusting to the harsh yellowish tinge of our new light bulbs. There is a poorly wrapped light-blue package sitting on our small coffee table. I walk closer and examine it, only to see the letters “Happy Birthday” plastered on every inch of the gift wrap. My mind searches for answers. Whose birthday is it? It was a month that had no proximity to any of our birthdays. My mom walks in, still on the phone and she pauses when she sees me. My sisters scurry in, eager to see what this early morning surprise is. They stare at my mother, whose warm gaze is almost inviting me to open the gift. I don’t get any answers to my questions. What’s the worst that could happen? Maybe it’s a homemade packet of math work to enjoy (my mom seems highly capable of this)! Maybe it’s a bomb: That seems unlikely. Still, I ponder about the package. You know that feeling, when you’re so excited about something, that you don’t want to go through with it? Well, this was the exact feeling I had. My mom urged me to open the package and I sat on our old carpet, knees on the floor, and laid my hands on the gift. It was mostly air. I poked at it like it was this weird, airy, gift-wrap bubble. By now, my family members were getting impatient. I took a deep breath and began to rip the paper. My eyes caught a flash of white, almost blinding. I closed the package, and I knew exactly what it was. The thing I had been searching for all these months, what kept me sleepless for many nights, was right here in front of my tired (and confused) eyes. I’ve finally found you.
I’ll stop killing you with the suspense. Close your eyes, and imagine a bustling mall hallway, with stalls full of miscellaneous junk. Place my young father, my mother in her chic 90s clothes, and little me, all rosy-cheeked and almost suffocated from the layers of clothing I sport. Such was a day in my one-year-old life. We had recently moved from India and it was the first time we went shopping in America. This was during the time in my life where I found everything as a “discovery”. My parents definitely spoilt me back then. I had never verbally asked for anything in my life, but things were about to change that day. I sat in my tacky stroller, probably drinking from a sippy cup full of whatever my parents managed to put in there to get me asleep. We were just passing another stall when my tiny eyes caught a flash of white fur, among the other toys. Let me just say, it’s a genius idea to place all the toys in plain sight so random children's tears become your immediate profit. I cried (the perfect way to get your parents’ attention) and commanded my parental servants to take me to the stall we just passed. A Middle-Eastern man greeted my father (I’m guessing he had a smile, thinking about all the loot he would get from this family), and displayed all the toys, all for my excited eyes to take in. I watched as he rearranged the toys, eventually settling on a small, scraggly white dog with black polka dots. Aha, I had found my precious! My dad placed the stuffed animal in my tiny, awaiting arms, and they watched as I played with the toy. I guess that’s when my parents knew that this was the one. The dog cost thirteen dollars, which was definitely overpriced if you ask me, had you seen the thing. We brought our newfound “Pet" home and named it “Puppy”. Yes, I know, very creative, on my parents’ part (I had later tried changing its name to “Cupcake” in the third grade, but that didn’t work out). So, Puppy was my only companion for a while, until my parents decided to have another child. Soon, all the attention on Puppy shifted to my chubby baby sister, Nawina.
Before we knew it, our family-of-four moved to Tennessee from California and it was just the four of us for a long time: Five very long years... Then suddenly, my youngest sister, Sarithra, came out of nowhere! Now, we had quite a big family, and my poor son-wanting father had to accept the fact that he would have to raise three girls. Our house was always noisy, but my lucky father got to escape every three months to India, for work. We were messy children: cleaning was a daily struggle. One good thing that came out of cleaning our upstairs room was when I saw a flash of white fur. I pulled out this small stuffed puppy from under all our toys and marveled at the scraggly dog. What is this? I learned, soon enough, that this was the very first toy I had asked for, and I took it EVERYWHERE with me when I was little. Soon, Puppy became my best friend, and my toddler years came back, with me lugging the dog wherever I went. Eventually, I would learn a very important lesson about carrying the toy everywhere.
