Man of the house

Jijibhoy thinks he’s a snail and my tiny studio apartment is his shell. He pokes his head out the front door, sniffing cautiously, and at the slightest human intrusion on his peripheral vision, he darts inside, looking out from under the bed. Sometimes when the boys outside are being rambunctious and I can hear them chasing and screaming, I wonder if they are torturing Jijibhoy. But I don’t have to worry, because my little snail never steps out.

When he was little, we wondered if Jijibhoy knew he was a cat. All he saw was us, he even needed nudging to realise he had to pee. (When the kitten is really little, the mother licks his behind to get him to pee. To simulate this action, we dipped cotton in warm water and dabbed him. It worked and was kind of miraculous to behold. First-time mothers are so easy to impress.) He was needy for affection, even if he asserted himself by biting throughout any cuddling. He followed me into the toilet. He jumped up on the kitchen shelf and put his face into my mug of tea. He constantly got between our feet. In other words, he didn’t display any feline grace or intelligence. Did this cat have any idea of his heritage?

We exulted in every little cat-like thing he did as proof that we hadn’t uprooted this creature from his real environment and he wouldn’t, as a consequence, write diasporic novels one day. We took heart every time he chased a piece of string across the floor. Or when he hissed at a Lhasa puppy who was only trying to be friends. And at his uncanny knack for finding the warmest, least convenient part of your body to snuggle against at night. He was a little bit of cat, wrapped in a ball of kitten.

Now, he’s all growed up. Of course, he still leaps out from behind doors, paws splayed, to scare you. And he’s very, very careful with strangers. And people he knows. And stray gusts of wind. But he’s more confident in his cat-itude now. He knows who is. He is a long, muscular, furry cat, who can put out his claws to gain purchase on any surface. He is the chaser of bottle-flies and lizards. He has sharp baby-teeth that he uses to express love early in the morning. He has a raspy tongue that he employs to groom his unkempt human mothers. He is a cat.

But the minute I open that front door, he is a snail again.

Gorgeous pic by Nishat