In the block of flats facing my window live Gurmit Kaur and her family. They have been living there for a long time but I became aware of their existence only three years ago. She sent me a note asking me to let her come over to show me something she had made. She arrived a few minutes later carrying a framed sketch of me in my skull cap and with unkempt beard. It was a startling likeness. She had never before met me; perhaps she had a glimpse of me coming in or going out of my apartment. I asked her how she had done it. “From your picture in some paper or magazine,” she replied.

The sketch she made was extensively used by the Punjab government, then headed by Captain Amarinder Singh of Patiala, to advertise the Panth Ratan Award he conferred on me. It now stands on the bookshelves facing me.

Gurmit became a frequent visitor. She addresses me as “papa” and calls my daughter “didi”. She is in her mid-forties, buxom and oozing with affection. Also, generous: she never comes empty-handed but invariably with a bouquet of flowers or a basket of fruit.

A few months ago, she came with a large sketch of Gursharan Kaur, the wife of our prime minister. She had never set her eyes on her and drew the portrait from Gursharan Kaur’s photographs in different journals. I expressed some reservations on its resemblance to her subject. A few days later, she saw Gursharan Kaur at a book launch and took a closer look at her. She redrew her painting. This time, she made two large ones of the prime minister and his wife as they look today and another of them when they were newly married. My neighbour, Reeta Devi, who is a close friend of the prime minister’s family, happened to be sitting with me when Gurmit unwrapped the two paintings. She was as impressed by their likeness as I was.

Gurmit is a product of Lady Shri Ram College. She had no formal training in art: it is there in her guts. She has won many awards for her work. She has done many portraits. She means to present her latest to Gursharan Kaur with the prayer that her painting will adorn some wall in their residence on 7, Race Course Road for some years to come.

Best friend

Somewhat stupid

He was a few weeks old when one of my neighbours, the Behls, acquired him. I am not sure whether he was an Apso, a Scottish Terrier, or a mix of the two. He looked like a very frightened little ball of white wool, whimpering and shivering all the time. Since the Behls were in their offices all day and their five daughters at school, he was adopted by their maid servant, Krishna — who was childless — as her son. He began to look upon the man servant, a strapping, powerfully built man called Pyaroo, as his step father. They named him Toby.

A day or two after the Behls bought him, Krishna brought Toby to my flat to introduce him. As she placed him in my lap, he got so scared that he peed on my salwar. I comforted him, stroked his fur and made assuring noises. He relaxed and became my friend.

Toby took time to come to terms with his new family. Krishna sat on her moorha and talked to him. He cocked his head sideways to ask questions. Pyaroo took him out in the evenings for his ablutions and exercises. He often dropped in in my house to say ‘hello’. He had to contend with half-a-dozen stray cats who have taken residence in my courtyard. At first he disliked them, growled at them and chased them out of his way.

His visits were more frequent during the summer months. The Behls did not remove their carpets; I did. My bare cement floor cooled by two air-conditioners suited his temperament. He lay flat on his belly with legs outstretched and fell asleep. When Krishna came to take him home, he growled at her and bared his teeth. A few minutes later, Pyaroo picked him up; he offered no resistance.

As Toby grew to adulthood, he developed some bad habits. In front of people sitting around, he’d treat my leg as a sex object. I was embarrassed by his behaviour. He also made terms with the cats. Instead of barking at them, he started flirting with them. He was particularly besotted with one, and often tried to molest it sexually. To my horror, it was a tom cat on which he spent his lust.

Toby was a great barker. There were days when he barked non-stop for hours without any provocation. No matter how much the members of his human family tried make him shut up, he paid no heed and continued to bark at the world. He was somewhat stupid.

About five years ago, Krishna who had a heart problem, died suddenly. I wondered how Toby would take her sudden disappearance from his life. I didn’t have to wait for long. Toby stopped barking. He sat all day at the same spot where he always had been listening to his adopted mother’s continuous chatter but made no response except an occasional sigh. At times, I went to him and asked: “Toby, do you miss your maa?” He simply looked dolefully at me and asked with his eyes, “You still around?”

Since I am no longer mobile, I did not go to see Toby. And since he had stopped barking, I was not sure if he was still around. Then I asked my cook, Chandan Singh, if he had seen Toby recently. “Toby died over a month ago,” he replied. He was not the same dog after Krishna died.