Aashiyaana Park

“Flat 1, Aashiyana Park, Near The Great Rose Hotel, Lane-16, Ajanta Nagar, Pune -12. You surely have to come, my friend. And do bring Pooja bhabhi along if you’d like. My wife would be pleased to meet her.”, Hanif said with his usual 100-watt smile pasted across his face, a smile so completely genuine that it made the person he was talking to forget that he was a rough looking, hefty man in his late 40’s. Even his cratered face, probably a result of some infection in childhood, didn’t manage to dilute the impact of his smile.

Rajan smiled at the man in front of him, an addition to his small yet colorful friend circle. It had only been a couple of days that he’d met Hanif and given his usually reticent ways with people, Rajan was amazed at having taken the decision to call this man a ‘friend’ so soon.

He considered the invitation for a thoughtful moment in some subconscious corner of his mind before responding back with a thin smile. He hadn’t failed to notice the touch of pride in Hanif’s voice when he spoke of his address. Although Rajan was fairly new to the city, he knew that Ajanta Nagar was an upmarket area in town and was quite surprised to know that Hanif, a man of limited means, owned a house in such a posh locality.

“Sure, Hanif! I will make it this time!”

Rajan was a trifle embarrassed of the fact that he had committed to visit Hanif’s house two times in three days now and on both occasions, his demanding boss and his extra-demanding wife had managed to keep him at bay from Hanif’s house!

“Pooja, Hanif has invited us to his house again. Do you want to come along? And this time, I am going to keep my word, no matter what happens!”

The voice on the other end of the line went dead for a few seconds. Rajan knew his wife didn’t really like the man and didn’t want to come along.

“Ok.”

The line went dead again. This time she’d kept the phone.

“Well, at least she said ‘Ok’!”, Rajan thought to himself before texting his wife that he’d pick her up in 15 mins.

As he kick-started his bike causing its wheels to skid around in the muddy ground, Rajan realized that he was in fact, quite curious to visit Ajanta Nagar and more particularly, Aashiyana Park. He decided that he had quite liked the name since the moment Hanif had mentioned it.

“Bhai saab, ye Ajanta Nagar mein Lane-16 kahan padta hai??

Rajan heard his pretty wife ask the span-spewing Rickshaw-wallah who stood wearing a shabby khakhi uniform near his antique three-wheeler. Over his last 4 months in the city, Rajan had decided that it was best to let Pooja ask for directions to these guys. They always seemed to have the correct answer for women, especially of the presentable kind.

He waited restlessly as he came back from his world of thoughts.

“Why the hell does this guy have a smirk on his face?”, Rajan wondered to himself as he gave the man a dirty look.

They’d driven past an open stream of water and crossed 2 over-bridges to get to this little chowk with a Rickshaw stand that Hanif had given as a landmark.

As Rajan turned right into a corner, as per the man’s directions, he exclaimed to his irritable wife,

“Hey there it is. I see that huge board up there.”

Rajan heard his wife grumble in acknowledgement.

They were welcomed by a bustling shopping area as soon as they entered Ajanta Nagar, and Rajan wondered why his wife wasn’t asking him to stop today at one of these shops to gift herself something.

“Must be the bad mood”, Rajan surmised.

A couple of hundred meters ahead, they could see the lanes begin, neatly offset to the main road, each lane accommodating about a dozen individual row-houses.

“Lane-12….. 13… Lane-14…”, Rajan heard his wife count to shoo away her boredom.

“What’s her problem?”, Rajan was beginning to lose his temper now.

Just as he was about to give his wife a piece of his mind, he saw the elegantly done structure of The Great Rose Hotel rise into the sky before him.

“So far, so good. Just like Hanif had described.”, Rajan thought.

They had to ask around a couple of times more before they arrived at Lane-16 and a further three times before the found the correct ‘Aashiyana Park’. Apparently, there was one more in an adjacent lane that was causing all the confusion.

As he approached the beautifully constructed house, Rajan watched his wife let out an audible remark.

“Hmm…. Aashiyaana Park, here we are”.

“Eid ka chaand bhi aapse zyada theek time rakhta hai”, the bubbly and stockily built woman seated beside him was telling Rajan.

Hanif’s wife Rukhsar, was as smiley-faced as him, only she seemed to possess an intelligence about her that Hanif sometimes didn’t seem to have.