It was a sunny Saturday, and I was very excited. My friend was having her birthday party at the park and I was invited! I spent the entire morning, grooming myself, and pairing my rainbow leopard-print dress with the gaudiest earrings I could find. I knew they would be the talk of the party! And to top it all off, I popped Puppy into the small fabric bag I was carrying. At this point, I started worrying that I would steal attention from the birthday girl. I was right. As soon as I showed up, all the girls started gushing at my bag with Puppy. At this moment, I would like to apologize to Puppy, for using you as our football that day. The party ended at around 8 and we waved goodbye to all our friends. We settled ourselves in the living room, and I took out my bag, to admire it once more. Something was missing. The sinking realization in me set as I looked for someone to blame. Puppy was missing! I knew I left her at the park, so I pestered (more like “forced”) my mom to call her friends. Finally, the birthday girl’s mom made something of the “white dog” talk. She said that she had seen Puppy left under the benches in the Pavillion when she was cleaning up, but she wasn’t sure if it belonged to any of us, so she didn’t pick it up.
I could no longer feel the airflow to my lungs. My skin had turned cold as if the blood stopped flowing. My rainbow leopard-print dress and shiny earrings didn’t mean anything anymore. I was nothing without my Puppy. Crying yourself to sleep doesn’t just appear in the movies. Sure, when anyone looks at it now, this was a silly matter. I just had to move on. Well, I tried. For two very long weeks. I remember staring at the wall one day and feeling my lip quiver, as tears rushed out of my eyes. Never have I ever been so sad in my life. Puppy started to become a thing of the past. Until that Sunday morning when my mother gifted her to me in a poorly-wrapped “Happy Birthday” package.
My mom was just as devastated as I was. I did not know this, but she had told my father (he was in India at the time) about my situation and he advised her to go to the park again. My dad is a terrifying guy but it shocked me that he was more upset about the situation than I was. He told her that she would definitely find Puppy. She had arrived early the next day and was questioning all the custodians if they had seen Puppy. A park ranger had told my mother that all the trash from the previous day would be in the dumpster. My beloved Puppy was now among the garbage produced from this park. My determined mother (an amazing woman, now that I think about it) went to the large dumpster and started digging through all the trash. Planting her well-manicured fingers into the sea of garbage, my mother dug until she found the small, scraggly dog, all covered in soot and dirt. She told me that Puppy was at the bottom of the dumpster, looking up at her sadly, sprawled on all-fours. She brought it home and washed away the scent of abandonment from its soft white fur. My mother waited to give it to me, and when she did, I felt as if the world had started spinning again. A hundred weights lifted from my tiny shoulders at that moment. Now, whenever I look at Puppy, I remember the journey that it has taken me through. She reappears in my life every so often.
Puppy sits atop my bunk bed now. I know, it is just a toy. But, Puppy is like a living, breathing soul to me. I’ve contemplated it more than once: When I die, does Puppy die with me? Or when I grow old, will I pass it on to my daughter or grandchild, to let Puppy live on? I find it extraordinary, that this scraggly, white dog will live longer than me.
We, as humans, are obsessed with one idea: What will we leave for this world? In a way, by letting Puppy live on, I have left my mark.
I’ll stop killing you with the suspense. Close your eyes, and imagine a bustling mall hallway, with stalls full of miscellaneous junk. Place my young father, my mother in her chic 90s clothes, and little me, all rosy-cheeked and almost suffocated from the layers of clothing I sport. Such was a day in my one-year-old life. We had recently moved from India and it was the first time we went shopping in America. This was during the time in my life where I found everything as a “discovery”. My parents definitely spoilt me back then. I had never verbally asked for anything in my life, but things were about to change that day. I sat in my tacky stroller, probably drinking from a sippy cup full of whatever my parents managed to put in there to get me asleep. We were just passing another stall when my tiny eyes caught a flash of white fur, among the other toys. Let me just say, it’s a genius idea to place all the toys in plain sight so random children's tears become your immediate profit. I cried (the perfect way to get your parents’ attention) and commanded my parental servants to take me to the stall we just passed. A Middle-Eastern man greeted my father (I’m guessing he had a smile, thinking about all the loot he would get from this family), and displayed all the toys, all for my excited eyes to take in. I watched as he rearranged the toys, eventually settling on a small, scraggly white dog with black polka dots. Aha, I had found my precious! My dad placed the stuffed animal in my tiny, awaiting arms, and they watched as I played with the toy. I guess that’s when my parents knew that this was the one. The dog cost thirteen dollars, which was definitely overpriced if you ask me, had you seen the thing. We brought our newfound “Pet" home and named it “Puppy”. Yes, I know, very creative, on my parents’ part (I had later tried changing its name to “Cupcake” in the third grade, but that didn’t work out). So, Puppy was my only companion for a while, until my parents decided to have another child. Soon, all the attention on Puppy shifted to my chubby baby sister, Nawina.
