Dogfather

In memory of Spotty.

Scene 1 

Open Gym, Bakul Gang HQ

The afternoon sun sprawled lazy shadows across the concrete tiles. It’s Sunday, which means there’s Biryani to be had at Kadamb, and flocks of Bakul Nivasis are scurrying over to partake in the humble delight. Some groups splinter off here, dispatching search parties toward BBC in pursuit of cold drinks. Those who remain wait eagerly in the shade. The gym equipment bakes quietly in the sweltering heat; a far cry from the morning bustle.

At the epicenter of the warmth, lies Don Chintu, flopped belly-up and receiving pets to no end from his bipedal but loyal admirers. 

Soft-bellied. Thick-skulled. Unmoved and unmoving.

He didn’t lead the gang. He simply was the gang. Like a monument. Or a particularly dense cloud. He closes his eyes, basking in the love, unaware of the scheming eyes behind him.

When the humans leave, the courtyard goes quiet. From the shadows step two figures:

Jeff and Leo, self-appointed Caporegimes of the Bakul Gang.

No one pets Jeff. Not even by accident. He doesn’t just dislike humans, he treats them like walking disappointments. Leo his eternal brother in arms. A wolf in vaguely friendly clothing. Jeff speaks first, tongue lolling, teeth bared in a wicked smirk:

“Don Chintu,” Jeff begins, voice low, “We seek your blessing…  to send a message.”

“To the Library,” Leo adds. “Donna Alex grows bold. She’s been letting her lackeys past the goal post again. Football ground’s ours.”

Jeff twitches. “We mark it with piss. Today. Straight from the bladder, the old-fashioned way. That mutt Paper won’t know what hit ’em.” 

He always spat the name like a thorn in his snout. Of all the pooches across enemy lines, Paper is one of the rare few as rambunctious as Jeff himself. To him it isn’t just about territory. It was personal.

Chintu raises his head lazily. Then, solemnly, he gets up and sniffs Jeff’s butt.

It was the only tradition he respected.

“Is that a yes?” asks Jeff. Leo watching, eyes gleaming. 

The Don lets out a slow yawn and stands there a while, blinking. Maybe there’s a thought. Maybe not. 

He opens his mouth, but before he can say a word — twitch. From somewhere across the benches, a rustle is felt. Then a blur. A squirrel. Chintu’s eyes snap to it as his last functioning brain cell lights up, like Research Street on Megathon day. 

The council is over. The Dogfather gives chase, lumbering across the tiles, surprisingly nimble when motivated by game.

Jeff and Leo exchange grins.

“That’s an aye,” Jeff mutters, already planning his campaign of territorial defilement. The Don’s oblivion was a gift he abused daily to have his way.

Old Max watches it all from behind, ears drooping. His eyes dulled with time. Once, he and Chintu ran the Bakul gang as equals. Back when Signora Gopi hadn’t been chased out. When the hostel residents slept plentifully through the night without being roused by tireless howling. But Jeff and Leo came swaggering in one day, all menace and muscle. 

It started slow. A growl here, a push there. Then Gopi was gone, exiled to the far reaches of Himalaya. And Chintu? Chintu had retreated inward, sinking deeper into belly rubs and squirrel chases.

He steps forward as Chintu returns (empty-mouthed, of course).

“Chintu,” he says quietly, as the fat dog pants in place, distracted by his own tail. “You remember when it was just you and me? No piss wars. No turf fights. Just naps and snacks.”

Chintu looks up blankly. There’s a mere glimmer of recognition there, somewhere behind the slobber. It fades away all too soon. His tongue flops out. He scratches behind his ear, then promptly licks his own ass.

Max sighs.

Soon enough, another civilian — one firmly in the Dogfather’s good graces — appears nearby. Don Chintu trots over and collapses instantly into a blob of fur and need, demanding belly rubs. 

Max sits beside him, quietly accepting a firm rub down the back. For a moment, he allows himself the warmth. 

Scene 2

Vindhya Canteen, Library Gang Base.

The sun has barely begun to lick the walls of Vindhya when Paper comes bolting into base camp, ears trembling and tail stiff. The campus still sleeps. No human footsteps echo, no rustle of paper plates or pinging of UPI payments at VC.

He skids to a halt near the shallow crater in the dirt at the base of the table stand. Within it sits Donna Alex, regal and immaculate, her cream-white coat practically glowing against the dry soil. She was grooming one paw with practiced elegance, flanked on either side by her boys — Batman, who blinks up sleepily, and Trunks, who is gnawing ferociously on what used to be a napkin.

Paper’s voice comes breathless. “Pissed. They pissed on our tree.”

Donna Alex looks up slowly. “How close to the net?”

“Too close,” Paper huffs. “By the goalpost. Jeff’s. It reeks.”

Trunks stops chewing. His ears flick forward. “That’s our post. They crossed the line.”

Alex rises at once with a fluid stretch, her coat shimmering in the morning light, and her fluffy tail curling high behind her. “Then it seems the brats of Bakul are getting ahead of themselves.”

