The Life Before the Storm

Barcelona's cobblestone streets glistened in the gentle afternoon light. As Priths strolled over the well-known Passeig de Sant Joan, a light wind wafted the aroma of bougainvillaea and sea salt. His two dogs, Chase and Simba, trotted along with him, Chase with the youthful ferocity and Simba with the serene elegance of age. At just three years old, Chase, a German Shepherd, had eyes like molten honey. Simba, the elder King German Shepherd, had long ruled Prith's heart. However, Chase was his echo, shadow, and rhythmic breath.

Priths moved to Barcelona a few years ago, drawn by its architecture, rhythm, and obscurity. In a city that didn't ask too many questions, he had constructed a tranquil existence, successful at work and respected in his group, but guarded in his privacy. He was not married. Not even close. Love, he thought, had come and gone like passing trains he'd never be able to catch. But he had his boys, Simba and Chase, and that was enough.

Every morning started with a moment of stillness, coffee for him, kibble for them, and calm instrumental music playing in the background. And every evening, they would walk along the beach, watching the sun fade into the horizon, as if time were folding into itself.

It was a simple lifestyle.

Then a difficult period occurred.

At first, it was barely noticeable about Chase...a soft wheeze after a long run, a reluctance to chase after the ball. Then came the loss of appetite. Priths did not panic immediately. Dogs grabbed bugs in the same way as humans did. Perhaps it was the heat. Perhaps he needs a different diet.

But when Chase stopped leaping into the bed one night, the same bed he used to bounce on like a toddler jumping into a pond, Priths sensed something was amiss.

The veterinary clinic was clean and cool. Dr. Molina, a middle-aged Catalan lady, carefully examined Chase, her brow furrowing further with each test.

"We need to do a scan," she had said.

Priths nodded. The buzz of machinery, the antiseptic air, the silence of the waiting room – it all blurred together until the words finally landed.

Cancer.

It was lymphoma. Aggressive. Spreading.

Priths sat quietly, listening but not hearing. The word cancer made a sound. It did not sound like death. It sounded like the loss of innocence. Like betrayal. Like something holy was taken away before you could say goodbye.

He couldn't speak during the metro journey home. Simba put his head on Chase's back, sensing the sadness that hung in the air. And Chase—sweet, trusting Chase—looked up at him with those warm, brilliant eyes, as if to say, "Don't worry, Dad." I am still here."

But for how long?

The Fight

Priths charged into the conflict like an unarmoured soldier. He read, researched, enquired, and spent. The greatest clinics in Europe: Madrid, Munich, and Zurich. Trials, experimental treatments, homoeopathy, and immunotherapy. Every veterinarian and expert gave him the same expression: a softened, empathetic glance that conveyed, "You're trying everything. But sometimes everything isn't enough.

How could he give up?

Each day became a bargain of hope. He would wake up at 3 a.m. to check on Chase's breathing. He started sleeping on the floor next to him. When Chase vomited blood for the first time, Priths sobbed into the sink like a man crushed at the core.

His work, which had previously been a source of pride for him, began to deteriorate. Meetings were missed. Deadlines were neglected. Emails are unread. His boss, a nice but tough British woman, eventually sat him down.

"Take a break, Priths," she instructed. "You aren't present," and this is more important to you right now."

He nodded. He couldn't argue. His heart was no longer focused on corporate objectives and profit charts. His heart was covered in fur, and he was breathing shallowly next to him.

Then came the worst day. Chase fainted while trying to reach his water bowl. He stopped moving for a little while. Priths shrieked. Simba barked endlessly.

But Chase survived. Barely.

It was then, when hope was nearly dust, that he read one article.

The Leaf of Hope

It was a small experience on a website, shared by a fellow dog parent in an online forum. A village in Tamil Nadu. A veterinarian who resorted to Ayurveda after losing hope in chemotherapy. Dogs who outlived their prognoses. Herbs were natural.

But desperation had an unusual flavour. When you had no other alternatives, it tasted your courage.

That night, under his apartment's soft golden lights, Priths sat with Simba and Chase on each side of him. He gazed into Chase's sleepy eyes and said, "Let's go home."

Home. He hadn't used that word to describe India in years.

The Leap of Faith

Booking the tickets wasn’t just a logistical decision. It was emotional surgery.

Quitting his career wasn't difficult anymore—it was already empty. But putting his life into four bags, organising foreign travel for two dogs, and saying goodbye to a place he had grown to love was heartbreaking. Barcelona had captured his humour, isolation, hikes, and healing. However, it could no longer withstand his suffering.

He sent a lengthy email to his manager, enclosing his resignation.

"I've decided to choose a life over my livelihood. I hope you can understand."

