Before and After: Author Anil Menon tells the story of a couple, their new robot pet dog, and the domestic strife that follows | Eye News

Before, Mr Pullampulli could conduct his morning prayers privately, confident that his numerous requests were for Lord Venkateshwara’s ears alone. After, he’d open his eyes to find Og by his side, sitting on its haunches, also praying. When he complained, his missus only laughed.

“Do you also want a biscuit, darling?”

Mr Pullampulli rued the day he had let her talk him into getting the freak. The missus had sprung the proposal when he had been at his most defenceless: in bed, flat on his back, sans shirt, scratching contentedly at night. At night! A man ought to feel safe at night, thought Mr Pullampulli.

“Let’s get a dog.”

“A dog?” He recalled the feral strays that occasionally crossed his path.

“Absolutely not!”

“Give me one reason.”

“They’re too high maintenance.”

“That’s why we’re getting a model dog. They only need hugs and kisses.”

Model dog! ‘Model’ was just a corporate euphemism for ‘robot.’ A robot pet!

“Have you gone mad? How can something with gears and springs be a pet?”

“The same way someone with a metal heart can be a lover.”

This was unkind, not to mention, false. Mr Pullampulli was not only a considerate lover, his artificial heart — an Adani-Hindenberg unit — was made from exotic plastics, not metals.

“Rubbish! No means no.”

“I know what ‘no’ means. And don’t shout, darling. I like having something to pet, and unless you intend to grow a tail and learn to bark, a dog it is.”

“Over my dead body.”

Mr Pullampulli thought the matter settled. But Og showed up a week later, in a silver box, self-assembled itself, looked around, waggled its limbs and butt, test-walked around the room, leaped onto Mrs Pullampulli’s lap and straight into her delighted heart.

At first, Mrs Pullampulli was content to just play with Og. Then she tried her hand at changing Og’s default behaviours. That led to classes on generative programming, exams, and eventually, a diploma. She joined net-groups, hosted a net channel, had tons of friends she had never met, and used words like “embodied cognition” when Mr Pullampulli questioned the need for models to be anatomically correct.

When life hands you a lemon, make lemonade. Yessir, certainly. But what if life hands you a cockroach?

He deplored his wife’s lack of standards. If the missus could love something this easily, then it made a mockery of the three years in college he had spent
chasing her.

I wrote her poems! thought Mr Pullampulli one morning, scowling as he watched the missus make a fool of herself over the freak.

Mrs Pullampulli gave her husband a fond smile. “Tonight, I’ll be linking into a conference in Belgium. Please adjust.”

So no dinner.

With a roar, Mr Pullampulli jumped up, grabbed Og by the neck, and flung it out the window.

The dog’s fall through 12 floors, Mr Pullampulli’s “yes!” fist gesture, Mrs Pullampulli’s anguished scream and the crowd’s reactions, were all captured on dozens of drone cams and broadcast on various net feeds.

By evening, it was on all the news channels. They touched up Mr Pullampulli’s image: he was a few shades darker and looked slightly deranged. By next morning, CNN had him on their ticker tape — “Jealous Indian husband murders model” — and media agents were soon clamouring to represent both Mr and Mrs Pullampulli.

It turned out the world was roughly divided into people who despised robots and those who loved models.

The local chapter of PETA held a candlelight vigil.

Mr Pullampulli stepped out to buy some groceries, but within minutes a flash mob magically assembled, and he was chased all the way back home. Mrs Pullampulli was elected Model Person of the Year. Publishers offered book contracts. A play was in the works. She was interviewed, profiled and special-featured. The Og gyroscope, a technology that allowed model pets to land on their feet, became a standard feature. Pullampulli Pickles were a must in many decent families.

But Mr Pullampulli also had his fans. To “Pullampulli” someone, according to Urban Dictionary, was to drop some gravity on them. The Humans First society invited him to keynote their annual gathering. His decision to address the mostly English-educated crowd in chaste Tamil drew thunderous applause. His famous line — “no one comes between my wife and I, no one”— launched a condom campaign. He tweeted. Speechified. Special-guest appearances in movies. Eventually, he was made president of the Stop Spousal Neglect society, the first Indian male to be so honoured. The Pullampullis moved to a bungalow.

“Whew, I’m exhausted,” said Mrs Pullampulli, one Thursday afternoon. “Let’s cancel all our engagements and relax this weekend? Just the two of us, darling.”

“Three, you mean.” Mr Pullampulli stroked their dog. The company had replaced the model without any fuss, even though the warranty hadn’t covered vicious negligence.

Og II woofed.

Before had been good. After was even better.

Anil Menon is an editor and author. His most recent novel is The Coincidence Plot