"Sleuthing Whiskers" Books 1-7 eBook Bundle

The view on the car’s dashboard kept shifting behind the blue-skinned deity, with its many heads and arms, as the road wound on ahead. The acrylic glass frame encasing the figurine reflected an extraordinarily handsome cat (yours truly) lounging in the front passenger seat, secured to the seat belt by a padded travel harness.

If only I had so many arms and heads! I would accomplish so much. My manifesto on cat supremacy remained unwritten thanks to all the delay I was experiencing in developing a writing system fit for kitty paws.

My brother’s constant discouragement proved to be an additional obstruction. Sherlock– my gifted sibling who was endowed with the ability of talking to humans– believed that all creatures were created equal. I found it so bizarre that a being so smart as him should have such strange opinions. I hoped that he eventually realized his grave error.

That cats were superior was not a mere idea. It was a fact— like the roundness of the earth. Why else would the ancient Egyptians build super tombs for mummified felines and appoint deceased pharaohs as their servants in the afterlife? Then there was the popular quote as old as time: ‘Lion is the king of the jungle’. Let me remind you, a lion was a cat. One that could subdue any member of dog-kind while wearing a blindfold.

But there was one hiccup, I admit: Humans.

Homo sapiens were very advanced. Their large brains allowed them to conjure fantastic technologies. The wheel, penicillin, the internet, rockets, kibbles. Mewow! Applaudable achievements. They had set foot on the moon, and explored the depths of sea beds and sent gold plated phonograph records to interstellar space showcasing their ability to gobble bread and ice cream. Even the colonization of Mars was underway.

But to accomplish all that, they had worked their fingers to the bone.

We cats on the other hand had hopped onto humans’ ships free of cost without breaking a sweat, and spread all around the globe. Felicette, the Parisian girl, even hitched a ride to space. It was only a matter of time before the first ‘meow’ echoed through the dusty valleys of the red planet.

Humans were the masters of the world. But they were all answerable to the true lords, the cuddly bosses who could purr and exercise suzerainty over the hearts of the hairless primates— cats.

“Watty, I know you are daydreaming about Catist ideology,” Sherlock woke from his snooze as the car slowed for a speed bump.

He was curled up in a booster seat sandwiched between a drooling Leila and Mr. Kamal’s granddaughter, who was also nodding away. Mr. Kamal was behind the wheel, driving smoothly at half throttle. Despite his abundant wealth, Mr. Kamal had preserved his humility and he liked steering his old but trustworthy Tata Sedan himself.

“History has proved time and again that propagation of such theories is a futile endeavor. Devote your energies to better pursuits.”

“So, you can read my mind now, can you?” My whiskers twitched in defiance.

“My dear Watty, the probability of you thinking about anything else these days is negligible— forget Holmes, even a bungling Lestrade could tell.”

“But Sherlock, acknowledge the reality. We are in a sedan, moving at many miles an hour. We did not invent this vehicle, humans did. And Mr. Kamal– a human– is driving it for us. We are like monarchs who can get everything done without shifting a muscle. With our cute faces we can prompt anyone to do our bidding. Isn’t this enough verification for my theories?”

Sherlock huffed.

“Mr. Kamal is not our slave. He’s just a generous man. Humans come up with inventions to make their life easier. Their own interests stand foremost, not ours. What you are proposing is laughable… a lump of smoking doo doo.”

The blood rushed to my cheeks at being ridiculed. Mr. Kamal caught my eye and flashed me a smile, unaware of my inner turmoil. His silver hair and the exterior of the car were of the same tint. He was a benevolent man, not my slave. Maybe, Sherlock was right.

“Now, now, Watty, do not be grumpy with me,” Sherlock said from behind. “How has your progress with the alphabet been?”

“A single paw print of mine can convey details that would consume an entire paragraph in a human language,” I said in a pride laden voice. Inwardly I thought this was another point supporting my outlook on cat superiority, but I let that matter rest for now.

“Well, that’s impressive,” Sherlock complimented, though I could detect a hint of skepticism in his voice.

“You do not believe that I can put together such an advanced alphabet system?”

“The last time you said each paw print would represent a single letter. Now you say differently. It all sounds too good to be true.”

“It dawned on me that by adjusting the angles and spacing between the toes, I could pack an extraordinary amount of meaning into a single print. This would also cut down the amount of ink I would need to smear on my paw.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock said. “Very interesting. I wonder if it’s all in your head. But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Mind teaching the written word to me?”

