Six months back, my wife and son brought home a kitten from a friend. I am not a cat person, yet the kitten chose me with the precision of water finding its level. She slept on my lap, obeyed my commands more than anyone else’s—or pretended to. The friend who gave her said she’d lost her mother at birth. My wife would say, watching the kitten curl into my discarded shirt, “She thinks you’re her mother.”
I was strict about the bedroom boundary. When I returned after a month of work, she had colonized my side of the bed, specifically seeking my used clothes, my towels—anything that held my scent.
We developed a language. Different meows for different needs, accompanied by specific gestures. Sometimes I assume I understand. Understanding gives comfort, even when it’s constructed. Even unbearable problems become bearable when I believe I understand them.
By my work table sits a window. I work late nights; the kitten turned nocturnal with me. We became creatures of parallel rhythm, sleeping through the day while the world conducted its business. Through that window, she would hunt. One midnight, a lizard. I told my family to watch her—snakes live where we live.
I began closing the window at night.
The monsoon is late this year. Two weeks of moderate rain. Three nights ago, she stood by that window with a specific meow—eyes almost closed, a particular insistence I’d learned to read.
I opened the window. Let her go.
When I finished work and prepared for bed, she hadn’t returned. As I’d done previous nights, I closed the window. Previous nights, she’d waited on the portico until morning. This time, morning came without her.
It was Diwali night when she left. Firecrackers, rain—reasons for a cat to hide. She was in heat, female, not spayed. Perhaps she went for love. We have no solid reasoning. For two days, the family mood hung heavy.
Cat, dog, human—we construct memories, inquiries. I ask myself: what if I hadn’t closed the window? No solid answer comes. I look at the window while working, expecting her head between the grills before she jumps in.
Yesterday I told my son she would be happy somewhere, especially if she’d gone for love. Or I wanted to tell myself that. This doesn’t change that I’m not a cat person. Maybe she wasn’t a cat to me. I cannot articulate what I mean.
My son wanders at dusk and dawn, ringing the bell she played with.
Today, while I worked, looking at the window between sessions, my wife’s voice interrupted: “Please don’t start anything significant this week. Either music or something else. We want you this week.”
She’s right. The washing machine has waited a month for installation. I live in a rammed earth house I built—no plumber or electrician works without my presence. They need me when walls are involved. The new location requires drilling through rammed earth for the water outlet. Local plumbers tried once, thinking it was just a “mud wall.”
Like cats, walls have our mental constructs. I don’t think we can see anything without them.
When my wife says don’t start anything significant, she means something. At times, I venture into something and don’t return as expected.
Like the cat for whom we still wait.