BackMumbai Multiplex | Farewell, my pet
Grief and generosity abound at the city's only crematorium for animals
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The elderly woman in the floral-patterned frock spoke to her pet one last time as the dog’s body was being transferred from the gurney to its final resting slab. As the crematorium worker slid her pet into the electric fire, she whimpered, then yowled, flailed her emaciated arms, and had to be comforted by relatives.
Soon afterwards, a family arrived in stoic solidarity to cremate their dog, determined to not let a single cheek muscle twitch. The two brothers separated by a moustache took charge as the women huddled together. As the flames gobbled up their pet, an ordeal that is hidden from view but easily imagined, their collective resolve crumbled. Some of the women began to weep quietly. The men reached for their handkerchiefs.
Mumbai has several graveyards and crematoriums for humans but only one resting place for animals and birds. Located inside the 140-year-old Bai Sakarbai Dinshaw Petit Hospital for Animals in Parel in central Mumbai, a complex of stone buildings, barracks and cottages, the electric crematorium set up in 1997 is next to a kennel for injured and aged dogs (including the stray Sheru, who shot to fame after taking a bullet from the terrorists who stormed Mumbai on 26 November 2008), and a few metres before the operating theatre and wards for cows and horses. Families show up throughout the week in cars or ambulances to bury their pets, mostly dogs of various breeds and sizes. Some families collect the ashes the next day, to immerse in the Arabian Sea. Some first perform death rituals with a priest in attendance.
Khanna served as a veterinarian in the Indian Army for 31 years before he took up this post in 2004. At least 15-17 animals show up every day, mainly dogs, and around five-six cats. “Birds are rare, but sometimes, even they are brought here," Khanna says. The charges range from ₹ 1,000-3,000, depending on size.
Not every pet owner needs to use the facilities at Parel. Families that are fortunate enough to have private gardens or farms outside city limits may bury their pets. Animals that perish at the Veermata Jijabai Bhonsle Udyan and Zoo are buried on the grounds.
Two years ago, the Parel hospital set up an air-conditioned morgue to keep pets, brought in by neighbours of owners away from the city, or family members. The morgue is also a blessing for people whose pets die late in the evening. The crematorium’s timings are from 8am-4pm, and before the morgue came up, owners had to make their own arrangements by buying ice from local suppliers, says Umesh Karkare, a veterinarian from suburban Khar.
“If the animal has a terminal illness that warrants euthanasia, we have to time it accordingly," Karkare says. He made a rushed journey to the hospital when his eight-year-old Great Dane, Trixie, died in 1997. “People don’t have the time to say goodbye to the pet they have had for so many years," Karkare says. “When an animal dies here, we have to catch the timetable of the system, since people don’t consider pets as a part of society."
There is another reason the morgue became necessary—there were instances when bodies stored on ice became dinner for rats, compounding the distress of pet owners, Khanna points out.
At Murbad, as in Parel, pet owners mark the moment through acts of love and charity. “People perform religious rituals, they bring flowers and garlands, and they sometimes bury a pet’s bed, toys and bowls," Bhanage says. “Some donate these items to us. One family distributed meals to the staff and sponsored meals for the strays. They built a plaque for their pet and planted trees around it so that it could get shade."
All these efforts are private or semi-private, since the municipal corporation of Greater Mumbai (MCGM) doesn’t operate animal crematoriums or cemeteries. “Even the Pimpri Chinchwad municipal corporation (which runs the Pimpri-Chinchwad twin cities near Pune) has a pet cemetery, but there is no such facility in Mumbai," Bhanage says. “For that, you need land."
Land is Mumbai’s greatest obsession, and it is in severely short supply for the living as well as the dead.
The final journey of an animal in Mumbai depends on its size and status. Strays are buried at dumping grounds in the north, as are larger animals like horses and donkeys. The Kora Kendra centre that is run by the Khadi Village Industries Commission in Borivali in north-west Mumbai picks up and buries cattle free of cost. This is death at its most anonymous, witnessed by social workers or members of the MCGM’s conservancy department.
But Mumbai is also known for its unexpected acts of kindness, big and small. The Parel crematorium also receives strays that have been adopted by a housing complex or a commercial establishment—the dog or cat that didn’t have a home but did have guardians generous enough to bear the expenses of its final journey.
Rajesh Suryavanshi, a groundskeeper who works and lives at the Azad Maidan public ground near the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus railway terminus, could have quietly buried Tiger, a cross-breed that died recently, not too far from his hut. Yet, Suryavanshi chose to bear the cremation costs of the dog he had come to regard as his own. “I brought the dog as a puppy from Deolali 16 years ago, and he used to play with the cricketers at the ground," says a visibly grief-stricken Suryavanshi. “I named him Tiger—he even looked like one."
It takes no more than 30 minutes for an animal to be vaporized. The procedure lacks frills but not emotion. Grown-ups weep like babies, holding their lifeless dogs one last time, and stroking the heads of cats brought there in plastic baskets. Women who might not be permitted for religious reasons to be present at the cremation of family members go all the way into the fire chamber for one last moment with their pet. Their only collective comfort is that in a space-starved city like Mumbai, there is at least one place where their pets can be taken.
The land on which the hospital stands was bequeathed to the BSPCA in 1883 by Dinshaw Manokjee Petit. The hospital complex is a reminder of the city’s rich history of public philanthropy. Plaques commemorating the contributions of various merchants are placed at the entrances of most structures. The crematorium itself used to be the Mooljee Jaithe Ward for Tetanus Cases, which was built in 1895 with funds donated by Dharamsee Soonerdass and Gordhandas Soonerdass.
The electric crematorium was inaugurated on 22 January 1997, to keep costs within manageable limits, and is dedicated to the memory of “Naval Godrej, who loved animals". One of the stretchers that brings animals that cannot survive treatment or surgery at the operation theatre to the crematorium is in “the loving memory of Hercules 2007-2014", while the two concrete benches on which pet owners maintain vigil are courtesy the Jain Jeevdaya Mitra Mandal.
Some visitors might consider the hospital to be unkempt, but its shaggy beauty is inescapable. Shade-giving trees tower over the complex, kites that were victims of injury or attack hang around and refuse to take off despite being healed, stray cats fattened by the canteen’s daily offerings waddle about, and the smell of manure and grass linger in the air. Only the daily parade of grief and the occasional display of uncontrollable anguish break the calm.
The cremation process is always short, but its impact can last a long time. A schoolteacher whose pet dog had died sat several metres away as her colleague’s husband, Bryan Nazareth, carried out the final rites. Nazareth, an interior designer, had endured the same agony when his own dog, a Great Dane named Ginger, died of cancer of the jaw at the age of 12 some years ago. “She can’t bear to come here," he says about the owner of the canine that he was helping to send off.
Did Nazareth ever replace Ginger with another pet? “No, no more pets," he replies.
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