The grass gleamed a bright yellow even as the sun was hidden behind a veil of clouds. The children below stomping away as they moved in unpredictable patterns.
Looking up as she sat on the cold metal of the jungle gym, she stared a little too long at the swollen halo of the sun as she noticed several birds fly past it. Now blind, she looked to the park where her friends were hanging on swings and see-saws. The cool air carried her focus away, leading her eyes to explore the varied forms and textures surrounding her. The Banyan Tree that sways, the Jacaranda flowers that blew off to the ground, the frightened squirrels that ran in short bursts, the spiralling down of falling leaves and the silent creak of an empty swing. She lingered, aware that her perpetually cold hands were growing even colder as she held herself still.
Until, in a flash, a blur of black fur dashed across, a man on a bicycle in tow—like a storm sweeping through, altering her life forever.
Just past the tree line that sparsely enveloped the park, the concrete road stretched out, where her one-year-old dog was out for some exercise. A lean, yet strong muscular figure led the bicycle with shocking speed, which to the man’s horror meant he could not reach for the pedals. He awkwardly bent his knees suspended mid-air giving it his all not to crash down. Seeing this, she sprang down from the jungle gym and, oblivious to the consequences, shouted, “Simba!”—her high-pitched voice echoing sharply across the park.
Simba turned his head as her winced expression matched the screech of the bicycle that narrowly crashed into a wall. As the man released the otherwise taut leash, a gangly Labrador Retriever puppy bolted forward, ears flapping wildly and chubby paws crunching through the leaves. He bounded through the small opening in the park, making a beeline straight for her as she planted her feet for impact. Hi, sister! This is fun! Hi, how are you? he seemed to say, leaping toward her small, 4-foot frame. She stumbled, unable to keep her balance, nearly toppling backwards as he brushed against her with playful hops. She controlled her laugh, as she steadied herself, wrapping her arms around his soft fur with every short, joyful greeting. 'Simba, you are going to give someone a heart attack someday,’ her words carried a serious note, but her heart betrayed her, swelling with warmth as she watched him. That unrelenting energy, that sheer joy in every move—it was impossible not to smile. He leaned into her hand, just for a second, his silky fur brushing against her fingers. Then, just as quickly, he was off again—bounding forward with his tail wagging furiously, a black fur ball of determination and spirit.
He was chaos. Most days, his escapades were punctuated by someone’s exasperated shouts, their carefully maintained patience snapping like a twig under his paws. His sheer will to be himself always outmatched any human resolve.
Often, she’d hold him, trying to pry whatever he had from his tightly shut jaw, only for him to resist with that stubborn look in his eyes, and just as easily leave it as if it wasn’t worth the effort. And then, just to prove her point, he’d go ahead and find something even more ridiculous to chew on, all while flashing her those bright eyes and a cheeky little jump-walk, as if daring her to stop him.
So, when the same dog that trampled over our mother’s rhododendron bush while greedily devouring the carrots he’d just yanked out suddenly became a collector of sorts, it was hard to believe. His energy shifted completely. Calm in his way, he would dig little pits beneath the swing, his paws scratching with a steady rhythm as the swing above him creaked in protest. That metallic sound was her clue—he was saving something. Why he chose to hoard those fragments of the world, she never knew. A leaf that once tickled his nose, a stick chosen from countless others, a smooth rock that felt just right beneath his paw, a flower spared from being chewed - the same dog that ate paint after spending countless hours scratching the wall.
He knew how to garner attention. Each time, and several times a day, she spent chasing him, only to call out his name and he would return with the same vigour he left with. He ran at strangers like a charging bull with a happiness that was infectious, of course, not everyone appreciated that. Simba never gave time to react, charging this time toward an elderly lady with all the enthusiasm of a hurricane. She could see it unfolding in slow motion: the old woman’s eyes widening in shock, her frail stick trembling in her hands as Simba launched himself forward. And just like that, the chaos was complete. He returned to her with a triumphant wag of his tail, leaving behind only the flustered woman and her complaints. She inherited all the frown lines on his behalf when the flustered lady made her way to their door, intent on a complaint. “Keep him on a leash,” she said, anger laced with caution. “He’s a monster.”
Only she knew what Simba could do to a leash. Metal? He’d chew through it like it was paper. Cloth? Those lasted about fifteen minutes before he ate right through them. As Simba trotted home, there was a glint in his eyes, as if he knew exactly what mess he’d caused, but wasn’t about to let it stop him.
After all, he was the reigning wild child of our home.
And she embraced him every chance she got. He was a whirlwind of energy, chasing every ball she threw, leaping high to grab it mid-air, and bounding back with unmatched enthusiasm. Her 9-year-old self sat on a swing, a repurposed bus seat, laughing with delight at their endless game.
Years later, in a new city, the garden had changed as much as she had. Gone was the lush green lawn and the canopy of guava and gulmohar trees. Instead, a small patch of freshly planted grass clung to life in a yard mostly covered in dry ground. Banyan and mango trees lined the perimeter, their roots twisting through the earth, with the occasional kikar tree adding a thorny wildness to the scene. The swing from her childhood had made the journey with her, now placed near the small patch of grass, a familiar comfort in an unfamiliar space.
