The Outsider, page 25
After the flight, Watson came to our apartment, his new home. We got a giant stuffed tiger in case he missed his mother (yes, I know English bulldogs and tigers are not the same). I have photos of him snuggling up to this giant tiger on his first night with us. We read articles about creating rules and boundaries with your puppy, and he stayed in his own bed the first night until we told him it was okay to come out.
* * *
That was the first and only night he slept in his own bed. The rest of his life, he slept with us, in my armpit cavity, farting in my face. Just like Shivani had the first time she held him, I fell in love with Watson. He changed my approach to everything. Time started being measured in time away from and time with this little guy. He completely reoriented my life. Instead of taking the first flight out in the morning, I’d take the last one, and then the first one home to see him. He was a cranky son of a bitch and bit me about seventeen times, but I was Dad. I think he just gave me a bite once a year to keep me in line and remind me who was truly in charge.
Now here’s the thing. Watson was spoiled as hell. He ripped shoes and bags and books owned by every single person who came through the door. He’d give you the greeting of all greetings when you came into the house, but god forbid you try to leave, because he would take your leg. I know there are dog trainers and behaviorists reading this and prescribing about five thousand solutions to “temperament issues,” but to us and the people we knew, that was just Watson.
In all honesty, he also kept our marriage together.
A few years after our wedding, Shivani and I started having problems. Just this sort of silence in the house, because there wasn’t enough time to have a real conversation. We were drifting apart. I was always traveling or shooting a film or doing shows. It felt like our lives were going in different directions, which is not an easy thing to realize when you love someone, and you stood on a beach and pledged to spend your entire lives together. Being married to a comedian is challenging. You basically sign up to be with someone who works in a traveling circus. There’s also no bar to compare it to. The lives of Western comedians don’t apply to us, and no other Indian comedian was working the number of markets I was at this point. My logic was that these opportunities were a first for anyone from India, so I had to take all of it, which wasn’t always the best mentality for a healthy partnership.
There was a three- or four-year period where Watson was constantly sick, so every time I left and got on a plane to perform or work, I felt like I was abandoning my family. One of the longest stretches that I was away was when I was shooting an ABC show called Whiskey Cavalier. Don’t remember it? You’re not the only one. When I got the audition, though, I had high hopes. This was a show from Bill Lawrence, the guy who created Scrubs and co-created Spin City and Ted Lasso. The thing about American television, though, is that you can go shoot a pilot, the first episode of a series, and that pilot can wind up not getting picked up. Or it can get picked up… and then you have to move far away from your home.
Bill Lawrence told me he was going to create a role for me in this show. I’d play a guy named Jai Datta, a high-tech hardware, CIA weapons specialist, whatever the hell that means. I was also told that the show would be shot in New York. Jai Datta, the Indian spy who is always two steps ahead, would change my life. Listen up, kids: Signing on to do an American network TV show does not always mean your life will change for the better. Playing the fourth lead on The Good Doctor is better than not playing the fourth lead on The Good Doctor, but it also might not turn out to be a career-spiking opportunity. What I’m saying is: Keep it all in perspective.
So I told Shivani that we (including Watson) were moving to New York. I gave her my When Harry Met Sally pitch, and added that it would be amazing for Watson, since it was closer to the climate he was destined to live in. They also had bulldog-specific vets! It was going to be romantic and different, and it might even save Watson’s life and cure his ills. But then Bill Lawrence told me they’d switched the shoot. To Prague.
Prague may sound romantic and amazing to you, but in my experience there, the city is good for about six days—unless you love chimney cake, prostitutes, and puppet shows. I spent several weeks there shooting the pilot, and instantly I knew I wasn’t going to move Shivani and Watson without knowing whether this series was going ahead. So we were apart. And it was tough. And then the show got picked up for a season, so I had to move to Prague. Not for weeks but for six months. I had signed a six-year contract based in New York, so I could have bailed. But I think the learning is what attracted me. To learn comedy from comedy creators at the top of their game.
