Part 14 : “ DINGARI”

 seeing Dingari was enough to fill us with fear. Not only me — everyone in our house used to shiver. Dingari would listen to no one. Exactly like a stubborn old man! The moment it came in front of our house, we would all panic inside. If it barked, our hearts would pound. We couldn’t even cross the threshold of our door if its eyes were on us. Its gaze was so sharp, and when it barked, it was like thunder. With just its eyes it kept everyone in our house under discipline.

At first it terrified us, and later it made us all bend to its will. A very rough and bossy one. But in the end, it won all our hearts.

I haven’t yet told you who Dingari is, have I? Let me tell you. Dingari was a street dog. A well-built, muscular dog. Proud and haughty. Its brown coat made it look like a lion lying at the entrance to a cave when it sprawled across our doorway.

 

Everyone in the street was wary of it. Even the vegetable-cart sellers stopped ten feet away from our gate and shouted:

“Amma garu! Thotakura, Palakura, Vankaaya, Bendakaya!”

If Dingari happened to go near them, the cart-man would simply run for his life.

 

Even my wife would slip out of the gate only after hearing Dingari move away. Once Dingari set a rule, no one could break it.

It was I who named it “Dingari.”

 

Even today, whenever I remember Dingari — who frightened us so much in the beginning — my heart feels heavy with sadness. I still feel guilty that I couldn’t protect Dingari. But what can one do? It happened the way it did.

If only I had the power to turn back time, maybe I would have saved Dingari.

 

By then, life had rolled on. I was working for Andhra Prabha Vijayawada edition. I joined as a trainee sub-editor and within a year got married. Then came the children, their schooling, my office work, new friends, cultural programs… time just flew. I’ll tell the pleasant Andhra Prabha memories some other time.

 

I later took a transfer to Hyderabad. That was the year my son (Rajesh) joined engineering college and my daughter (Divya) entered sixth class. Though a bit reluctant, we turned into city dwellers for the sake of the children’s education and my job. With the help of relatives, we managed to fix up a rented house in V.V. Nagar (Vivekananda Nagar) in Dilsukhnagar, close to my daughter’s school. We arrived in Hyderabad with a lorry-load of household goods.

 

That night, while unloading the luggage, our troubles began again — with the same dog.

 

Earlier, when I had spoken to the house owner, for some reason this dog didn’t show up. We were happy, thinking: “Wow! A house in Hyderabad for the same rent we paid in Vijayawada!”

Calm before the storm, as they say.

 

While unloading, it barked loudly, announcing its presence. But with all the noise and commotion, it seemed to step back a bit.

We unpacked half the stuff, lay down, and slept.

 

Next morning, I had to bring the milk packets. I opened the door. And there it was — the dog — standing near the gate, staring at me. In its look, there was not only defiance but also clear hostility.

I froze, unable to move an inch. For about two minutes we just stared at each other. Then, whatever it thought, the dog slowly moved aside. I quickly walked to the end of the street, collected the milk packets, and on the way back, I remembered the dog and bought two biscuit packets for it. My strategy was mine. Let’s see how it works, I thought.

 

I entered the house safely. Seeing the biscuits in my hand, my daughter thought they were for her.

As she was about to take them, I said, “Not for you — for the dog outside.” Everyone in the house was surprised.

Their looks seemed to ask: “Biscuits for a dog that barks and lunges at you?”

 

Ignoring their faces, I put the milk packets inside and went up the stairs to the terrace with the biscuit packets. Deep down I was still afraid — could I really tame this lion? That was the reason for my fear.

 

Just then I heard a rustle near a small nook under the stairs. I turned my head. Like a lion emerging from its den after a yawn, the dog came out. It raised its head and looked at me. Our eyes met again. Silent conversations began.

 

Hiding my fear, I opened one biscuit packet and pretended to eat. The dog kept staring at me and at the biscuit in my hand. Without thinking further, I threw a biscuit at it. It wasn’t just a stray dog — it was an expert in jumping and catching too. The biscuit was caught mid-air.

If dogs were allowed to participate in the Olympics, this one would surely win a medal, I thought, and threw another biscuit. It caught that too with the same skill. With every biscuit, its eyes began to show affection towards me. That was enough. I knew I had succeeded.