It was a lengthy flight. Chase had been lightly sedated, and Simba remained quiet as always. Even yet, every minute spent in the air seemed like I was walking a tightrope with a storm below.

Landing in Chennai seemed weird. The sticky warmth of the Tamil Nadu air enveloped him like a lost childhood blanket. It had been over a decade since his last visit. He had folded and stored up his memories of India.

But suddenly, there was hope.

He rented a car and travelled to the little town outside Thanjavur, where Dr. Perumal, an Ayurvedic veterinarian, lived and operated. The roads wound past coconut palms and rice farms. The sun turned everything golden. And, despite its unfamiliarity, the place seemed curiously... secure.

They arrived at a little home surrounded by neem trees and solitude. A cow stood in the front yard, munching slowly. Birds chirped in the distance, sounding like gossipy aunties.

Dr. Perumal was in his fifties, with compassionate eyes and a speech as languid as water. He did not rush. He requested Chase's findings and sat with the dog on the chilly red oxide floor, softly caressing his spine and belly and measuring his pulse—not with machinery, but with presence.

"Ayurveda sees disease as an imbalance," he stated. "I am not an opponent but rather a message. Chase isn't dying."He is calling out."

Priths blinked. "Calling out for what?"

"For quiet. For harmony: "We will give it to him."

The Village of Healing

They moved into a little guesthouse near the vet's home. It was simple: one room, a creaky ceiling fan, and a clay water container in the corner. But it was serene. Each day began at daybreak with freshly made herbal mixtures. Chase's immune system was strengthened through holistic treatments such as medicinal water baths, dietary changes, warm oil body massages, and unique herbal powders.

Chase started to respond.

There was a gradual transition, similar to the first light before morning. He wagged his tail more. He smelt the air with interest. His hunger has returned. He climbed onto the bed, although clumsily. And Priths sobbed while watching him sleep.

But healing is never linear.

There were days Chase vomited again. Days he wouldn’t eat. Days he was too tired to walk. And on those days, Priths found himself crumbling inside, pacing like a madman around the small house.

“Am I hoping too much?” he asked Dr. Perumal once. “Have I dragged him here just to prolong the suffering?”

Dr. Perumal simply said, “You didn’t bring him here to escape death. You brought him here to live whatever life is left—with dignity, with love.”

It pierced something inside Priths.

He started to slow down. He awoke before daylight, walked Chase and Simba through the foggy paddy fields, and prayed under the banyan tree in the temple courtyard, despite not knowing the chants. He began meditating, something he had previously scorned. He started journaling. Some days, he would just look at the swaying coconut palms and cry for no reason.

He'd carried so much. So much dread. There is an overwhelming urge for control. And now it was being peeled away, layer by excruciating layer.

One night, when the monsoon clouds rumbled and the hamlet slept, Chase rested his head on Priths' lap and stared at him with something other than anguish or anxiety.

Acceptance.

And in that moment, Priths whispered, “If you must go, my boy… I’ll let you. But until then, we will fight. Together.”

The Edge of Surrender

Healing, Priths realised, was not about curing, but about connecting.

Chase became stronger in ways that reports could not quantify. His tail wiggled with a deeper pace. He barked more frequently, first gently, then with renewed vigour. He began chasing butterflies, even if only for a few seconds. He sat close to Simba, head nuzzled against his bigger brother like previously.

What about Priths? He was still recuperating.

One evening, a thunderstorm formed over the horizon. The wind howled with anguish. The lights in the guesthouse flickered as the rain fell. Priths sat curled up on the floor, Chase dozing alongside him, and Simba watching the window.

During that storm, something inside Priths burst open.

He remembered the night he brought Chase home from Barcelona—a little, frightened puppy with mischievous eyes. He laughed then, but it came from his gut rather than his throat. And now, imagine a world without that puppy...

Tears streamed down his cheeks, silent and endless.

He had been terrified to let go. To say goodbye. Even imagining it. But, as lightning flashed across the sky, he whispered into the storm, "If it's your time, I won't fight it anymore. I simply don't want you to suffer. "I love you too much for that."

It was the most difficult statement he had ever made. Not only to Chase, but to himself.

That night, he did not sleep. He sat next to Chase, caressing his fur and talking about everything and nothing—Barcelona walks, café days, squirrel chases in the park, belly massages, favourite toys, and that time they got lost in the Pyrenees.

Morning came as a gentle hug.

And for the first time, Priths felt a weird calm. Not because everything was fine. But he'd finally quit trying to avoid the inevitable.

He had surrendered.

The Light That Remains

The next two weeks were filled with unexpected beauty.