So for six months I delivered lines like “I’m gonna hack into their systems, and see what I can do.” I wore fancy suits with five other amazing actors in the freezing cold climate of Prague, surrounded by the cheerful demeanor of Eastern Europeans. That’s not a knock, but the average twenty-five-year-old Prague resident looks forty and possesses the joy of the world’s grumpiest eighty-year-old. So yes, maybe it’s a knock. I’d watch Shivani and Watson on CCTV cameras in the house I wished I was in, living the life I should not have left behind, telling myself that it was the right decision to not have them freezing in this tiny flat with me. I told myself I’d made the right call.
I left a wife in India who wanted to leave me because I’d abandoned her and left her to care for a needy, increasingly sick bulldog. I was missing Watson and constantly fighting with Shivani, and the doggie cameras were the only things that kept me going. I’d watch Watson sleeping at night, which helped me sleep at night. I started flying home more often, and by the end of the shoot, I’d flown from Prague to Mumbai for eleven weekends, which was not cheap. I would leave Friday evening after filming, fly for over ten hours, stay in Mumbai for Saturday and part of Sunday, fly back to Prague, and report to set on Monday. I’m sure the crew and the ABC executives were like, What is wrong with this guy? But Shivani and I were not doing well. And I missed Watson.
When we wrapped filming, I went back to a tense household. The show premiered in early 2019, and it was not great. The show had this massively committed fan base and got great reviews, but it didn’t have great ratings. It was just… meh. It was average American television. It’s one of the first times in my life that I remember thinking, “Would you watch this if you were not in it, Vir?” And I remember not being able to fully say yes. I felt so stupid. I had signed a six-year contract to shoot in a place I didn’t want to be in, for a show I wouldn’t even watch.
The money was fantastic, my agents and managers were thrilled about the opportunity, but then the minute the first episode aired, I kind of became “this guy on that show.” It was more about the paycheck than what this was going to lead to or open up, which I’ve learned is the biggest career red flag you need to watch out for. The minute people start focusing on the money, be wary. If the first thing that comes up isn’t the idea or the feeling, the money won’t last. If you hear people saying things like, “Oh, it looks expensive” or “You’re gonna get a great bonus next year” or “Man, did you guys really blow up a chopper?” that is all code for “It makes me feel nothing” or “I haven’t actually seen it.” Every single cast member of that show became like a family member to me, and since then they have all gone on to do shows that I would watch, irrespective of whether I knew them. I sometimes think back to what they must have thought of this lonely Indian man they spent all those months with. I tried to be a professional, I made it through, and when the season ended, I went home.
Shivani told me she wanted to split up. She’d been alone with Watson for months, and even though I was flying home as much as possible, it wasn’t enough. And I get that. So in February 2020, the same month the show came out, we started talking to lawyers. We wanted to keep it amicable, be respectful of each other, and go our separate ways. We were two people who lived in the same house but didn’t really know each other. Two people who watched each other from across the world on different screens, with only one thing in common—a bulldog.
Watson fell sick that same week. I swear, it’s as if he knew these two people were heading away from each other, and he did what he could to prevent that from happening. And then, in March, the world shut down. I remember being on a Zoom call, being new to the phenomenon and struggling to focus, and out of the corner of my eye seeing Watson collapse and stop breathing for a second. I rushed over to revive him, which I was able to do. We got masks on and rushed him to one of the few emergency vet clinics that were open. We were in full PPE kits (us, not him). He had acute pneumonia. It took us so long to get there, to get him seen and get him healthy, that I started to panic. So now this couple that had spent days ignoring each other and looking for apartments online that they could move into—apartments that weren’t too far away from each other so we could share custody of the dog—was forced to coexist. We spent our days together, hand-feeding Watson, nebulizing him three times a day, carrying him to the bathroom, singing to him. He became our entire focus. We slept in separate bedrooms. I took Watson for night duty; Shivani took day duty. We were like two strangers in a tough city, sharing one house, with the world shut down outside our doors. We had limited access to vets, since India had a Wuhan-level Covid lockdown. The streets were empty. No one left their homes. Watson was becoming sicker, and something told me that he wouldn’t make it if we stayed in Mumbai. So I thought about Goa, more for Watson than for myself.