Through corner of his eye, Rajan saw his wife shift uncomfortably in her seat and make a face as she dug reluctantly with a spoon into her plate of sooji-ka-meetha, as Hanif’s wife put it.

“C’mon now, these things taste different in every household.”, he tried instilling some sense in his wife in sign language.

Meanwhile, his ears heard Hanif translate the sentences that his wife had just spoken, for him and Pooja, obviously embarrassed by the fact that his wife hardly knew any English.

“She’s saying that sometimes, the moon makes an appearance a day earlier in our neighbouring countries and our relatives often call us up and tell us that they’ve broken their month long fast during the month of Roza. We tell them that we’re still awake with our eyes glued to the skies.”

“Kabhi kabhi to Mumbai mein meri Ammi phone karke bolti hai, Id mubakarak beta. Hum bolte hai ki ruk jao ammi, ab tak chaand nahi dikha”.

Rukhsar wasn’t waiting for Hanif to even complete his translated sentences, obviously unable to control her friendly and chatty mannerisms.

As he heard his wife uninterestedly make conversation with Rukhsar, Rajan took some time to admire the beautifully done and elaborately decorated fish tank that stood as base for the T.V in the drawing room.

“That’s a nice tank, Hanif’, Rajan didn’t hold back the appreciation.

“Abhi to ye laaye pichle jumme pe”, Rukhsar volunteered even as Hanif hushed her up.

For the first time, Rajan saw his wife genuinely smile.

“So, aapke kitne bacche hai?”, Rajan was almost surprised now to hear his wife make decent conversation.

As Rukhsar went on and on with a touch of pride about how her elder son is studying to be an electronics engineer and his younger sister is aspiring to be an advertising professional and evidently continued on a bit too much about their good and bad qualities , Hanif showed Rajan around rest of the house.

“ Neat”, Rajan thought as he toured the intricately done up pad.

“Id pe zaroor aana. Aur sheer-korma khaake hi jaana”.

Both Rajan and Pooja waved their hands in return as they mounted the bike and heard their hosts say in unison as they bid them goodbyes with their pleasant smiles.

“Nice people.” , Rajan was rather glad to hear Pooja remark as they drove back to their rented apartment in the suburbs.

As he drove away from the half-painted, unnamed structure that Hanif called his ‘Aashiyaana Park’ , past the dingy and littered lanes, past the shabby make-shift one-roomed concrete hutments that lined galli no.16 , past little children with running noses and unkempt dresses that played in the dirty puddles, past the dilapidated chai stall that called itself The Great Rose Hotel, past the main road that did a mish-mash linking of the ‘gallis’, past the hustle and bustle of barbers who weaved cheap wigs, chicken eggs sellers and crap dealers that lined the ‘shopping area’, past the teetering and small board that announced itself as ‘AJanta Nagar’, the A clearly painted as an afterthought, and past the Rickshaw stand and the two horribly potholed over-bridges that ran over the open ‘nullah’ and connected ‘Janta Nagar’ to Ajanta Nagar, Rajan thought of all the days that he and his wife squabbled with dissatisfaction over their 1 bedroom apartment in the outskirts in Gandhi Gaon and eventually decided to shift to a rented 2 bedroom apartment in the suburbs in Cantonment.

“A must to maintain our standards in society”, they’d agreed in unison.

So what If the beautiful fish tank was the only thing noticeable about Hanif’s 1 and a ½ room hutment. So what is the sooji-ka-meetha Hanif’s wife had served would have tasted a lot better if Hanif would have been able to afford asli ghee? So what if given the means, Hanif might have made his children reach even greater heights? So what if Hanif’s wife couldn’t speak English, she stood by her husband and he stood by her much more than he and Pooja had ever stood by each other.

So what if Hanif had added an A to his address to make it Ajanta Nagar instead of Janta Nagar and painted an imaginary ‘Aashiyaana Park’ in fine gold lettering on top of the unfinished exterior of his hutment?

Here was this simple man, a skilled labourer by profession who painted people’s houses for a paltry sum in comparison to what their corporate jobs paid them, building his own one room in a part of town he was unashamed of living in and trying his best to nurture the house within his means and calling it his home sweet home.

Rajan waited for Pooja to say something along the entire 15 km drive back to the suburbs. She said nothing until they reached a crossroad.