Chase started eating more regularly. The herbal therapies were now augmented with gentle physiotherapy provided by a local animal specialist. Dr. Perumal smiled more frequently. Even Simba had discovered his rhythm, befriending the cows and resting under the mango tree like a sage.

But the actual shift occurred in Priths.

He began volunteering at a local village school, teaching English to inquisitive, barefoot youngsters who viewed him as if he were from another planet. He prepared his meals using veggies grown on the nearby farm. Every Thursday, he practised chanting short Sanskrit poems with the temple priest.

And something within him softened. The corporate crispness faded. Fear lost its claws. The exhilaration dissipated.

He sent long letters to himself. About what really mattered. About why he never let himself quit. His father constantly told him, "Be strong," but never taught him how to weep.

He wrote about Barcelona's sunsets. About missing his mother. About the tranquillity of this village, which seemed more like home than any flat he had ever occupied.

And Chase?

He wasn't cured. The cancer was still present. But it had ceased spreading.

His body, however sluggish, was at ease. His eyes flashed again. He still felt agony from time to time, but it no longer ruled him. What Ayurveda has offered was more than simply medication. It had made room for joy, dignity, and a last stretch of life that could be experienced rather than endured.

Under a full moon, Priths brought Chase and Simba to the riverbed. They sat in silence, with fireflies twinkling about them.

Priths muttered, "You entered my life when I needed rescue. And you've saved me again. "Not by living forever, but by teaching me how to live."

Chase licked his hand.

And in that moment, Priths was no longer terrified.

He wasn't sure how long they had left. A month, a year—maybe less or more. But it didn't matter. What mattered was that he had decided to be present. Fully. Fearlessly. Lovingly.

The man who had previously measured life in emails and deadlines now measures it in sunrises and tail wags.

Home Is Where the Heart Heals

The air became warmer, and the days lengthened. Bougainvillaea, hibiscus, and kanakambaram flowered in vibrant, unabashed colours. The villagers began to greet Priths as one of their own, rather than as a foreigner. Every morning, the tea woman down the way would save him his favourite brass cup. Children from the school came by in the evenings to play with Chase and Simba, calling them "anna" or "thatha" according to their mood.

Life had slowed, but not to the point where it seemed static. It felt deep. Rooted.

Chase was now walking again—short, shaky steps, but with that unwavering spirit. His appetite recovered. So did his voice. On some mornings, he barked at the hens as if he were still the ruler of some European avenue. Simba observed him as if he were an elder spirit watching over his younger sibling. And Priths—he stopped counting the days.

He'd stopped waiting for grief. He had begun to value the present.

One tranquil day, Dr. Perumal asked Priths to sit with him on the ashram's balcony. They drank tulsi tea as a koel sang from a tamarind tree.

"You came here for your dog," the doctor replied kindly. "But I think you were also looking for yourself."

Priths grinned. "Perhaps I didn't realise I was lost until he started disappearing. Everything I dreaded was not only about Chase. It was the stillness. The concept of being alone in a world that never stops moving."

The doctor nodded. "Grief isn't the absence of love—it's its echo."

That night, under a starry sky, Priths sat with both dogs cuddled about him and arms tightly folded. He thought of the word "home." For years, it had been his flat in Barcelona. His job. His routines.

It no longer signified what it once did.

Home was not a location. It was a moment. Take a breath. Chase's pulse against his palm. Simba leaned towards him amid thunderstorms. The laughing of schoolchildren echoed across the mango trees. The odour of turmeric and sandalwood. The tranquillity that comes from choosing presence over production.

And when Chase sank closer against him, tail flicking ever so slightly, Priths mumbled a prayer—not for more time, but for more of these moments. Moments that were real, honest, and human.

He realised then that love does not necessarily imply salvation. Sometimes it entails yielding. Sometimes it entails travelling with someone through the dark, even if you can't carry them out.

One Year Later

Priths had remained. He'd never returned to his work. He now writes part-time—stories, travel reflections, poems—and collaborates with Dr. Perumal to administer the rural retreat. People from all across India come here to seek comfort, healing, and stillness. They named it The Healing Grove.

Simba remained the loving caretaker of the mango tree. Chase, while slower now, was still very much the heartbeat of the property, lying in sunlight locations and occasionally barking at birds to convince the world he was still alive.

Priths had discovered a rhythm. Not just work-life balance, but also soul balance.

He pondered at daybreak. He wandered barefoot through the fields. He sang sometimes with the people. He chatted to his folks frequently.

And some evenings, as he sat under the banyan tree with a cup of chai, watching the sun set behind the hills, he'd gaze at Chase and Simba and murmur, "Thank you for showing me the way."

Because in protecting Chase, Priths also rescued himself.