Or, to put it more accurately: Shalabh Has Paid Good Money to Invite Trouble Home
If you happen to visit a house in Lucknow and, even before the door opens, you hear someone screaming from inside—
“Catch her! CATCH HER!”
“Close the door!”
“Don’t let her get out!”
“Pari, grab her!”
“Mitthi, she’s gone that way!”
Please don’t panic.
There has been no robbery.
No prisoner has escaped.
Nobody needs to call the police.
The family has simply adopted a Labrador puppy.
A tiny one.
Black as midnight.
Bright-eyed.
Soft.
Round.
Heart-meltingly cute.
The kind of puppy whose photograph makes you say:
“Awwww… I want one too!”
Spend twenty-four hours with her, however, and you may revise that statement to:
“Awwww… somebody please catch her!”
Welcome to Shalabh, Mitthi and Pari’s house, where a little black Labrador has recently arrived and quietly taken over the administration.
Well…
Not exactly quietly.
It Was the Daughters’ Idea, Shalabh’s Investment, and the Entire Family’s Problem
Like most great domestic disasters, this one began innocently.
Mitthi and Pari wanted a puppy.
“Papa, please! We want a dog!”
Shalabh probably attempted the standard defence used by fathers throughout civilization.
“Beta, keeping a dog is a big responsibility.”
“We’ll take care of her!”
Now, experienced parents know that this sentence should immediately trigger an alarm.
Because in the vocabulary of children:
“We’ll take care of her”
usually means:
“We’ll take care of her enthusiastically for three days. After that, Papa, congratulations on your new responsibility.”
But Shalabh is a father.
And fathers who can successfully resist—
“Pleeeeease, Papa!”
—are extremely rare.
The proposal was passed.
The opposition collapsed.
The Finance Ministry surrendered.
And one fine day, Shalabh arrived home carrying a tiny black Labrador.
Her Highness Arrives
Kiki did not enter the house like an ordinary pet.
She arrived like a minor member of Lucknow royalty.
“She’s here!”
“Papa, show me!”
“Let me hold her!”
“No! Me first!”
“I asked first!”
“You held her longer!”
The puppy sat silently, looking from one sister to the other.
She was probably trying to understand:
“Which one of these people is my owner?”
Within a few days she discovered the truth.
None of them.
She was the owner.
Then Began the Shopping
Naturally, a new member of the family required new possessions.
Plastic bowls were bought.
One for food.
Another for water.
Then came bedding.
Then a cardboard box was carefully prepared for her to sleep in.
A soft cloth was spread inside.
Mitthi inspected it.
Pari approved it.
Shalabh paid for everything.
Like most Indian fathers, Shalabh’s role in the entire operation was clearly defined:
Ministry of Finance.
“Papa, she needs a separate food bowl.”
“Okay.”
“And a water bowl.”
“Fine.”
“And something comfortable to sleep in.”
“Get it.”
“And maybe—”
“Anything else?”
The puppy, meanwhile, watched the purchases with quiet satisfaction.
Her expression suggested:
“Excellent. The staff is learning quickly.”
Finally, the cardboard box was ready.
The puppy was gently placed inside.
Mitthi melted.
“Look, Papa! She looks so cute!”
Pari whispered:
“She loves her little bed!”
Shalabh looked at the box and felt relieved.
“Good. She’ll stay in there.”
This was Shalabh’s first major strategic error.
He had underestimated a Labrador.
The Great Escape
For a few days, the puppy behaved beautifully.
She slept inside the box.
Where she stretched.
She yawned.
She looked innocent.
Everyone said:
“She’s such a good girl!”
What nobody realised was that she was apparently spending those days calculating the height of the cardboard walls.
Then, one day—
Scratch.
Scratch.
Shuffle.
THUD!
Pari looked around.
“MITTHI!”
“What?”
“SHE’S OUT!”
Mitthi came running.
Shalabh came running.