Her now Simba—larger, calmer, and infinitely more opinionated—watched from his spot in the tiled foyer just outside their home. She sat on the swing, ball in hand, remembering the joy of the game she had played so many times before. With a nostalgic smile, she lobbed the ball into the patch of grass, expecting to see him leap to his feet. But Simba didn’t move. His head tilted ever so slightly as he fixed her with a long, incredulous stare, his brow furrowing as if he were genuinely perplexed. His expression said it all: Why would you throw something you clearly want to keep? Seriously, go fetch it yourself!
She blinked at him, her hand still outstretched from the throw. “Simba,” she called, waving her arm toward the ball. He didn’t budge. Instead, he let out a low sigh and settled further into his spot, his eyes flicking lazily between her and the ball. She burst out laughing, the sound carrying through the quiet yard. “Fine! I’ll get it myself,” she grumbled, stepping off the swing. Simba’s tail thumped once against the tiled floor, a slow, measured wag that somehow managed to convey approval, humour, and smugness all at once. As she picked up the ball, she glanced back at him. “Are you even a retriever?." Simba huffed softly, his eyes already closing. He was content to let her do the chasing this time, as he had his work cut out for him most mornings.
One cold winter morning, she slept with her face resting on the edge of the bed, as she felt a cold and wet nose right in front of her face. Her 5-year-old dog’s big jowls were resting on the bed, occasionally letting out a sigh, as if nudged by mom to wake her up for school. When she didn’t stir, he nudged her hand from under the blanket and naturally slipped his round head beneath it, urging her to pat him back. He proceeded to plonk himself on the bed right above her feet. His way of saying - I will sit right here till you wake up. Successful and one step closer to completing his mission, with a pompous strut, he trotted off to the other side of the room, where he slapped his tail against his brother, jarring him awake—an entirely different style he reserved just for him. It wasn’t the frenzy of his predecessor, but rather an energy that kept her engaged in the gentlest way imaginable. Though, in some ways, he still had things in common.
He too was a collector, though he could more accurately be classified as a connoisseur. It was evident in the way he not only identified but also appreciated the things he found. And find, he did.
As the family gathered in the bedroom to watch evening television under a soft blanket, Simba sat by the bed. She sat beside him, petting him as she always did, praising him for being the best boy. With a short acknowledgement rolling on her lap, he walked over to a chair where the day's laundry had been neatly ironed and stacked. Without a second thought, he hopped up and walked past her to grab a bed sheet from the pile. Using his front teeth with unusual care, he made sure not to crumple the other clothes in the process. He pulled it out and sat with it, as we all stared at him in silence for a moment. He didn't look at anyone, his expression full of quiet confidence—as if to say, What is my stuff doing with yours? The bed sheet he identified from just a sliver of visible fabric was a paisley one, strikingly similar to the one he had as a puppy. He recognised the pattern and, out of nowhere, claimed it as his own. Similarly, one Christmas, we managed to find a furry red blanket to use as a tree skirt. Not even an hour after the tree was up, Simba walked in and grabbed the blanket as if we had taken it from him - Santa delivered this year. This is mine. Hope you get something good too.
His conviction was undeniable, and his reactions downright hilarious.
On most days, Simba would lie at her feet like a furry carpet, sighing as if he were contemplating the difficulty of the maths problems she was working on. But today was different. If there was anything Simba revered more than education, it was his mother. He sat loyally by her side as she read on the veranda.
"Snake! Snake!" her mother shrieked.
She leapt from her study chair. As she rushed toward the front door, Simba dashed past her, heading straight back to the study room. Confused, she paused for a moment, scanning the scene. Her mother had already rushed out to the main gate, and there, in the corner of the yard, sat a six-foot snake. It moved swiftly, but she didn’t hesitate to call a snake catcher—a common necessity when living near golf courses.
When the snake catcher arrived, he asked, "Do you have a dog? I'm scared.” Somehow, despite the tension, we all laughed as we assured him that Simba was safe inside, calmly aware to clear the premises at the first sign of trouble. So much so, that for many years, Simba carefully coexisted with a Tom cat in our backyard. Occasionally, he’d bark at the cat, who had claimed a lounge chair as its seating spot. Simba would bark once when told, then return to what he was doing, as if to say, I've told the cat, and the cat has let me know that he will leave. He was a diva. The only child in this house who made it to the Good Housekeeping magazine and did he know that?
Together, she knows they make the best ten years of her childhood, with their almond-shaped eyes, wet noses, slimy drool, chubby, leathery paws, wagging tails, flappy ears, and the biggest hearts. Or, as Taylor Swift puts it (paraphrasing):
Wind in my hair, I was there, I was there.
Down the hall, you were there, you were there.
Sacred prayer, We were there. We were there.
Just between us, do you remember it all too well?
It was rare, I remember it all too well.
Two lives, two hearts, two Simbas—etched forever in mine.
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