Batman gives a low growl. He’s too old to be surprised but too loyal to ignore it.

Alex ascends the steps slowly, the others falling in behind. The White Queen marches to war.

Scene 3

Centre of the football ground, disputed territory

Mid-morning sun overhead. Four figures from the Library Gang pace into the field from VC. Trunks at point, Paper close behind. Donna Alex strolls behind them, every movement composed. Batman trudges along last, silent as shadow.

Trunks lends out a sharp howl to signal the start of the scuffle. They don’t have to wait long.

Across the field, from the direction of the Basketball Court, comes the Bakul Crew.

Jeff appears first, teeth bared in a half-snarl. Leo, silent and steady, eyes locked on Trunks. And behind them Don Chintu, waddling along like an overloaded tank, eyes unfocused, but present.

Trunks barks once. Jeff responds with a single, guttural growl. Then chaos.

Barks erupt like gunfire. Circles form, tighten, and then scatter. Fur bristles, paws kick up dirt, and snouts snap at the empty air. They didn’t want blood; just to rattle the bones a little.

Even Chintu gets involved, huffing and growling from the rear, his flabby sides quivering like an angry jellyfish.

By the time the sun reaches its peak, they’re all panting.

Trunks and Leo go nose to nose. Paper and Jeff are practically vibrating. 

Donna Alex has taken a single scratch to the left ear.

And then, as suddenly as it began, it stops. Too tired. Too much heat. And more than anything, both gangs are wary. The others mustn’t be allowed to take advantage of their collective fatigue. 

One by one, the hounds back off.

Scene 4

Amphitheatre, late afternoon.

The sun is softer now, slanting across the empty cavea. 

Jeff and Leo have limped off toward BBC, poking their snouts into bins and pestering unsuspecting civilians for leftovers, still drunk on adrenaline and imagined glory.

Chintu returns alone, fur still dusty from the morning clash. He finds Max at the centre of the stage, eyes filled with worry.

“You have to end this,” Max whines. “You can’t let them trounce you forever.”

Chintu says nothing.

“They bark louder than you. They throw their weight around like they own the place. But you’re the Don. You’re still the Don.”

Still, no response. Just the sound of Chintu’s panting, soft and steady.

Max’s voice cracks, just slightly. “Have you forgotten what we used to be?”

Chintu looks up at him then. That old glint, buried under years of belly rubs and pigeon chases, is still there. Alive.

“I know,” the Don starts. “I know it hurts you. Watching me stumble around while those two bully you… and you wonder if I’ve given up.”

Max stiffens.

“They believe I’m a puppet, an old fool who’s senile enough to follow their every whim.”

He licks his lips, gathering his strength. “I let them believe that.”

Max’s ears twitch.

“I let them think they’re in control. They’re younger than us, hungrier. Jeff’s too ambitious for his own good. Leo’s dangerous when he’s bored. You think Jeff would let us be otherwise? If I ever dropped the act—if he saw me awake—he’d move against me first. He’d push us aside, maybe even hurt us, and take the gang. But he can’t… not yet”

Chintu taps the stage once with his paw.

“They need me. My size, my name. The Dogfather. The other Dons respect me, not them. Jeff knows that. That’s why he keeps me close. But he doesn’t know he’s the one on a leash.”

Max just stares.

“Look at how they tire themselves out in each skirmish. I let them fight their own wars. It keeps their teeth busy so they don’t bite me.”

The old dog is still not convinced, his brows furrowed with doubt.

“You think I’ve rolled over. That I’ve lost whatever pride I had left.” He gives a soft grunt, raising his chin. “Jeff comes crawling, asking for my blessing. I never give it. A pigeon. A squirrel. Anything to buy time. He thinks it’s chance. That I’m distracted. But I’ve never once sniffed his ass like I meant it.”

That last part earns the faintest shudder of Max’s lip. Chintu notices.

“You really think I’d bless his piss crusades? No chance. I have my dignity yet.”

Max’s tail thumps harder, relief and awe mingling in his eyes.

“You… you never let them have it.”

Chintu gives a final grunt, then looks past Max toward the fading light.

“Spotty would’ve understood.”

Max’s ears lower in a soft sigh at the name of their old friend. A beat of silence follows for the one who isn’t there. No howl, no whine. Just a quiet weight shared between them.

“She always knew when to chase off trouble… and when to stay by our side. She would agree. I am still the Dogfather.”

Max sits beside him, their shoulders now touching. No more words are needed.

They sit together in companionable silence, Chintu keeping his eyes on the fading light. Max follows his gaze, doubt fading into quiet trust. 

After a while, familiar footsteps approach from the far side of the stage.

A civilian appears, the same one from earlier, and crouches nearby. They pause for a moment, letting the dogs notice, then extend a hand.

Chintu shifts slightly, accepting the touch with deliberate grace.

Max lifts his paw in his old handshake gesture.

Chintu watches for a moment, then slowly raises his own paw to mirror Max.

The human smiles, takes Chintu’s paw in hand, and kisses it with gentle reverence.