 

Yes, I won. The dog now licked my feet and circled around me like a pet dog. Whenever family members wanted to step out, they took my help. In two or three days, the situation changed, and the dog drew our whole family to itself with its loving gaze.

 

At that time, I wanted to name it. After all, we needed to call it by some name. But calling out “Hey dog, come here!” might offend it and undo all my efforts. So I organized a little naming ceremony.

 

In the film Paatala Bhairavi, Pingali garu, the writer of the script, had used the word “Dingari” (see footnote 14). I suggested the same name. My children found it amusing and immediately agreed. From that moment, Dingari became a member of our household. It took charge of our security. Our fear disappeared. We felt relieved.

 

That was our first freedom struggle victory in the big city.

“Hey, Dingari!” — and he would dash like an arrow.

 

Later I asked the owner about Dingari. He lived in another locality, just renting out this house. The previous tenants had raised this dog. It was a good breed, strong, with a brown shade. For reasons unknown, they had left him behind. Since then he had become a stray dog but, out of loyalty, still clung to this house. It was at that time that we moved in.

 

I didn’t know what name it had before. For my safety and my family’s safety, I befriended it and named it Dingari.

 

That, in short, is Dingari’s flashback story.

 

We liked the house. But without telling you about the cremation ground which was very close to our house and the fears it gave us, the story of Dingari would remain incomplete.

 

On one side was our house and on the other, the cremation ground.

 

In our family, nobody liked keeping pets like dogs or cats. Especially my wife (Sridevi) had very firm views about keeping animals at home.

But whatever it was, for the full five years we lived in that house, Dingari worked like a security guard for every member of our household.

 

Even when my wife went to the market, he would accompany her like a body guard.

I already told you that at that time I was working at Andhra Prabha.

I had mostly night duties. After finishing the city edition, I would leave Banjara Hills on my motorbike and reach home around two, two-thirty at night.

 

At that hour of midnight, as soon as I came near the house, Dingari would recognize the sound of my vehicle and run ahead, about a furlong or two before me, and escort me right up to the house.

 

I say “escort” because just there, in that very area, stood the cremation ground.

Even though the bodies had been burned in the daytime, the ground would still feel warm as though the heat hadn’t gone.

If we passed the cremation wall and turned one more bend, we would reach our house.

 

Why did we rent a house right next to a cremation ground in the first place?

A small mistake.

In our hurry to find a house close to the children’s school, we fixed this one.

We paid the advance, got into a city bus at the nearest stop, and while looking out of the window — there it was: the cremation ground gate.

Inside, bodies burning.

Farther away, the sound of drums, another funeral procession coming.

Scene understood.

 

What to do now? Couldn’t cancel and look for another house.

We had already paid two months’ rent (₹4,400).

In those days, that was a big amount.

We couldn’t simply walk away.

 

When I told this to one of our elder relatives, he just laughed and said,

“You don’t yet know Hyderabad, abbayi. There is no place in this city without graves. Don’t be scared. Besides, a cremation ground is Lord Shiva’s place. Your self-confidence and God’s grace will protect you.”

 

So we had no choice but to adjust.

Within a year we thought of moving out. But tell me — what control do we really have in the drama played by fate?

We ended up living in that house for five years.

 

And those five years passed without fear — in fact, with a sense of protection, because of Dingari.

With a dog like Dingari beside us, what worry could we possibly have?

It was like God had sent a protective Raksha Reku to our family in the form of Dingari.

 

But after five years we had to shift to another house.

We also thought of taking Dingari with us.

But it was not possible.

By then he had grown old.

It could no longer walk briskly.

 

Once he had a wound on its leg. Blood was oozing.

He came into the house like that.

 

I was sitting on a chair reading the newspaper.

He came and sat beside me, groaning in pain.

Blood stains were on the floor.

I understood his suffering.

 

I called my wife and asked her to bring a bandage cloth and tincture iodine.

I sat down on the floor, lifted Dingari’s wounded leg onto my lap, wiped the blood with cotton, applied tincture, and wrapped the bandage tightly so it wouldn’t come off.

 

Even while I did all this, he didn’t cry out.

He didn’t snap at me in anger.

In his eyes I could see his understanding — that this was for his own good — and the complete trust and faith he had in me.

 

After I finished bandaging, he hobbled out of the house.

The next morning, when the bandage came off, he came back to me again as if to say, “Please bandage it again.”

This went on for four days. Then the wound healed.