There stood the puppy.
Outside the box.
Tail up.
Eyes shining.
Four little paws planted firmly on the floor.
She looked like a revolutionary who had just overthrown a government.
Her expression said:
“The prison has fallen.”
Shalabh picked her up and put her back.
Two minutes later—
THUD!
Out again.
He put her back.
THUD!
Out again.
The third time, Shalabh simply stared at her.
The puppy stared back.
His eyes asked:
“How are you doing this?”
Her eyes replied:
“Classified information.”
The Box Became Smaller. Her Empire Became Larger.
Once she discovered that the cardboard walls were merely a suggestion, the entire geography of the house changed.
Drawing room.
Bedroom.
Corridor.
Under the table.
Behind the sofa.
Near the curtains.
Under somebody’s feet.
And then suddenly—
Missing.
“Where is she?”
“She was just here!”
“Pari, check under the bed!”
“Mitthi, look behind the sofa!”
“Papa, close the door!”
The entire household would launch a search operation.
And then someone would feel a slight tug at the bottom of their pyjama.
They would look down.
There she was.
A piece of cloth in her mouth.
Innocence in her eyes.
As if to say:
“Were you looking for me?”
A Labrador Has Only Three Categories of Household Objects
Kiki soon developed a sophisticated understanding of domestic property.
Everything in the house belonged to one of three categories:
Things that can be eaten.
Things that can be chewed.
And—
Things she hasn’t tried chewing yet.
Slippers became especially vulnerable.
Before the puppy arrived, one could remove one’s slippers and reasonably expect to find them in the same place later.
That ancient social contract has now collapsed.
One slipper may remain peacefully near the sofa.
Its partner may be found fifteen minutes later under a table, looking as though it has returned from war.
“DROP IT!” — The New Family Anthem
One afternoon, Madam picked up something she was absolutely not supposed to have.
“Drop it!” Mitthi said.
The puppy stared at her.
“Come on, baby… drop it.”
Nothing.
Pari joined the negotiations.
“Sweetie, give it to me.”
The puppy tightened her grip.
Then Shalabh arrived.
“What has she got?”
“We don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“She just picked it up!”
Shalabh approached.
The puppy stepped backwards.
Shalabh took another step.
The puppy moved again.
“Don’t run!”
At this precise moment, the Labrador apparently remembered an important principle:
When a human says, “Don’t run,” run.
Off she went.
“CATCH HER!”
Mitthi blocked one side.
Pari approached from another.
Shalabh attempted to cut off the escape route.
For the next few minutes, the living room resembled a low-budget action movie.
The only participant who seemed to have a clear strategy was the Labrador.
Everyone else was improvising.
And Now, Ladies and Gentlemen… Meet Pappy
Every comedy needs one tragic character.
In this story, that honour belongs to Pappy.
Pappy does not exactly hate the Labrador.
That would be unfair.
He simply believes in peaceful coexistence based on a very clear diplomatic principle:
“You stay there. I stay here. We respect international borders.”
Unfortunately, the Labrador does not recognise international borders.
The moment she sees Pappy, her eyes brighten.
Her tail begins wagging.
Her whole body announces:
“OH! MY FRIEND IS HERE!”
Pappy sees her.
His expression changes instantly.
“Oh, God. She has spotted me.”
She takes one step towards him.
Pappy takes two steps backwards.
She comes closer.
Pappy looks around for an exit.
Mitthi laughs.
“Pappy, she won’t do anything!”
Pappy looks at Mitthi with the wisdom of a man who has lived long enough not to participate in unnecessary experiments.
“Whether she will do anything or not, why must the experiment be conducted on me?”
And then the puppy runs towards him.
Pappy runs too.
Pappy in Front, Puppy Behind
This is perhaps the finest scene currently available free of charge in the household.
Pappy in front.
Puppy behind.
Mitthi behind the puppy.
Pari behind Mitthi.
