The Black Panther of C R Park~By Santanu Ghose

 

The Black Panther of C R Park

~By Santanu Ghose

They call him The Black Panther of K Block. Jet black from nose to tail, sleek as a freshly ironed sari, arrogant as a politician before elections. He isn’t just a cat—he is a legend. He prowls the alleys, climbs trees like a ninja, darts across rooftops like a furry Batman, and every squirrel within a five-kilometre radius has PTSD because of him.

But he wasn’t born a loner. Oh no. He was the second of four siblings, all jet black, little carbon copies of their mama. Now, their mama? A queen. Not metaphorically. Literally. One dark night she walked straight into my neighbour’s house, four kittens in tow, looked up at him with those glinting emerald eyes, gave a commanding purr that said, “You’re mine now, human.”

And that was that. The human bowed down. The kingdom was established. She took over his bed, his food, his slippers, his dignity. Her kittens? Tiny terror units. Chaos in black fur.

As the kittens grew, things changed. Mama left one morning—probably in search of a new baby-daddy for her next royal litter. The eldest kitten eloped with some slick tom from N Block. The youngest got adopted by another foolish human who didn’t realise she had been the one adopted as lifelong servant. That left two brothers: our Panther bhai and his twin.

They were inseparable. Roaming together, chasing squirrels together, running from rabid, slobbering, dumbass colony dogs together. You couldn’t tell them apart. If one was missing, the other would search until he found him.

Until one day… Panther’s brother didn’t come home.

Dinner time rolled around. Panther waited. “Bro? Oi? Where you at?” Meowed into the night. Sniffed every trail. Climbed every tree. Searched under every Maruti 800 and Kia Seltos and BMW.

The next morning, they found his brother. Squashed flat under a Mercedes.

“Ah well,” the human sighed, “At least it was a Mercedes. Not bad for a send-off. Went out in style.”

Panther didn’t care for style. He sat by the road for hours, tail wrapped around his paws, staring at the spot. His emerald eyes scanning for a brother who wasn’t coming back.

He stopped roaming. Stopped climbing. Just sat under his favourite tree, quiet as a dead leaf. The wise old crow cawed from the branch above: “Oi, bro. Life goes on. Get your fluffy ass moving.”

Panther flicked an ear. “Bugger off.”

The humans were worried. They tried everything. Milk, fish, boiled chicken (yes, boiled, the sacrilege). Nothing. Meanwhile the mice declared a bloody festival in their kitchen. Tiny squeaks of revolution echoed through the cupboards.

Then came Ashtami night. The para was buzzing. Drums, lights, chaat stalls, aunties in heavy Benarasi saris. And amidst the chaos, she appeared.

She.

Black as the night. Amber eyes that gleamed like smouldering charcoal. Fur polished like black granite. And oh—the paws. Snow white. Dainty. Perfect.

She walked in like a diva entering a fashion ramp. Meowed once. Claimed the territory. Panther sniffed the wind. His ears perked. His tail stood up like an antenna catching lost radio signals.

He approached her slowly. “Hey there, gorgeous.”

She narrowed those golden eyes. “Stay outta my face, mister.”

Panther was smitten. He trailed her all night, singing mournful ballads only a lovesick tomcat can compose. High-pitched mewls, low-pitched wails. The humans cursed from their windows.

“Ei! Shut up! We’ve got work tomorrow!”

“Kalke Nobomi! Ebaro shute debe na?”

Someone even dumped a bucket of water on him.

Still Panther sang. Still Panther panged. Still Panther pined.

~~~~~~~~~~

And then, at dawn, there they were. Strutting side by side, tails entwined, whiskers brushing. White Paws had given in. Panther looked smug. The para aunty sighed from her balcony. “Oof! Ki mishti jora re! What a romantic couple!”

Days passed. The Pujo lights came down. Life returned to normal. Or so the humans of K block thought. But no.

Soon the nights were filled with… noises. Purrs. Growls. Thuds. Moans.

“Eta bhodroloker para! This is a respectable neighbourhood!” shouted Uncle from two houses down.

“Get a room!” someone yelled.

But Panther and White Paws didn’t care. They sealed their love under moonlight, under starlight, under streetlight, under that big neem tree that had witnessed everything.

And then came the kittens. Four little black-and-white balls of chaos. White Paws looked regal. Panther looked exhausted. The humans resigned themselves to life with seven freeloading felines.

Months passed.

One night, I spotted the pair on my neighbour’s terrace. White Paws stretched, yawned, looked at Panther and said, “Darling, soon it’ll be time for me to go. The kits are growing. I must move on. You know how it is.”

Panther stared at her, eyes wide, heart sinking. “Must you?”

She sighed. “Such is the way of cats.”

He sighed. “Damn humans. I’ve been living too close to them. They’ve infected me… with… love.”

White Paws kissed his nose. “Silly boy. It’s not the humans. It’s just life, what’s love got to do with it!?”

And under the silver moon, the Black Panther of C R Park watched the love of his life disappear into the night, a soft meow fading into the darkness.

He sat there a while, tail curled around his feet. Then he stood, stretched, and leapt down into the shadows.

Tomorrow there would be mice to hunt. Trees to climb. Kittens to teach.

The jungle of K Block awaited. The Circle of Life continued.