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The Cat who showed me My Inner Attic

When I worked in a newspaper many years ago, there was a little cattery behind my office, which housed a 100 odd cats and kittens. When the rodents and rats, the rubble and the rust began to sour the workplace, with umpteen problems, malignancies and messes, I began to visit the cattery every evening. There the atmosphere of a Zen temple prevailed and I got back my peace and power.

The most intriguing and unnerving cat in that monastery of meowing Zen monks was a cat I named Mohanthal. Mohanthal is the sweet my mother made for Diwali, our festival of lights. It was a dark brown, orange and grey sweet made of sugar or jaggery, wheat, nuts and loads of butter, and it was the same color of the cat I named after it.

Mohanthal was the loner of the pack. She always sat alone, snoozed alone, kept aloof and seemed to have the look of a cat who truly did not need anyone else in the world! Solitude should have been her real name. The minute I reached the place I sought out Mohanthal who would be sitting on the most frightening ledge, edge of the roof hangout, where no one could reach her or touch her!

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