It started walking briskly once again.

 

Tribute to Dingari

 

Dingari grew old while we were still living there.

His pride and energy slowly faded.

His would lie quietly in a corner most of the time.

He was no longer the lively escort that once ran before us.

 

Even then, he never allowed strangers to enter the house.

When my son’s friends came visiting, he would first bark and block them.

Only after wagging his tail and inspecting them properly would he let them inside.

 

When we finally shifted to another house, leaving Dingaribehind was the hardest part.

I couldn’t bring myself to do it — but we had no choice.

Before leaving, I called the house owner and requested him earnestly to take good care of Dingari.

 

Still, a sense of regret remains in my heart — that I couldn’t do much for him during his final days.

After some time, I came to know through someone that Dingari had passed away.

 

What a bond that was!

Why does such affection exist — and how deep can it go?

Questions like these can only be answered by time itself.

 

Even today, my children remember Dingari fondly.

They still speak about it lovingly — their affection never faded.

Our daughter Divya calling her little boy affectionately by the name “Dingari” is proof of that love.

 

Dingari — wherever you are now,

may your soul rest in peace.

 

Om Shanti Shanti Shantihi

“Mowgli”

 

  

While sharing my life journey, I cannot skip mentioning another street dog — Mowgli.

This happened before Dingari came into our lives.

 

When we were staying for rent near Maruthi Vyayamasala, Satyanarayanapuram, Vijayawada, a black street dog became very close to me and my family.

I named it Mowgli.

Just like Dingari used to stop my movements in the beginning, Mowgli too behaved the same way.

In fact, the same trick I used to win Mowgli’s heart, I later used successfully with Dingari too!

 

If Dingari was brownish, Mowgli was jet black — like Bagheera from The Jungle Book.

The only difference — Bagheera was a panther; this one was a dog!

 

At night, whenever a bit of light fell on it, Mowgli’s eyes would sparkle like diamonds.

And it would jump suddenly with great speed — that’s why people in that street were afraid of him.

 

When I was working in Vijayawada, I used to come home late at night on my TVS moped (not a motorcycle — those days I had a small moped!).

Mowgli would first attack me, barking fiercely, but later, after we became friends, he would wag his tail and happily follow me home.

 

During that time, my wife’s second delivery took place at Janata Clinic, Satyanarayanapuram.

When she was taken to the hospital in a rickshaw, Mowgli ran behind it all the way till the hospital!

 

Strangely, on Friday morning, when our daughter Divya was born, all of us men were at home resting.

Suddenly, Mowgli came running to our gate and started barking and dancing with excitement!

We were surprised — “What’s wrong with this fellow today?”

My brother-in-law Maruthi Prasad and I rushed to the hospital, and they told us — “A baby girl is born! Just half an hour ago!”

 

Then we understood — Mowgli had come running to bring us the good news and was dancing with joy at our gate!

 

Even as a baby, Divya was never scared of Mowgli.

Whenever the dog came near the door wagging his tail, hewould lovingly look at the little baby inside — a scene I can still recall clearly.

 

Truly, where there is love and affection, animals will be there too.

They move around us silently, always thinking of our well-being.

 

This truth — that even mooga jeevulu have deep love — I had understood long before, when I was very young.

Let me tell you that story now…

 

“Tuvvaayi”

In our village Adaviravulapadu, during my childhood, cattle and crops were always abundant.

My grandmother Annapurnamma stayed there to look after the farm work.

My father’s job involved frequent transfers, so we children grew up in many towns.

But during summer holidays, we would eagerly visit our native village.

 

Once, during such a vacation, I became very attached to a small cow calf.

I fondly named her “Tuvvaayi.”

 

She was reddish, with beautiful white patches — very cute to look at.

In those days, our house had about eleven cows and calves, two female buffaloes, and a pair of oxen.

The cowshed was always lively and full of activity.

 

Every vacation, I’d spend all my time with Tuvvaayi, and by the time holidays ended, we’d have become close friends.

 

When it was time to return, Grandma would arrange a bullock cart for us.

Though it was just a simple cart, she’d decorate it beautifully — with a roof and soft hay for us to sit on.

 

Sometimes the cart driver would let me hold the reins.

But the oxen somehow knew when a child like me was driving — they would walk very slowly!

When the driver scolded them with his usual words like “Osi nee sigatharaga!” (his typical bull-driver slang), they’d speed up again.

