Thane is about to get its second pet crematorium. The Kalwa facility, free like its predecessor, opens on August 15, with two more planned along Ghodbunder Road and in Kopri. Until then, the Thane Municipal Corporation’s pet crematorium in Majiwada remains the district’s only such facility. TOI meets one of its two operatorsThe faux diamond stud in his right ear catches the 6 pm light. Bluetooth earphones hang around his neck as Rahul Suradkar watches a woman walk silently down a corridor painted with paw prints and a playful pup.“I am here for the ashes… of the rabbit,” she says.“Have you brought…?”“The white dabba right there,” she replies before he can finish.That’s his cue.Suradkar opens the plastic box, disappears inside, and returns with a metal wok holding the rabbit’s cooled remains. He gently scoops the ashes into the container, snaps the lid shut and hands it back.Neither says another word.As he watches her leave, weighed down by grief, Suradkar recalls other owners who have broken down before him — some weeping uncontrollably, others calling priests to perform the last rites. “For some, they’re family,” says the khaki-clad operator.Opened in Majiwada last November by transport minister Pratap Sarnaik — whose own family had to travel to Mumbai to cremate their dog, Moti, because no such facility existed in Thane — the crematorium has already handled nearly 1,500 cremations.Families travel from as far as Ambernath and Kharegaon, says Suradkar, one of the two operators who run the gas-fired incinerator and return the ashes to owners.At 35, this animal-loving father of two, has cremated dogs, cats, rabbits, turtles and, once, a deer brought in by the forest department with all the necessary paperwork.His Rs 19,000-a-month job is not for the faint-hearted. Every day, wearing gloves, a mask and goggles, he lifts the bodies of animals into the furnace before later collecting their ashes for grieving families. Oddly, he says, the work is easier than his previous postings at four human crematoriums.“The process is the same. The machines there are just bigger.”His induction here lasted barely a day. “Once the other operator showed me how to operate the furnace, I knew the rest.”On the wall opposite his workstation is a quote from Sarnaik: “This is not just about infrastructure—it is about honouring the bond we share with our pets.”Suradkar’s shift runs from 3 pm to 11 pm, but grief doesn’t keep office hours. He once received a call at 2 am after someone close to a political heavyweight lost a pet. “My wife is used to it now,” he says.His caregiving doesn’t end when he leaves work. “My father is paralysed and bedridden. Between changing his diapers and my baby’s, this is my duty to the divine.”His cat, Chikoo, prowls the crematorium compound. He won’t take her home, fearing she could carry infections. Instead, his nine-year-old son visits the crematorium virtually through his dad’s video calls to see Chikoo. “He is proud of what I do,” says Suradkar. “I have told him I send dead animals to a better place for a living.”The service is free, though families often leave Rs 50 or Rs 100 as tips. Some return later with boxes of laddus. A civic official says the only recurring complaint has been Sunday timings. Earlier, the crematorium shut at 6 pm; it now responds to emergencies around the clock.Online, information about the facility remains sparse. A website still lists incorrect timings and omits an important requirement: owners must bring a photocopy of their Aadhaar card along with the pet’s licence. “Families who arrive without the documents have had to return to fetch them. I feel for them,” says Suradkar.NGO workers often thank Suradkar for doing what they call dangerous work. He smiles politely. What he hopes for instead is a raise “on par with permanent workers.” “They get Rs 50,000,” he says.Before another family arrives carrying a pet, Suradkar heads back to the furnace. Meanwhile, behind the human crematorium next door, Chikoo slips quietly into the shadows.
