I was going to work the other day, and it was unusually calm. The kind of calm that makes you wonder if there’s a curfew you somehow missed. Not even a stray dog in sight.
I was still a couple of kilometres away from the bus stand and briefly thought of playing chess while walking. Then I dropped the idea—if I blunder, I might lose my queen; if someone else blunders, I might lose my life and meet Lucifer earlier than planned.
I looked up. No one visible from the quarters above the bank. On the roadside, there was a disposable plate made of arecanut leaves, with half a serving of biryani. It was clearly left there for a dog—whoever found it first had hit the jackpot for the day.
No dogs nearby. So I tried something stupid.
“Chimtu!”
Nothing.
I told myself to mind my own business and kept walking. Then I stopped, turned back, and tried again.
“Chimtu!”
This time, two dogs—a mother and a puppy—slid in from a side road onto the main road and stopped near me, as if I had actually summoned them. I pointed toward the plate. They ran to it. I went on my way.
At work, the day moved on. I did this and that and forgot about Chimtu.
On my way back, the puppy was at the same spot. As I walked past, it came toward me, wagging its tail like it knew me. For a second, I didn’t connect it to the morning. Then I did—and immediately felt nervous. Where there’s a puppy, there’s always a mother nearby, watching.
No monkey business today, I decided, and kept walking.
The puppy followed anyway.
I was eating carrots at the time. Some other day, in a random chat with AI, I had asked whether coconut or carrot is safe for dogs. It said yes—in small pieces. So I dropped a few pieces for the puppy and moved on, playing Dhurandhar songs in my ear, heading home.
That night, I played chess and lost three matches back to back. Slept off like every chess player does on a bad day—silently questioning life.
Some days, I believe there is a God… and God is great.
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The next day felt different.
My favorite shirt was right on top of the ironed clothes pile. I played chess while eating breakfast and won both games. At the office, head office officials showed up—not to blame, but to appreciate my work. On the way back, I had pani puri, paid by credit card, and got ₹12 cashback.
Too many things going right in a row. It felt suspicious, like I was still inside a dream.
On the way home, Chimtu spawned again.
I remembered the biryani from yesterday and said, “Hey… that wasn’t me. Some God-human kept that food there. I just called your name. You showed up. Same like today. I didn’t do anything, Chimtu. Sorry.”
Chimtu just wagged its tail harder.
That’s when it hit me—Chimtu understands only two things: love and hate. Not explanations. Not logic. Not credit distribution.
It didn’t matter who placed the biryani. It didn’t matter who owned the act.
To Chimtu, I was the one who called.
I was the one who pointed.
I was the one who fed.
I was… something.
But in reality?
I was just a tap.
If a thirsty bird drinks water from a tap, it might thank the tap. But the tap didn’t create the water. It just carried it.
Same here.
Chimtu didn’t understand any of this, of course. It ran off chasing squirrels.
I stood there, thinking.
One bad day—and I believed there is a God who will protect us.
One good day—and I started believing I am God.
Power corrupts the best of the best. And I’m not even that good, to be honest.
Maybe that’s what this is.
We don’t become gods by intention.
We become them by accident—
in someone else’s story.
Maybe I should start answering prayers now.
Or maybe I should pray.
Depends on the day.