 

Another funny thing — while going from our village to another town, the oxen walked lazily.

But when returning home, they would run on their own with full energy, without needing any scolding — eager to reach home faster!

 

My elder brother used to give names to the oxen and cows too —

one was called “Katuka Kalladi” (the one with dark, kajal-like eyes) and another “Boodida Kalladi” (the one with greyish eyes).

Naming cows and buffaloes was quite common in our village.

 

There were names like Erradi (the red one), Bodidi (the short-horned one), Karridi (the black one), Tikkadi (the angry one), Pogarubothu (the proud one), and so on.

 

But my little friend was always Tuvvaayi.

When the holidays ended, we’d take the cart to Nandigama, board a bus, and return to town.

 

By next year’s holidays, Tuvvaayi would have grown much bigger — and our friendship would grow stronger too.

 

Once, when we were leaving, she followed our bullock cart for a long distance, running behind it — such was her affection!

 

Later, when farming stopped, one by one all the cattle were sold.

By then, Tuvvaayi must have become a full-grown cow — maybe even a mother or grandmother by that time.

After that, I never saw her again…

Or perhaps, even if I did, I couldn’t recognize her. Who knows?

 

“Aatu Kutti”

 

In Tamil, Aatu Kutti means a goat kid.

The word kutti is also used as a loving nickname for children there.

 

My elder sister Varalakshmi married Maddali Sitarama Rao, who was working in Madras (now Chennai).

They settled there and had two sons — Vijay and Ajay.

 

When I got married, these two boys were around 5 to 7 years old.

After our son Rajesh was born, (he was thin and lean as a baby) my sister’s children came from Madras and on seeinghim, they affectionately said,

“Amma! He looks like an Aatu Kutti!”

 

And from that day, that became his nickname — Aatu Kutti.

Even after he grew up, his mother still lovingly called him “Kutti… Kutti…”

 

Funny, isn’t it — how a Tamil nickname became popular in our Telugu household!

 

Don’t Forget “Mugajeevulu”

 

I must mention here — my marriage with Sridevi took place on 24th April 1985,

at Sri Venkateswara Kalyana Mandapam, Krishna Nagar, Brindavan Gardens, Guntur.

 

My mother-in-law was Lakshmi Rajyam, and my father-in-law, Mannava Giridhar Rao Garu.

I mention him here because he had immense love for animals and birds.

 

He always used to say —

“If we feed and give water daily to cows, dogs, and birds, we gain peace and happiness in life.

It also washes away the results of our past bad deeds.”

 

Every day, he would keep ready some grains for birds, small bits of jaggery for ants, and fruits and vegetables for cows.

In front of the house, he kept a cement “Thotti” (trough) filled with water for thirsty animals.

 

He would also encourage us to do the same.

 

Under his guidance, many such thoughts appeared in the monthly magazine “Bharatiya Margam,” and also in his books like “Hindu Dharma Vaibhavam,” “Mani Poosalu,” and “Kanthi Rekhalu.”

 

He would tell such good moral stories to his grandchildren too.

Truly, children who get such grandparents are very lucky.

 

We may not have big houses, but if we have big hearts, we can easily feed and care for “Muga jeevaalu”— and in return, feel real happiness ourselves.

 

Just think about it.

 

Today, as I recall these “mugajeevulu” - noble beings who played their part in my life’s journey, I feel grateful for getting a chance to share these memories with you.

 

⸻

 

Footnote – 14: “Dingari”

 

The word “Dingari” was first used by Pingali Garu in the 1951 movie “Pathala Bhairavi.”

In it, the Nepali magician S.V.Ranga Rao affectionately calls his disciple “Dingari.”

 

Pingali Garu was a master of language — he created many such words.

I used to think this word too was his creation.

But recently, I learned he actually picked it up from a surname of a family he knew!

 

Later, in the 1957 movie “Todikodallu,” lyricist Kosaraju used it in a folk song —

“Townu pakkakelladdura Dingari…”

 

The word “Dingari” also became quite famous among journalists.

When I worked at Andhra Prabha, we often used it in headlines —

like “Railu pakkakelladdura Dingari…” or “Inkemcheyyavalera Dingari…”

 

And yes, when I named my dog Dingari,

I suppose I gave that lovely word a new life at home too!

 

That’s the story behind

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