--> Cantonment <-- Gandhi Gaon, Gandhi Annexe

The directions on the green and white signboard said.

Even as Rajan involuntarily turned the handle to his left, he heard his wife come close to him and whisper gently,

“Left, sweetheart. Lets go home.”

As they drove past the scenic range of hills that led up to Gandhi Gaon, Rajan secretly thanked the man he’d met two days ago, his painter who amused himself and others with the broken English learnt from his clients, a simple man with limited means who lovingly nurtured his house and family, for having helped and played a role in building his own dream home..

Four years later

A beautifully done beige and white building stood at Plot no. 16, Gandhi Gaon. A little kid of about 1 year was learning to take his first steps in the minutely nurtured greenery in the garden. A vibrant couple shared a heartfelt smile as they saw their son walk for the first time, taking care to videotape each second of the wondrous feat.

As the camera panned and zoomed over the main entrance of the bungalow, a couple of words in beautifully calligraphic gold lettering captured the emotion in the couple’s heart to perfection.

“AASHIYAANA PARK.”, it said.

The Blue Vial

He woke up to a changed morning; to an air that tasted sweeter on his tongue. The skies seemed to be filled in hues of tangerine, not the usual shades of blue that he’d been accustomed to. The birds seemed to sing songs that were set to a vibrant tune, not the usually somber tune he’d always wake up to.

“Where am I?”, he wondered aloud to himself.

Not that this place seemed entirely unseen to him. No. He’d been here before. Maybe just recently. And yet, he couldn’t really find a proper noun to identify this place. Words seemed to be stuck in his throat, unwilling to slip onto his tongue.

He looked around the room – adorned with the finest of woodwork and rare collectibles, serenely white curtains that blew ever so slightly in the gentle winds, an intricately carpeted floor that would be deemed fit enough for royalty to set foot on. Ah, he was in a good place.

His thoughts were interrupted by a feeling of acute pain in one of his feet. He looked down to experience a state of shock as he witnessed that a couple of toes from his left feet were missing. No blood or open wound, just a droning sense of pain that shot up his legs into his chest and further up into his head.

“I must be in a nightmare”, he said to himself before pinching himself in the neck to figure out that he was in fact, not in one.

He managed to momentarily forget about his missing toes as he stuttered up to the antique mirror that stood quietly in one of the corners. It seemed to have matured with time, taking in all the love and misery and hatred and finery that it may have been witness to. He made an attempt to stand tall, flexing his feeble shoulders to their limit, unwittingly stretching himself a good three inches above the grand flooring, so that he was almost standing upright on his eight remaining toes now.

To his utter surprise, his reflection lost its head in the process. He could only see a man standing bottom up till his neck in the mirror. The last he remembered, he was a vertically challenged man, who only stood 5 feet 6 inches above the ground. The mirror In front of him seemed taller and larger than the one he had back home.

He settled back onto his heels. He seemed a good 8 inches taller than before, rising high into the ceiling. His shoulders had more muscle on them, his usually lax biceps showing signs of much hard work in the gym. His layered face now wore a chiseled look. As if Michelangelo himself had descended from the heavens and decided that it was time to make another David.

He knew there was no loss of memory. He remembered that he was Rakshit Mukherjee, a highly skilled media professional whose life was better than most other mortals he knew of. His salary was right up there, in six figures. His wife cut an even better figure; as his envious friends would often attest. He remembered making love to her last night. He couldn’t help but compare her smooth skin to the velvety touch of the white curtains. He had a wonderfully bright kid who just learnt to say “Papa”. Life was perfect.

Now, as he opened the curtains, the French windows opened into an entirely unexpected world. He was in the middle of a bustling market, the pandemonium outside completely devouring the serenity inside the room. There was a mad rush amongst people to sell their wares. The horrifically narrow by-lanes were filled to the brim. There wasn’t space for a needle to pass through. The sellers shouted in a language incomprehensible to him. The buyers wailed in a manner intangible to him. The sellers dingy make shift shops were filled with all types of irrelevant goods – a broken watch, a set of unmatched shoes, a pair of what seemed to an angel’s clipped wings; perhaps from a costume company.

But what caught Rakshit’s eye was a vial of liquid in the most beautiful shade of blue he’d ever seen. Not even the graphic designers in his ad agency could have produced that shade using their ever-so-complicated software. All those unkempt buyers in the dirty lane seemed to be vying for it. He placed a bet with himself that they could have given an eye and a tooth for it.

