I work at a vintage Underwood portable under the painting of a white dog. Strikingly rendered, it never fails to evoke comment and admiration. A whippet, I say, lying without qualm, ignoring a tail which curls with freewheeling Goan mongrel brio. It has been many moons since Snowy left us for the happy hunting grounds of her ancestors. But not without her moment of glory. A friend had dropped by one day while we were away at work, painted Snowy in oils, cooked us a superlative chicken liver pate and left without so much as a note, though the painting did carry a discreet signature.
With Snowy looking down her elegant nose at me, there I was midweek, hirsute and uninspired, grappling yet again with the Word, when the doorbell rang. The painter in person, after nine years. She had come by, she said, to autograph her biography for us and had just five minutes to spare. There was more of her, I noted approvingly, still engagingly proportioned, with the sparkle and smile as radiant as ever. Two hours after, she gave me a friendly hug and departed, leaving me with the cheering thought: you can be great, you can be good, you can be both. It hardly matters. If your name happens to be Anjolie Ela Menon, chicken liver pate says it all!
