It was a quiet day, only two pyres were lit.

The families performed their rituals, shed their tears, collected some of the ashes, paid the manager and were off. But tiny little flames still lingered on. Slowly carving the path through fragments of wood, bits of teeth and bones.

It was my life as the Dog of the Crematorium. A self-declared title, actually. But still it was better than most other dogs in the streets of Puri, the holy city of Lord Jagannath.

I almost never had to go to sleep on an empty tummy. Families of the dead ones always fed me or paid the manager to feed me wholesome meals, as if that would somehow make the sins wash away. Not that I was complaining. It was most fine by me. I was thankful for the heat from the pyres. Especially in the cold wintry nights. I had made myself a nice bed from the discarded clothes too. People believed death and anything associated with it to be impure and so they would throw off their clothes and don new ones.

The most interesting part of being the Dog of the Crematorium was that I was probably the last one to see the souls as they departed the mortal world. Sometimes they went away in a whoosh, sometimes they lingered as if they were lost or they spent hours searching for something or other. Occasionally they would sit beside me and talk about their lives, their loves, their regrets. I was always patient with the departing souls, the least I could do was to hear them out.

I used to think that life was all about accomplishing. When I was younger, I wanted to become a pet. And not just any pet, one who got to travel in luxury cars and airplanes, eat some quality kibble, get regular pampering at the salon. Maybe win a medal or two in competitions. I learned how to make the most enticing eyes, wag my tail with just the right tilt and intensity, lick my paws clean.

One day as I passed by the crematorium, a soul departed out of the pyre, walked away into nothingness as their family succumbed to grief. The other dogs were spooked by the souls and would howl for hours. But not me, I was braver than that. It made me curious about souls and life and death. And frankly, it didn’t make any sense. Life had no meaning. From the moment one was born, death was imminent. All we could do was hope to make the death easier for others.

From then on, I lingered about the crematorium. I watched the souls depart every day. I lent them a listening ear when they needed one. I yelped in their pain. I let them pat me even when they couldn’t, and wagged my tail in appreciation. That was the purpose of my life. Until my time came to an end.

I was the Dog of the Crematorium.