There is national news, international news, local city news—and then there is colony news, news that does not appear in any newspaper, but spreads nevertheless. Though I hardly mix with the neighbours, I get all the news, most of which I have little interest in. Who is sick, who has had a fight, whose grandchild has been born in a far distant city, who has decided to spend some days in silence–this news spreads through the workers, the maids, gardeners, drivers and guards, an integral part of life here. Separated by the great class divide, they have a news network of their own. Who pays well, and who is good to work for, is of course essential for them to know, but there is a lot more–overheard conversations, secret deals, and conflicts; alcoholics and those short of money, who even try to borrow from them; the sale and reconstruction of houses; who exercises, who goes to the gym, and when; in fact practically everything that happens–sometimes I wonder what the rest hear about me, but when I meet them they seem pretty ignorant. The workers network knows I care for animals–that is how I have got Pixie the abandoned dog, and Nandu the black cat. Nandu was handed to me over the gate late one night, a scrawny terrified kitten, with an appeal to take care of him as dogs were after him–he is grown up now and stays with the other outside cats. Pixie, six or seven years old had been abandoned by someone, and was desperate to find a new home. Once again she was brought to me, and stays in the garden.
Roshen Dalal 