He couldn’t resist putting on his clothes- which seemed several sizes smaller for him now- and opening the door of the room he had woken up in, to walk down the stairs and take a closer look at the vial of blue liquid. As he ran down the dusty stairs, he checked his pockets to find any money that he could use to buy some.

A decision he’d rue for the coming several years.

Rakshit set foot on the stone-cobbled roads. The air had a heavy mixture of many distinct smells in it; the pungent smell of dry fishes, the sweet fragrance of juicy sweets, the heady intoxication coming in from the stall that sold the blue liquid. He could hardly hear his own panting in the utter chaos that characterized the market. People of all shapes, colors and sizes were shouting in languages that he simply failed to understand; either to sell their wares for the highest possible price or bid for the lowest cost for something they liked. As he took in the squalid atmosphere, he realized he had no footwear on. The stoned streets had turned into scorching burners under the intrepidly hot sun and he winced under the pain of already-developing blisters on his feet.

His focus was unwavering though. Amidst the commotion, he was amazed that the dazzling blue vial still had the undivided attention of all his senses. He took a few uncompromising steps towards the little stall where it was being vended. As he came nearer, the old vendor behind the stall managed to steal some of his attention.

The old man had a disturbingly weathered face, as if the wrinkles had a life of their own and were cringing to reveal to the onlooker the amazing story of his magical past. Rakshit could feel that if he had the time, he could traverse the wrinkled map on the old man’s face and visit the events that they held within their folds. He wore a long robe that seemed to have been unwashed for ages, his head wrapped in layers of a colorful piece of cloth that he wore as proudly as a peacock would wear its plume. His hands were filled with beads of varying shapes and every inch of his fingers were covered with antique rings.

Rakshit approached the old man with some amount of apprehension. He felt the old man wouldn’t sell his wares even if he offered him a good deal of money. A sixth sense told him that he would have to prove to the old man that he was worthy of acquiring some of the enchanting liquid.

“Good day sir”, he greeted the old man with a degree of genuine respect. Rakshit knew pretense wouldn’t work here.

The old vendor looked into Rakshit’s eyes with his heavily kohl-lined gaze.

“No nirvana on sale here, kid”, his steely voice pierced Rakshit.

Rakshit was taken aback a moment at having been able to understand the old man’s language. He could hardly figure out what anyone else spoke in this mysterious place.

“Aah…I am looking for a gateway to heaven sir, and I am willing to walk the rough road for it.”, Rakshit replied in all honesty.

“Freedom has no price son. It comes at the cost of letting go of all that you’ve managed to become over the years”, the old man replied with a hint of hard earned wisdom in his voice.

He took a long hard look at Rakshit, and then decided to continue in a calmer voice.

“But, a few drops of this blue magic could be the catalyst to help you do it”.

Rakshit knew it for time to strike a deal with the wily old man.

“How much for a couple of ounces?”, he inquired.

“A couple of fingers from your left hand, son and the whole vial is yours.”, the old vendor replied with a manic smile.

Rakshit looked into the old man’s crazed eyes, dumbfounded.

He had to have the blue liquid. He knew he was craving for it. He looked at the severed toes of his left feet.

Did he know this old man? Had he had the blue liquid before? Was he in a dream or in some alternate reality? He couldn’t tell.

In the heavy air that allowed him little space to hold a clear line of thought, Rakshit made an instantaneous decision that would have a heavy impact on his future.

As he struggled to control the flow of blood from the two severed fingers of his left hand, his right hand clutched on firmly to the blue vial that the old vendor had handed over to him a couple of minutes back.

It was time for Rakshit to go back into the room and wake up to a new morning.

Chinatown

Chinatown

The trap had been laid. It had all been meticulously planned. The wait was on.

They called themselves ‘messiahs’, saviors of shoddy Chinatown, completely refusing to buy into the moniker society had tagged them with. “Outlaws”.

Justice was meant to be served. And it was meant to be served with a pinch of salt and a dash of lemon.

The crimes hadn’t stopped. They’d tried. In vain.

They tried taking the peaceful approach, the non-violent ways that many of the world’s greats had proponed. It hadn’t worked. No; not with these hooligans.