Goa is on the western coast of India, with about one hundred miles of beach along the Arabian Sea. I figured fresh air and space might help Watson (and maybe help me and Shivani as well). So I went to her and said, “I don’t know how long he has left. I know we want to split up, but if you move to Goa with me, I’ll get us through this pandemic and hopefully he’ll get healthy again. And then we’ll see what happens with us. As a man of honor, I will do my duty by both of you and make sure we all get through this safely, I don’t expect anything in return.” She agreed.
There were no open houses, so we found a house with a garden in Goa via WhatsApp. We just took it, without ever setting foot in the place. We would end up living there for four years, until December 2024. Borders were closed and there was no travel, but I knew a guy who did movie promos for Bollywood stars, and he had access to private jets. Like I said, I don’t call in the perks of fame often, but I guess for Watson I made a few exceptions. I knew this guy was just sitting on these jets, so I called and told him the situation, and asked if there was some secret Illuminati pact that enabled people to get on planes and fly during lockdown. He said there was no secret pact, but that it would be expensive. It’s a thirty-five-minute flight from Mumbai to Goa, so he called the Goa airport to see if they would let us land. I have only ever flown in and paid for one private jet in my life, and it was for my bulldog.
The day we flew to Goa, Watson was very sick, it was hot out, and we were in full PPE. We might as well have been wearing hazmat suits. There were four seats on the jet, so it was me, Shivani, the pilot, and a vet. We had the vet come, in case Watson had a heart attack on the plane. He had pneumonia, so I was taking no chances. The vet was simply flying to Goa and then flying straight back to Mumbai. What I didn’t know was that jets are like cars. They have an ignition switch, and when you turn that switch the AC comes on. In an airplane, they can keep the AC running while you get in and wait to take off, but not in a jet. The AC comes on exactly when you take off. It was like a hot box inside, so I took Watson outside and held him as I stood in the shade under a wing of the plane. While we were waiting for the AC (for our dog), they told us we had too much luggage, so we ended up leaving Mumbai with nothing but Watson’s medications. The only private jet experience I have ever paid for, for a damn dog.
Then we landed in Goa, and something changed. We weren’t magically in love again, Watson wasn’t magically better, but we were two hardened, worn-out Mumbaikars sharing a very clueless, vulnerable moment. It made us both a little kinder. We still gave each other space, but it was a space with a garden and nature. We still didn’t talk much, but we talked more softly. We focused on our son, who was now walking and pooping on grass instead of concrete. I remember the first time he took a piss in Goa and instinctively did this thing where he backed sand on top of it using his hind legs. In seven years, I had never seen him do it. You would’ve thought he had won the Tour de France the way I celebrated his basic dog instinct to cover his piss.
Goa was better for Watson than Mumbai had been, but he was still struggling.
Instead of chasing auditions and flying away to film pilots, my days became about caretaking. I would steam Watson and feed him by hand. It was good to focus on the little things. Shivani and I are old babies, in a way. We weren’t taught domesticity. We can’t even make toast, so responsibilities at home need to be shared if we want to survive. She had been Watson’s full-time mom for seven years, so it was my turn to step up. Living in Goa during lockdown ended up being the best eighteen months of my life, and I think Shivani got to see what it was like to have me around again and maybe she was reminded about the person she had married. When that person is just in and out of your life, you can sometimes think of them in terms of their routine instead of their heart. During this time, Shivani and I grew to appreciate each other again. It’s like Watson brought us back together. He knew.