“Once I standardize everything, I will impart the writing system to you. Tuition fees will be one paw-sized fish head a day. I think that’s very reasonable.”

Sherlock humphed.

“Back in the day I taught you to read a quarter of a dozen human languages for free.”

“Reading is one thing, writing is a whole different game. Especially writing with the anti-pen limbs we possess.”

“Okay, fair point,” Sherlock said. I couldn’t quite decipher the self-satisfied smile that immediately flitted across his face. “I will pay your fees. I have deep pockets. Very deep.”

Sherlock was someone who scorned any knowledge or skills that he didn’t view as useful. And although I didn’t believe he had deep pockets (he wasn’t wearing pants), I was nonetheless honoured that he was interested in learning my first-of-its-kind kitty alphabet system.

The great John H. Watson, the chronicler of Sherlock Holmes, had noted down the eccentricities of his friend in one of his books. And it would be a unbalanced affair, if I did not make a similar list of the enigmatic traits of Sherlock the Cat—

1.      Knowledge of Literature: Considerable. He used to steal tomes from libraries and stack them in his discreet hideout– his ‘den’– a cavernous tree hollow in the trunk of a giant banyan. The fig, adorned with majestic prop roots, was supposed to be haunted and this played to his advantage, warding off humans. He was a die-hard fan of Conan Doyle’s brainchild, as one could infer from his name.

2.      Philosophy: He would sometimes quote from Vedic and Sumerian scriptures. He was a very wise cat, but, oh, such an intellectual show off simultaneously.

3.      Astronomy: He knew of theories like the Big Bang, but he agreed with Holmes that it lacked utility in his chosen line of work.

4.      Human Politics: He would research politics on some occasions, but this always caused him flatulence, so I discouraged him from indulging in such matters for the welfare of my nose.

5.      Botany: Considerable. Knew everything about catnip.

6.      Geology: Engaged in geophagia on rare occasions to acquire essential nutrients direct from the soil.

7.      Chemistry: Knew the formulae and properties of some compounds.

8.      Anatomy: Knew weak points in the bodies of different species.

9.      Sensationalism: He admitted he lagged in this field and sought to compensate by fixing a child-repelling death stare (exacerbated by his twisted lip that gave him a menacing appearance) at television screens whenever the news was on.

10.   Women:

a)      He would romance any human female for the sake of a biscuit. You should watch him transform into a pure gigolo as he lets them scratch his belly and squeeze his posterior.

b)      A bitch– as in a female canine, not the vulgar slur– had once french kissed him.

c)      Female cats are a different subject altogether. He keeps a long distance from the fair sex of catkind, and if worst comes to worst and he is rendered choiceless but to interact with them, he prefers to speak in single letters, not words. That might sound hyperbolic, but it aptly conveys Sherlock’s intentions to be a bachelor forever, just like his role model Mr. Holmes.

11.   He could curl and lick his own butt– not a particularly exceptional trait as all cats, including myself, had a proficiency in that.

12.   Behavior:

a)      His behavior was generally warm towards me, although in recent times he had begun taking delight in mocking me subtly.

b)      He liked to walk around with a deerstalker on his head. He had snagged this piece of headgear from a crime site.

c)      He alternated between periods of unmatched energy and deep moodiness. Now and again he would put a catnip pipe– a toy gifted by Mr. Kamal– between his mouth and become still as a wax statue while a narcotic haze shrouded his eyes.

“Is it just me, or do you two have actual conversations?” Mr. Kamal presently said with knitted brows, the firm but gentle grip of his bony fingers never leaving the four-spoked wheel. Age spots dotted his crinkly skin.

“Meow,” I said, slow-blinking at the elderly man.

“Meow?” Mr. Kamal said. “What do you discuss anyway? Let me guess. Fish? Or is it cat ladies?” He waggled his thinning eyebrows.

“Devising ingenious cat scripts,” I replied, puffing up my chest, “Wait and watch. It won’t be long before cats start bagging pulitzers.” Of course, all Mr. Kamal heard was a string of meows.

Mr. Kamal shrugged. The genial man pretended to understand me.

“Okay, I agree with whatever you said. You are absolutely correct.”

“How long until we reach our destination?” a feminine voice queried from behind. I was acutely aware none of the girls had roused.

