The Commissioner’s Dog

                                                                                Fiction

A high alert had been declared across the city due to the disappearance of the Commissioner’s prized dog. Police and district officials mounted loudspeakers on rickshaws and other vehicles, broadcasting threatening announcements.

“The Commissioner’s dog is valuable. Whoever finds it must hand it over to the police. It is equipped with a tracker. If found in anyone’s possession, strict action will be taken.”

Along with the warnings, the police were actively searching every corner of the city—vehicles, homes, housing societies, and markets. Several “suspicious individuals” had already been detained, but the dog was nowhere to be found.

The Commissioner’s fury was palpable, and the public could feel the heat of his wrath radiating through the police force. Despite all these efforts, the dog remained missing.

While the entire law enforcement machinery was out looking for the dog, masked, armed men broke into our home late at night and abducted my brother. The raid left our family—especially the women and children—terrified. Somehow, we survived the night, and at dawn, we began frantically making calls and seeking help.

The first step was contacting human rights organizations and lawyers. On their advice, I headed to the local police station to file a First Information Report (FIR). There was only one constable on duty.

“What brings you here?” he asked.

“I’m here to file an FIR. Where’s the SHO?”

“He’s not here.”

“Is there any officer present who can register my complaint?”

“What kind of FIR do you want to file?” the constable asked.

“My brother was abducted from our home last night by unknown persons,” I said.

“No one’s in the station right now. Everyone’s out. Come back in the evening,” he advised.

“Can I wait here until someone arrives?” I asked.

“No one’s coming anytime soon. They’re all busy with urgent work. Come back in the evening,” he repeated.

“I’ll wait. Someone has to come eventually,” I insisted.

“The Commissioner’s dog is missing. Everyone’s out looking for it,” he said with exasperation.

I returned home, disappointed and helpless.

That evening, I went back to the station. It was still nearly deserted. The same constable was sitting under a tree where I’d seen him that morning.

Noticing me, he whispered, “Hurry inside. The officers in the room. Go quickly before he leaves.”

I thanked him and rushed in.

The officer seemed flustered and in a hurry. The moment he saw me, he barked, “Who are you? What do you want?”

“I’m here to report my brother’s disappearance,” I said.

Rummaging through papers and still avoiding eye contact, he muttered, “I’m busy. Come tomorrow.”

“My brother was abducted from our home last night, and you’re telling me to come back tomorrow?” I protested.

“The senior officer isn’t here right now. There’s nothing I can do. We’re already under a lot of pressure.”

With that, the officer walked out of the room—and out of the station entirely.

I watched him go and silently returned home. On the way, the wail of police sirens and loudspeaker announcements about the Commissioner’s missing dog trailed me like a shadow.

At home, there was a funereal silence. Grief, anxiety, and helplessness loomed heavy in the air. No one knew what to do next. Yet outside, the blaring sirens and broadcasts about the missing dog continued without pause.

The next morning, I once again went to the station. An inspector was preparing to leave for a raid with a police team. I quickly approached him and explained what had happened. He listened with a skeptical expression, eyeing me from head to toe.

Then came the barrage of questions:

“What political party was your brother affiliated with? Was he involved in any illegal activity? Any suspicious behavior? What was his crime?”

As I denied everything, the inspector climbed into his vehicle and said, “We’re very busy right now. Once the Commissioner’s dog is found, we’ll look into your case.”

“Sir, my brother has disappeared. Please—” I pleaded.

Before I could finish, the inspector cut me off.

“Every day, someone’s brother, son, father, or husband gets picked up here. If your brother was taken, he must’ve done something. You think we’re just sitting around doing nothing? First, the Commissioner’s dog goes missing, and now you’re here bothering us,” he snapped, glaring at me before driving off.

Once again, I left the station dejected.

That evening, I returned yet again. This time, the station was bustling. The inspector, the SHO, and a dozen officers were drinking tea and chatting jovially. As I approached, the constable leaned in and whispered:

“The Commissioner’s dog has been found.”

The news brought me a strange sense of relief.

I greeted the inspector respectfully. He didn’t even bother to look at me, too busy narrating the “great rescue operation” of the missing dog.

“Sir, I’d like to file a report about my missing brother,” I said.

He and the SHO both shot me a look of irritation. Then the inspector called out to the head constable:

“Hey, take his complaint. Write up the damn report.”