Before we knew it, our family-of-four moved to Tennessee from California and it was just the four of us for a long time: Five very long years... Then suddenly, my youngest sister, Sarithra, came out of nowhere! Now, we had quite a big family, and my poor son-wanting father had to accept the fact that he would have to raise three girls. Our house was always noisy, but my lucky father got to escape every three months to India, for work. We were messy children: cleaning was a daily struggle. One good thing that came out of cleaning our upstairs room was when I saw a flash of white fur. I pulled out this small stuffed puppy from under all our toys and marveled at the scraggly dog. What is this? I learned, soon enough, that this was the very first toy I had asked for, and I took it EVERYWHERE with me when I was little. Soon, Puppy became my best friend, and my toddler years came back, with me lugging the dog wherever I went. Eventually, I would learn a very important lesson about carrying the toy everywhere.
It was a sunny Saturday, and I was very excited. My friend was having her birthday party at the park and I was invited! I spent the entire morning, grooming myself, and pairing my rainbow leopard-print dress with the gaudiest earrings I could find. I knew they would be the talk of the party! And to top it all off, I popped Puppy into the small fabric bag I was carrying. At this point, I started worrying that I would steal attention from the birthday girl. I was right. As soon as I showed up, all the girls started gushing at my bag with Puppy. At this moment, I would like to apologize to Puppy, for using you as our football that day. The party ended at around 8 and we waved goodbye to all our friends. We settled ourselves in the living room, and I took out my bag, to admire it once more. Something was missing. The sinking realization in me set as I looked for someone to blame. Puppy was missing! I knew I left her at the park, so I pestered (more like “forced”) my mom to call her friends. Finally, the birthday girl’s mom made something of the “white dog” talk. She said that she had seen Puppy left under the benches in the Pavillion when she was cleaning up, but she wasn’t sure if it belonged to any of us, so she didn’t pick it up.
I could no longer feel the airflow to my lungs. My skin had turned cold as if the blood stopped flowing. My rainbow leopard-print dress and shiny earrings didn’t mean anything anymore. I was nothing without my Puppy. Crying yourself to sleep doesn’t just appear in the movies. Sure, when anyone looks at it now, this was a silly matter. I just had to move on. Well, I tried. For two very long weeks. I remember staring at the wall one day and feeling my lip quiver, as tears rushed out of my eyes. Never have I ever been so sad in my life. Puppy started to become a thing of the past. Until that Sunday morning when my mother gifted her to me in a poorly-wrapped “Happy Birthday” package.
My mom was just as devastated as I was. I did not know this, but she had told my father (he was in India at the time) about my situation and he advised her to go to the park again. My dad is a terrifying guy but it shocked me that he was more upset about the situation than I was. He told her that she would definitely find Puppy. She had arrived early the next day and was questioning all the custodians if they had seen Puppy. A park ranger had told my mother that all the trash from the previous day would be in the dumpster. My beloved Puppy was now among the garbage produced from this park. My determined mother (an amazing woman, now that I think about it) went to the large dumpster and started digging through all the trash. Planting her well-manicured fingers into the sea of garbage, my mother dug until she found the small, scraggly dog, all covered in soot and dirt. She told me that Puppy was at the bottom of the dumpster, looking up at her sadly, sprawled on all-fours. She brought it home and washed away the scent of abandonment from its soft white fur. My mother waited to give it to me, and when she did, I felt as if the world had started spinning again. A hundred weights lifted from my tiny shoulders at that moment. Now, whenever I look at Puppy, I remember the journey that it has taken me through. She reappears in my life every so often.
Puppy sits atop my bunk bed now. I know, it is just a toy. But, Puppy is like a living, breathing soul to me. I’ve contemplated it more than once: When I die, does Puppy die with me? Or when I grow old, will I pass it on to my daughter or grandchild, to let Puppy live on? I find it extraordinary, that this scraggly, white dog will live longer than me.
We, as humans, are obsessed with one idea: What will we leave for this world? In a way, by letting Puppy live on, I have left my mark.
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