“About an hour,” Mr. Kamal replied, unwittingly falling for Sherlock’s ruse, as he winced at a goods truck farting black smoke ahead of us. Horn Please was written in large calligraphic letters on the rear of the lorry, below the colorful portrait of an eighty’s bollywood heroine blowing a kiss. Indian trucks were art galleries in their own right, ones on wheels. Trees sprinted on either side of the highway.

Mr. Kamal was the owner of the Sahpat Resort, where we first set foot a few months ago. The holiday haven had been plagued by criminal activity. But, thanks to us, all lawbreakers were either behind bars or had bitten the dust as an indirect consequence of our actions. A grateful Mr. Kamal gave us the green light to become permanent residents. We were now the mascots of the resort, with our murals gracing its outside walls.

Leila, the thin waitress snoring– nay, braying ‘hee haw’– in the backseat was the only human who knew Sherlock’s secret. We had saved her from judicial miscarriage and in return she had vowed she would feed us all her life. When nobody was looking, Sherlock would twist his tongue in the most uncatly manner and talk to the twenty-something girl in human vernacular. We regarded her as an elder sister of sorts. Her parents and her brother lived in the village of Bandarali.

Bandar. The Indian word for ‘monkey’. I still had nightmares of a diabolical macaque matriarch ordering me to twerk for her entertainment. Ah, the shame still haunted me. I was eternally thankful none of my associates had witnessed my traumatic humiliation.

A mouth ejected a yawn. The granddaughter, Anita, stretched her arms in the rear view mirror. She immediately proceeded to pull out her phone from her glossy purse bag and snapped a cheeky selfie, sticking out her pink tongue. Her fingers clattered on the virtual keypad as she captioned her latest upload.

I cringed.

Anita’s obsession with selfies trumped feline fish infatuation. I reckoned she fancied herself to be a celebrity, though the single-digited likes on her posts suggested otherwise. Anyone who had tasted true fame– seasoned folks like Sherlock and me– absolutely abhorred cameras. The freckled eighteen year old shared the same long nose as her grandfather but was such a contrast to the suave man. She kept squeaking rapidly in a high pitched teeny weeny voice and bombarded her listeners with words such as ‘like’, ‘well’, ‘okay’, ‘oh my gosh’. You get the idea.

“When’ll we reach home, grandpa?” she presently asked her granddaddy.

“An hour, didn’t you just ask?”

“I didn’t, okay? I just woke up.”

“I must have imagined it then.”

“This cat still scares me,” Anita said, putting a couple of extra centimeters between Sherlock and herself. “Is he going to, like, attack me?”

“Anita, my darling, it’s not his fault he looks mean. It’s an old injury on his lip that lends him an angry face. You won’t find a kitty that is more of a gentlecat than Sherlock.”

There was another gentlecat– Me. But, as always, I had no qualms about not receiving my due praise.

Despite my lack of affection for Anita, I had to thank her for our trip since she was pivotal to our trip materializing and I was quite the travel junkie. It was summer break at her Delhi college, and the budding botanist had visited the Sahpat resort to escape the all time high heat records of the capital. She immediately struck a friendship with Leila who happened to be one of Mr. Kamal’s favourite employees (we had a hand in that). The two girls had bonded over failed relationships and their introverted natures were a match. So when Anita invited the waitress to her ancestral home Sherlock and I jumped at the opportunity and did our best to turn blind eyes to the fact that she wasn’t much of a cat lover.

However, Leila herself hadn’t been particularly keen on the excursion. Recently, her face was very frown-prone, making her look like some fretful mother brooding over an alcoholic son spilling family secrets to the public.

Sherlock had suggested two possible rationales behind her behavior– Number one: Leila had an inferiority complex. Not a surprise, for her friend was rich, while she scraped by serving food to egoistic guests. The second explanation?

Hemorrhoids.

Leila had outright rejected both of the speculations when we cornered her the previous night. She denied having anything to do with the empty carton for a zinc oxide cream that Sherlock had discovered in the trash.

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, is that a rhino?”

Anita knocked excitedly on her window, seeking to break through the glass and reach out to the obscure shape in the distance. The highway meandered through a forested territory thick with foliage and swamps, and travelers often sighted one of the fat unicorns in their natural habitat.

“Could be,” Mr. Kamal said, adjusting his goggles. “I hope they don’t catch the attention of poachers–”

Mr. Kamal suddenly slammed the brakes, his hands tightening on the steering wheel as a pickup truck veered onto the road from a side tract. My harness went taut, preventing me from flying off my seat. The jarring stop rattled all the passengers, resulting in a horrid symphony of shrieks and groans.