And somewhere behind everybody, Shalabh shouting:
“Somebody catch her!”
“Shalabh! Get her away from me!”
“Stop running! She’ll stop too!”
“How do you know?”
“She wants to play!”
“Then YOU play with her!”
Pari, laughing uncontrollably, calls out:
“Pappy, she loves you!”
And Pappy, still moving away, replies:
“Tell her to love me a little less!”
This is where the clash of cultures becomes evident.
Pappy belongs to the old Lucknow school of affection.
Love should have grace.
Restraint.
Distance.
A little tehzeeb.
The Labrador belongs to another philosophy entirely:
“If you love someone, sprint towards them at full speed and jump.”
Diplomatic relations remain strained.
Pappy Calls It “Strategic Distance”
Someone once asked:
“Pappy, why are you so scared of her?”
Pappy was offended.
“Scared? Who is scared?”
He adjusted himself with dignity.
“I simply avoid unnecessary confrontation.”
This is the beauty of language.
What the family calls “running away from the dog,” Pappy calls:
strategic withdrawal.
He has now developed a complete security protocol.
Before entering a room, Pappy looks inside.
Left.
Right.
Under the table.
“Where is she?”
“Sleeping.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Only then does he enter.
And sometimes, just as he settles down—
tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…
Four little paws approach.
Pappy freezes.
“Here she comes!”
Exit Pappy.
Enter Labrador.
Shalabh’s Free Fitness Programme
Lucknow takes its morning tea seriously.
Morning tea is not merely a beverage.
It is practically a constitutional right.
One morning, Shalabh had just settled down with his tea.
He lifted the cup.
“PAPAAAA!”
Cup down.
“What happened?”
“She’s taken something!”
“What?”
“I don’t know!”
Now consider the absurdity of the situation.
Nobody knows what she has taken.
But everybody agrees she must immediately be captured.
Shalabh gets up.
Puppy runs.
Mitthi follows.
Shalabh follows.
Tea waits.
Eventually, the mysterious object is recovered.
Shalabh returns.
Tea is now lukewarm.
He picks up the cup.
“PAPAAAA!”
“What NOW?”
“She jumped out again!”
Shalabh looks at the tea.
Then at the ceiling.
Perhaps somewhere in his heart he asks God:
“Lord, did I buy a Labrador or a lifetime gym membership?”
Mitthi and Pari: Mothers, Sisters, Lawyers and Defence Counsel
Mitthi and Pari adore her.
Their relationship with the puppy changes approximately every four minutes.
“My sweet baby!”
Two minutes later:
“NO! Don’t eat that!”
Then:
“Come here, sweetheart.”
Then:
“PAPA! She took my thing!”
Then:
“Look how cute she is!”
Then:
“She has been SO naughty today!”
And if Shalabh dares to scold her—
“Papa! Don’t talk to her like that!”
Shalabh looks astonished.
“You were just complaining about her!”
“Yes, but explain it to her nicely!”
And so, within weeks, the puppy has acquired constitutional protection.
Shalabh may technically own the house.
But his authority is now subject to Labrador Fundamental Rights.
Silence Is the Most Dangerous Sound
There is one thing experienced parents know about small children.
And puppy owners learn it very quickly.
Noise is normal.
Silence is suspicious.
One afternoon, the house suddenly became peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Shalabh looked up.
“Where is she?”
Mitthi shrugged.
“Somewhere here.”
“Why is she so quiet?”
Everyone froze.
A search began.
Bedroom.
Nothing.
Under the table.
Nothing.
Behind the sofa—
There she was.
Sitting quietly.
Chewing something.
Shalabh’s voice changed.
“What are you eating?”
The puppy stopped chewing.
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
He moved one step closer.
“Stay there.”
She stood up.
“Don’t run.”
She lowered her head.
“NO—”
And off she went.
“CATCH HERRR!”
Peace was restored.
Which, in this house, means noise had returned.