Today was the day. The day crime would be met with violence.

There were three of them initially. The beginning. The start to a new era of ‘total peace’, as they termed it.

It was always waiting to happen. The final trigger was when one of their wives got raped in the middle of town. They couldn’t hold on longer. No. Not now.

A place where no justice prevailed was meant to be cleansed. Cleansed with a dose of the criminals’ own medicine.

Three soon became thirteen and thirteen became thirty and soon the “Outlaws” were ‘wanted’ by the very system which had failed to maintain peace in the first place.

The system wasn’t failsafe. The hooligans had wasted no time in spotting chinks in the armor. Pockets were filled. Mistresses were given as an option. Children were held at gunpoint. Messiahs were termed Outlaws.

But the thirty men who’d taken this valiant stance weren’t going to go down so easily.

No; not this time.

The confrontation would take place at twilight. The set-piece was planned to the minutest detail.

They’d draw the hooligans into their territory. The attack would be quiet, like the slither of a snake before it hisses at its prey.

But they knew the enemy was no fool. They’d have to be sure that the criminals take the bait. And for that, the bait would have to be perfect.

Perfection was achieved in the form of beauty. Beauty the hooligans could never resist.

The messiahs knew it was a tough one for June. She’d have to be on their side. She’d have to be brave. She’d have to be strong.

Only June knew how easy it was for her to take the decision. The hooligans had been no stranger to her mother and she’d always been thankful to Uncle Jake for putting up a fatherly act for the goddamned society.

She chose a little black dress for the occasion. After all, her velvety skin shone the brightest in black.

The messiahs had covered the alley. The alley was narrow and imposing. The messiahs had sealed the exit. Escape was impossible.

Shadows began to fade away as night began to fall. The dingy streetlights would be kept off that day. What the alley was about to witness deserved no light.

June leaned against the brick wall, waiting. Waiting for the hooligans to strike.

As the messiahs waited with bated breath on top of the narrow walls that lined the alley, a match suddenly lit up at the entrance. The alley was filled with smoke. The hooligans had arrived.

They wasted no time in masquerading as forlorn lovers of June. They wasted no time in revealing their desperate selves.

June had to hold on till the time was right. The hooligans had to be surrounded. Two of them were guarding the entrance now. Not all were in the alley. Not all were in the right place.

June looked up, a trifle frightened as one of the messiahs signaled her to lead the other hooligans into the alley. June knew she had a job to do. And she was determined not to make a hash of it.

A generous twirl of the little black dress and the pretense of a sensuous smile on her lips was enough for the others to crowd in. The messiahs knew. It was time.

The attack was sudden. No warnings. No speeches. Nothing left to chance. The knives were out in a flash, the bullets were shot without thought, the blows were struck without guilt.

June was pulled up onto the narrow walls. The hooligans were shot down into the dark alley. Not one survived.

Total peace had come at a price for the messiahs. There were three casualties; the founders- the ones who started it all. Men well martyred.

As dawn broke, the town had been cleansed. The system would be fortified. Hooligans would no longer rule Chinatown. The messiahs were here to stay.

***********

And Freedom Shall Be Mine

He sat there, motionless and still, waiting for the clocks to strike twelve. At midnight, freedom would be his.

The watch-light from the central tower beamed slowly in circles around the five wings of 498 solitary cells that radiated from the tower, casting long and creepy shadows across the cellular jail.

From one end of the wing in which he was put in, he could hear the distant and broken voice booming from the transistor radio.

“Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny, and now the time comes when we shall redeem our pledge, not wholly or in full measure, but very substantially. At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom… ”

The familiar voice of Jawaharlal Nehru being broadcast by All India Radio echoed in the empty corridors that adjoined the cells and lead up to the central tower.

Outside, he could hear a couple of guards marching up and down the corridor, keeping a tight watch on the prisoners.

Ram Sharan managed a magnanimous smile. His mind and heart glowed with happiness at the thought of waking up to a new dawn, a free dawn.

Yet, he winced at the irony of it all.

He was one among the 134 prisoners sentenced to be hanged till death, and his turn would be coming up at 4:25 am on the 15^th of August, 1947.

He had heard news that although documents that contained orders of all political prisoners to be freed had been sent by the central command to all jails across the country, they had not yet reached this cellular jail housed on a remote island due to stormy weather conditions.

