the street dog I named Govinda

You're not supposed to name them. Naming them is the first mistake. It's the difference between a street dog and your dog, and one of those has a claim on you and the other does not. Govinda lives — lived? I've moved now, so I suppose I can't say anymore — outside the gate of my old colony in Laxmi Nagar. Black with a white chest. Very serious face. He had the disposition of someone who had seen things and processed them and arrived at a philosophy of watchful neutrality. I fed him biscuits for two years. Just parle-g, not anything special. He never sought me out; he simply recognized me as a reliable source of biscuits and acknowledged this with a tail that moved once, twice, then stopped. Not fawning. Just a nod. When I told my mother about him she immediately began calling him "your Govinda" in a tone I found excessive. "How is your Govinda?" she'd ask when I called. As if I had a dog. As if this was a relationship. I moved in April. I went by once after, two weeks later. Govinda was in his usual spot. He looked at me and wagged his tail twice. I didn't have any biscuits. I apologized, which felt absurd. He lay back down. I don't know who feeds him now. Maybe nobody named him.