I know the world outside our garden house was in turmoil, but inside the house I just wanted to make Watson comfortable. During that time, I got the chance to make up for everything I’d missed. Every day was work with him: I’d massage his legs in the morning and carry him outside to go to the bathroom. We built ramps for him so it would be easier for him to walk around. I put steamers in the shower, and I’d steam with him twice a day. We had to nebulize him to help his lungs. I played classical music during his baths. I got to take care of this old dog. It became my main purpose, and it felt good to care for him, this wrinkly English bulldog who had imprinted upon me years ago on that plane ride.
I started doing shows via Zoom for charity, donating money to Covid relief in India. I was content. And then, eventually, the world opened up. And Judd Apatow called.
I had once auditioned for one of his movies via Zoom and hadn’t gotten the part. But then he called out of the blue and said he was creating a role for me in a movie called The Bubble, about a group of actors quarantining during a pandemic and making a movie. Write what you know, right? The movie had Fred Armisen, Keegan-Michael Key, Pedro Pascal, and David Duchovny. And they weren’t shooting in Prague, they were shooting in London. It’s not every day that you’re on a Zoom call with one of your idols and he casually goes, “I’m not sure if you know, but sometimes I just put people who I think are funny in movies—and I think you’re funny.”
That was a tough conversation to have with my wife: “This Judd guy is a big deal, and he thinks I’m funny, and he wants to send me to London!” We’d just gotten over Prague, just come back together. I also knew that if I left, I might never see Watson again. He was so sick. But there are not many times in life that a Judd Apatow calls you. This wasn’t the fourth lead in a Navy SEAL show. This was something else. It was also temporary, since it was a movie and not a show that could potentially go on for years.
So I said yes, and Shivani was on board.
We hired a pet sitter named Scott to help Shivani with all of Watson’s care. Scott was amazing, but not many people could give Watson the level of care I had been giving him. Classical music and steam showers? It’s a lot. I spent as much time as I could with Watson before I left. I remember the day I had to go. He was fast asleep, and I put my face up against his and told him I would be back in eight weeks. I kissed him a lot more than I usually do. He didn’t open his eyes. He stayed asleep and, yes, he grunted.
The second I took off to London, his health started to decline even more.
I was staying at a hotel in London, quarantining for two weeks before I could go on set. On the third day of lockdown, Shivani called. Watson’s breathing was deteriorating.
“He’s going,” she said.
My heart was crushed. Destroyed.
About five hours into his suffering I said, “Tell him not to stay for me,” even though the thought of him dying felt like it would actually kill me. I’d made it back from Prague to India eleven times for this dog. Nothing would have stopped me from flying back again. It was mid–second wave, though, and against the law to leave. I stood on a freezing balcony in London, talking to a framed photo of my dog (the one I take with me everywhere), saying, “You don’t have to stay,” while weeping. If that sounds pathetic to you, you’ve probably never loved a dog.
An hour later, Shivani called again.
“He’s gone.”
We sobbed as she held him.
I watched my dog, my son, being buried via a WhatsApp video, which is an experience I would not wish upon anybody in the world. I shot that entire Judd Apatow movie heartbroken. It’s not an easy thing to try to improvise and be funny in that state of mind. I felt like I fucked up on that movie because I was around all these people who were my idols, and I was just broken inside. I still grapple with the fact that I wasn’t there with Watson. Did he look for me in his final moments? Was he peaceful? Did he feel let down? I’ll never know.
It’s very hard to lose someone who loves you with that kind of unconditional innocence. To this day, at this very second, as I type these words, I carry the guilt of feeling like I failed as a father.
It’s a tough contract to sign with the universe. But it’s worth it. You’re signing up to be there for an entire life. From training them to walk, to their first everything, to their calming down, to their eating, to their losing their faculties, to caring for them as they pass. Think about that. You’re in charge of a whole life journey. I remember this tiny puppy taking his first nap on my chest, when he was no bigger than a papaya, and how our breath just synced up. I remember sitting in a bathroom, drenched in sweat with him, with two steamers pointed at us because it was hard for him to breathe as an old dog. The day you get a dog, you make a commitment to the universe that you will watch them pass; you will be there. When we lost him, I failed that contract.