The jailor, taking advantage of this misfortune, had ordered that until the papers reached his prison, all executions would be carried out as pre-ordained.

The prisoners had revolted against this, but as in the past, the prison guards had managed to silence them with the use of excessive force and inhuman methods.

4:29 am, 15^th August, 1947

As the noose around his neck tightened its grip further, images of himself marching along with Gandhi on the route to Dandi flashed in his mind, along with memories of several revolts and protests in which he had been a part of with such leaders like Nehru , Bose , Sardar Patel and Savarkar.

As the nation arose to a beautiful orange sun that brought along with it the first rays of a free India, Ram Sharan breathed his last, as he set foot into a freedom of different kind.

Romancing the Moon

Tonight, it was her turn to kiss him goodnight. She looked up into the midnight sky lovingly, her deep gaze fixed on her beautiful lover. He was in full luminance tonight, his easy charm making her heart flutter, his lingering smile making her insides melt, his romantic serenade embellishing the night sky.

Sounds of hordes of nocturnal creatures making merry in the dead of the night echoed through the empty farms. As she walked the fertile earth, she could feel swarms of locusts buzzing past her. Oops… a lonely cricket just got crushed under her feet. “Nothing is going to distract me from him, not tonight” , she said aloud to herself.

She walked up slowly to the lone oak tree in the middle of the farm. She loved to rest underneath the tree in the hot afternoons, taking in the cool shade that it offered. At this time of the night, even to her, it looked a trifle scary – with its myriad little branches spread out against the night sky like the hundred arms of a flying witch, its main trunk looming large over her like the broom on which the witch roamed the skies. She stopped a good ten yards in front of the tree, regained her composure and made sure her heart was beating at a normal pace before finally making herself comfortable under one of its branches.

She liked to play this little game sometimes. Through the intricate weaving of the leaves, she could catch fleeting glimpses of her lover in the sky. She craned her neck to and fro as the leaves and the clouds masked and unmasked her lover, creating a delicate play of shadow and light. She loved it when a beam of light directly poured into her eyes; for that was when their gaze met each other and that was when she always felt herself to be truly in love with him. At those moments, she felt she could do anything for him. Roam the lands forever in search of him, wait for a hundred suns to pass before he finally appeared, or walk till the ends of the earth just to see a glimpse of him.

Somewhere far in the distance, she could hear gypsies play the songs of eternal love and she could see their dancing silhouettes against burning bonfires. The soft tunes of crude guitars and make-shift clarinets, coupled with their rhythmic chanting was starting to put her in a bit of a trance. She couldn’t resist singing along herself, her mellow voice peppering the gypsies’ songs every now and then. She looked up, cajoling her lover to join her for a little round of a slow tango. She loved to dance, but she hated dancing alone. Whenever she felt her body give in to the rhythm and the beats, she wanted him to hold her, lead her into a night of a slow, intimate dance where words held no meaning. The way they touched told them how they felt, and their passion was conveyed through nothing but their eyes.

Tonight, he seemed to be in a playful mood. He was being completely chivalrous, following her with a spot-light like beam wherever she went. He was being naughty, focusing on the curves on her body and making her feel embarrassed. He was being romantic, neatly shuffling the stars around him to make them resemble her face.

And he was being defiant. It was almost 4:45 am now, and he was refusing to go. He was holding his own against his brighter cousin, who was slowly beginning to fill the sky with a radiant orange hue. It was apparent that just like her, he didn’t want this night to end. He didn’t want the day to ever come back. He wasn’t ready to be alone, without her, for another 16 hours. He didn’t want to feel that emptiness again. He felt complete, with her.

The lovers watched in sadness, as the orange tyrant slowly took over the early morning sky. As his slight silvery beams could no longer match up to the harsh orange sky, he was slowly beginning to fade away into the horizon. She watched in pain, as she could do nothing to hold on to him, nothing to prevent him from going away.

She’d have to wait, wait for another 16 hours, wait for another night to fall in the countryside, in order to see him again. As the day broke and she could see him no more, she sat up from her seat underneath the oak branch, let a little salty drop of agony flow down from her eyes onto her cheeks, looked up in the sky with eyes that reeked of anger and howled wildly at the orange tyrant.

She then turned back on all her four legs and walked back into the woods to rejoin her pack of wolves.