Chapter 6: Heartbreak and Night Patrol

The next time I saw Dadi’s eldest grandson was half a year later.

When summer holidays finally arrived, the excited grandson stood stunned in the yard.

He looked at me, confused, and asked Dadi, “Dadi, where’s my Billu?”

Dadi and I stared at each other. She pointed at me. “Arrey, isn’t she right here?”

The grandson looked at me. I looked at him.

I wanted to rub against his leg, but as soon as I took two steps, he plopped down and wailed, “That’s not Billu!”

“My Billu was tiny, with big round eyes, she…”

He stared at my giant paws, remembering how they once fit in his palm. “She could eat me in one bite! This is a prehistoric giant cat, a mammoth cat! This isn’t my Billu…”

He shrank into the shadow of my huge body, looking weak and pitiful.

Dadi cocked her ear. “What red chilli?”

“I gave her a new name. She’s called Moti now. Yes, she’s a bit skinny—this kitten’s picky and hardly eats.”

I flexed my paw and even the guava tree shook.

Yes, yes, I’m picky. I have an eating disorder.

Who could love eating when you’re force-fed daily?

I took another step toward him, and he scrambled away, sliding on all fours like his backside was greased.

The grandson didn’t love me anymore.

I was very sad and lost my appetite.

That night, Dadi cooked a big meal, but her son left without eating.

The grandson climbed onto a stool for the masala prawns, but Dadi rapped his hand with a spoon.

“Your Cat Uncle hasn’t sat down yet!”

Dadi even put my bowl on the table.

My food was the plain portion; hers was full of masala.

Whatever Dadi ate, I ate too.

That was my cat meal.

The grandson stared as I, the prehistoric giant cat, leapt onto the table, listened to Dadi’s instructions, then tucked in to eat.

Dadi asked him questions between bites.

“Is studying hard?”

“Are you sleeping well?”

“Do you eat well at home?”

He stammered, unable to answer, just staring at me.

Dadi even picked up food I dropped and put it back in my bowl.

That night, the grandson didn’t sleep a wink.

He couldn’t figure out where things had gone wrong, and was glad he hadn’t brought his hamster for Dadi to look after.

Otherwise, there’d be a prehistoric giant cat and the Yellow Wind Monster in the yard.

Dadi turned off the light and lay on the charpai, patting the mattress and calling me to sleep.

My bed was at Dadi’s feet, a little basket woven from cane and jute, lined with a thick blanket she knitted.

Because Dadi said kittens can’t get under the covers, I couldn’t sleep in her bed.

Every night, Dadi told me a bedtime story: “Once upon a time, there was a mountain, and on the mountain was a mandir, and in the mandir lived three kittens. Every day, they went down the mountain to fetch water…”

I’ve heard the story of the three kittens fetching water at least a hundred and eighty times.

But I’ve never heard the ending—Dadi always falls asleep first.

Once Dadi was asleep, I’d slip out and patrol the yard.

Night ran deep, stars twinkling overhead. Fireflies blinked above the guava tree, and the distant sound of a train horn drifted over the fields.

I chased away sneaky birds, shooed the annoying dog, caught two mice, and squashed a wandering cockroach.

A few kittens spotted me and greeted me: “Hey, Didi!”

That’s right, that’s right.

My reputation had spread among all the village kittens.

With my size and dog-fighting skills, I was the undisputed boss.

Little Kalu flicked her tail and asked, “Didi, why does Dadi call you Moti?”

Moti. Like naming Bhim—who wields two gada—a cutesy, sweet name. It’s just not right.

I gazed at the sky, sighing, “Without my Dadi, I wouldn’t be here today…”

The kittens were awestruck, instantly worshipping my poetic soul.

Satisfied, I turned to head back—only to bump into the grandson, up for a midnight bathroom run.

His face pale, pants clutched, he fled: “The cat can talk! Boss Cat, I’m sorry, please don’t eat me!”