It began with a cry — a thin, desperate howl drifting through the evening air like a thread of sorrow.
Aleykutty Varghese Koottunkal followed the sound, uneasy but determined, until she spotted a shallow pit, barely noticeable under the dry soil. There, struggling for breath, lay a newborn puppy, eyes still sealed by birth. Ants had already begun to gather around its puffy eyelids, drawn to its helplessness. Its mother was nowhere in sight. The earth was quiet, save for that soft, almost human whimper.
With a swift yet gentle motion, Aleykutty scooped it up. Turning it over in her hand, she noted with a quiet satisfaction that it was a male. A short tail — rare in the local breeds — and a rich red coat with not a single spot; she took this as a good omen. Local lore warned that a dog with spots on all four legs and the forehead was untrustworthy. This one, at least by tradition, was destined to be loyal.
Gripping the frail creature by its neck, she carried it home — unaware that this tiny being would soon fill the silence of many evenings.
His name was Kamaan — a name never heard before, suggested by her husband, K M Varghese, a quiet man who loved animals almost as much as he loved naming them. In a time when dogs were called Tippu or Kaisar, Kamaan sounded like a whisper of rebellion.
He grew strong, and with time, fearless. Kamaan became a leader, guiding a pack through the tangled by-lanes of the village. At home, he was not a pet — he was kin. Every family member saved a bit of food for him before placing their plate in the wash. If he wasn’t around, a call of “Umbo Umbo!” would ring out — and like clockwork, he’d arrive, eyes gleaming, tail raised.
Sundays were a ritual. No matter how sternly they warned him, Kamaan followed the family to church, causing no small stir among other dogs along the way. He wore his stubbornness like armor — and earned respect for it.
Then came the crack in their world — the sudden death of K M Varghese in 1977. Grief struck like a monsoon wind, flooding everything. Aleykutty stood firm — barely — balancing sorrow and survival. She had children to raise, a home to hold together, and a future to secure with trembling hands.
And amid all this, Kamaan suffered silently. Food became scarce. Attention waned. He shifted base to the home of K M Mathew, Varghese’s younger brother. But one “Umbo Umbo” from his old home, and he’d dash across the fields like no time had passed.
In that house too, he was loved — until one day, he didn’t return.
The Panchayath had hired dog catchers. Kamaan, leader of the local pack, was among the many rounded up and killed. He was over ten. No one said goodbye.
Among the Koottunkans, three households shared a strange, unspoken reverence for animals — Varghese, Mathew, and John. Varghese loved both cats and dogs; Mathew, mostly cats; and John, obsessively dogs. None allowed them inside, but they were family nonetheless — fed, named, warned, loved.
After Kamaan, many followed — Blackey, Mridulan, Icy, Gillette — each one met an unnatural end. A neighborhood butcher, obsessed with his hoard of bones, laid out poison laced with glass and Othalanga. The dogs would disappear at night and be found stiff and lifeless by morning. Sometimes they were never found — just a stench in the air and silence on the doorstep. I buried them in the backyard, each time breaking a little more.
K M Mathew, meanwhile, raised cats like kin. Biju, his favorite, was a warrior. Only Mathew could pet him. From Biju came a long line of fiercely loyal cats — Binu, Ponnu, Anu, Katherin — names echoing through generations of whiskered grace.
Tippu. When you visit Koottunkal K. M. John's house, it would be this guy welcoming you. He is ferocious to strangers, but friendly and excited with others. He is very camera shy and I had to persuade him a lot for a pose.
Those were different days — when homes rang with life, paws padded over courtyard stones, and mealtimes were shared across species. It was an ecosystem, a delicate harmony of love, duty, and companionship.
Now, the houses stand mostly still. Pets are gone. The courtyards are quiet. Elderly hands wait at the doorstep, hoping for visits that come less often and stay too briefly.
What remains are memories — of names called into the wind, of dogs who never left, of cats who ruled silently — and of a time when home meant more than wall.
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