What Must the Neighbours Think?
Imagine being the neighbour.
Every day you hear:
“Catch her!”
“Don’t let her escape!”
“Take that out of her mouth!”
“Close the door!”
“Pappy, don’t run!”
“Papa, quickly!”
“Leave the slipper!”
“Not that!”
A new neighbour might reasonably wonder whether some criminal organization is operating next door.
The older neighbours probably just nod knowingly.
“Nothing serious. They’ve got a puppy.”
Four words.
An entire philosophy of domestic chaos.
Shalabh Finally Understands Who Owns the House
Once upon a time, Shalabh believed the house belonged to him.
Then came Mitthi and Pari.
He revised his position.
Now the Labrador has arrived.
The matter is settled.
The sofa is hers.
The corridor is hers.
The floor is hers.
The slippers are hers.
Any unattended piece of cloth is hers.
The cardboard box is hers.
And depending upon her mood—
you are hers too.
Shalabh’s remaining responsibilities are modest:
Pay bills.
Buy food.
Open doors.
Close doors.
Retrieve stolen objects.
And run.
Especially run.
And Then, at Night, the Devil Turns Into an Angel
After an entire day of chaos, evening finally arrives.
The running stops.
The slippers are temporarily safe.
Pappy emerges from hiding.
And the little black hurricane curls herself into a ball.
Her eyes begin to close.
And her tiny paws relax.
Her breathing becomes soft.
Suddenly, the creature responsible for twelve hours of domestic disorder and looks like the most innocent being God ever created.
Mitthi walks over quietly.
“Papa, look at her.”
Pari strokes her head.
“She looks so cute when she sleeps.”
Shalabh looks at her.
All irritation disappears.
“Let her sleep. She must be tired.”
And somewhere at a safe distance, Pappy looks at the sleeping Labrador and probably thinks:
“Yes. Let her sleep. In fact, nobody makes a sound.”
Because This Is What a Home Really Is
Happiness does not always enter our lives neatly.
Sometimes it arrives on four paws.
Sometimes it is black, furry and incapable of respecting personal property.
It steals your slippers.
Interrupts your tea.
Ruins your schedule.
Makes your children scream.
Makes you run around furniture.
And occasionally loves an elderly family member with such enthusiasm that the poor man discovers running abilities he thought he had lost twenty years ago.
But it also brings something else into the house.
Laughter.
Mitthi’s laughter.
Pari’s laughter.
The laughter hidden behind Shalabh’s exasperation.
Even Pappy’s reluctant smile—once he has reached a safe distance.
One day, this little Labrador will grow up.
The cardboard box will become an old memory.
She may stop stealing slippers.
She may stop running after Pappy.
Mitthi and Pari will grow older too.
And perhaps years from now, someone will find an old photograph.
“Look! Remember how tiny she was?”
Pari will laugh.
“And how she used to chase Pappy!”
Mitthi will add:
“Pappy used to run faster than her!”
And Pappy, maintaining his dignity even years later, will protest:
“I never ran away from her. I was encouraging the child to exercise.”
Everyone will laugh again.
Because some pets don’t merely enter our homes.
They enter our family stories.
They arrive to create those ridiculous little memories that become more precious with every passing year.
For now, though, the situation remains simple.
Mitthi loves her.
Pari loves her.
Shalabh loves her.
And Pappy?
Of course Pappy loves her too.
From a distance.
A respectable distance.
Preferably a distance greater than the maximum jumping range of a growing Labrador.
So if you ever visit Shalabh’s house and hear someone shouting before you have even entered—
“CLOSE THE DOOR! SHE’S COMING!”
Don’t worry.
Observe Lucknow etiquette.
Smile.
Enter politely.
Remove your shoes if necessary.
But whatever you do—
do not leave your slippers unattended.
Because an invisible notice now hangs over the entire household:
This story is incomplete without your thoughts—drop them below!