Macchars don’t wear sweaters

The Call of The Wild

Posted on: February 19, 2007

Ever since he had seen the “Lion King” poster on the video store window Bonny couldn’t get the image out of his mind. The majestic lion positioned on the edge of a jagged cliff, surveying his lands – thick green forests bathed in bright moonlight stretched out below for as far as eyes could see. Nonchalantly gazing over his kingdom with his terrible red eyes, winds blowing back his thick mane, gathering his huge frame, lifting his head heavenwards, thrusting out his muscular chest, and in a moment letting out a thunderous roar, a deep rumble which echoes for miles and miles, bringing all movement in the jungle to a momentary halt, striking terror in hearts of poor animals, causing schools of birds to flutter from their perches.

This scene played itself over and over in Bonny’s mind as he sauntered back home that afternoon. Hadn’t the lion’s spirit possessed him a little? Wasn’t there a little swagger in his step this afternoon? The call of wilderness was especially strong for Bonny today. Wasn’t he of the same ilk and blood? Wasn’t part of him just as wild and untamed? Hadn’t his ancestors roamed jungles in twilight, engaging helpless prey in nature’s cruel game of the hunter and the hunted? Hadn’t novels like “The Call of the Wild” and “White Fang” been dedicated to his kind? Didn’t his cousins still roam the deepest darkest jungles, the glint of their bared teeth and rumble of their menacing growl dreaded by all? Hadn’t nature bestowed Bonny with the same animal grace and instincts which emerged in situations of danger and peril? These were Bonny’s thoughts as he turned the bend leading to his house.

With the corner of his eye Bonny spied a huge sand dune, dumped the previous night outside the sprawling, new, under construction Chopra house. The temptation was irresistible and the prospect of being late for lunch was hardly a deterrent. The muscles of Bonny’s slender form strained and relaxed and he elegantly pulled himself up the steep rise of the sand dune. He could almost sense the admiring gaze of the handful of laborers who had gathered outside the site for their midday meal. He pulled himself to the top to witness the admirable view of the ruins of the old Chopra bungalow. The skeleton ruins were perhaps no less than the remains of a medieval castle, the shapeless outcroppings of rock here and there a grim reminder of its former glory and magnificence. His graceful form silhouetted against the deep red afternoon sun, the moment got better of Bonny, and nature’s spirit possessed him completely. He flung out his beautifully curved chest, inhaled deeply, positioned his body, closed his eyes, lifted his handsome face towards the sky and a soul feezing howl escaped his mouth which started as a melancholic moan and rose and rose “oooo000000OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” Bonny howled for the glory and of nature, the mystery of the world of old, the futility of mortal life, and the tragedy of existence. “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” Bonny howled for the predominance of primeval instincts, the undeniably of atavistic claims, perhaps evoking terror in the souls of the superstitious laborers who had started to whisper amongst themselves. “WHOOOOSH” the rock traveled through the air landing squarely on Bonny’s hips.

“WHELP WHELP WHELP” Bonny screamed, as he tore down the sand dune with tail between legs, and disappeared around the bend which lead to his house.

“HA HA HA HA” the laborers laughed as they collected their tiffins and got up to go back to work.


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