“Please come,” she says. “It is our housewarming. You are moving in upstairs, aren’t you?”
I nod and smile.
“We are so lucky to have found a cow,” she says, folding her palms prayerfully. “Now it is as if all the gods have come home.”
“Amen to that,” I say rather inappropriately. “All hail the holy cow.”
My new neighbor stares at me, as if trying to figure out if I am joking or mocking. Probably both, even though I didn’t intend to. “All thirty-three thousand gods live in the cow,” she says huffily. “Her four legs are the Vedas; her eyes are the sun and moon; her neck holds the trinity. Even her dung holds Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth. Gomaye vasathe Lakshmi; go mutre Dhanwantri. Her urine contains Dhanwantri, the celestial physician. You didn’t know this?”
I have a choice: to fudge and say that, of course, I knew every detail of her account. Or to tell the truth and say that I sort of knew what Hindu scriptures said about the cow without knowing the details.
“Of course, I knew,” I say, a trifle too loudly. “That is why I came. I was wondering if I could hire the cow to walk through my home as well. After you are finished with her, of course.”
The woman pauses and frowns slightly. I know what she is thinking. Will sharing the cow dilute the good luck that she hopes to accumulate?
“You could ask the cow’s owner, I suppose,” she says finally. “She sells milk to this neighborhood apparently.”
I don’t know my neighbor’s name but we are already sharing cows. Our sojourn in Bangalore is off to a swimming start.
I nod at the milk woman. Her cow moos in response. Her name, I am told, is Sarala. The cow, too, has a name, but we haven’t yet been introduced.
The priest calls my neighbor to minister to the cow, feed it sugarcane stalks and green bananas. She does so prayerfully, glancing at me every now and then as if to say, “See, this is how it is done.”
A few minutes later, a young girl clad in a mango-yellow skirt hands me a bowl of milk payasam. “Please have it,” she says. “My mother made it.”
By now, I am convinced that this is my neighbor’s ploy to show me up not just in the cow-hiring but in the culinary area as well. Or maybe she is just being hospitable. I nod my thanks and spoon up the warm, milky payasam. Flavored with roasted cashew nuts, it is sickeningly delicious. Much better than my uninspired version.
The priest calls everyone to feed the cow.
“Those who want the blessings of this goddess of wealth can feed it,” he announces as we line up. I pick up my token, which happens to be fresh green grass. As we stand in line with our offerings; the priest recites some mantras. He explains their meanings to us.
“Daughter of Surabhi, the fragrant one, who is framed by the five elements of wind, water, earth, sky, and ether. You are, holy, pure, and benevolent. You have sprung from the sun and are laden with precious gifts. Mother of the gods, sister of the original progenitor of the world, and daughter of the ancient creators: the Rudras, Vasus, and Devas. Accept this food from me as a salutation to thee. Namaste!”
“Namaste,” I intone just to blend in.
The cow stands in a dignified fashion and quickly eats everything that we offer. Her raspy tongue tickles my fingers.
After the cow is relieved of her official duties, I follow her and her owner as they amble out the door. Can she come up to the fifth floor and parade the cow through my apartment as well?
“Normally, they give me one thousand rupees [about fifteen dollars] for this, but since we are already here, you can pay us seven hundred,” Sarala says.
We have a deal. I run up two flights of stairs while the cow and accomplice take the elevator. I feel that I ought to welcome the cow properly but there is little at hand in my empty apartment. I think about allowing it to lick my cellphone instead of a banana but decide against it.
“Welcome to the cow,” I say formally as they come out of the elevator. My floor thankfully is not marble. It is red oxide and therefore rougher. The cow walks through my empty apartment, somewhat bemused and a little impatient.
“At some point, you should buy her some bananas as a thank you,” says Sarala as she pockets the seven hundred and leads the cow outside. “Just as a gesture.”
“That’s why I gave you the money,” I reply, wondering if she is negotiating for more cash.
“Yes, but cows can’t eat money,” she replies.
“Cows eat paper in India,” I say. “I have seen them.”
“Those are poor homeless cows, Madam,” she sniffs. “Not my cows. My cows like bananas.”
“So why don’t you buy her some bananas with my money?” I have to ask.
“I will, but it has to come from your hand. Cows remember that sort of thing. The scent of your hand giving bananas will please her. She will know that you gave her a gift, you see? She will think well of you and bless your entire family.”
“Does the cow know the scent of my hands?” I can’t help myself.
“Oh sure,” she replies. “A cow’s memory is second only to an elephant’s. It remembers everything and everyone. You just watch. When this cow sees you on the road, she will recognize you. She will shake her head, wag her tail, and bound towards you.”
I am not sure if that is a good thing, but say nothing.
“Help me push her into the elevator, will you?” Sarala asks. “I’ll go in first with the rope and you push from the back. The cow is used to wide open spaces, you see. The elevator is starting to freak her out.”
I nervously follow the lady and the cow to the elevator. She asks me to put my hand on the cow’s rear and gently push.
“But what if she poops on me?” I ask.
“That is a good sign for your house,” she replies. “Do you know how many people give me a bonus to get the cow to poop in their construction sites? But what can I do? I cannot make her poop on demand. I have even tried feeding her extra sugarcane on the day before a housewarming. Sugarcane has lots of fiber, you see, but sometimes it happens and sometimes it doesn’t. Just pray that she poops before she leaves. I won’t charge you extra.”
The elevator comes. I put both hands on the cow’s rear and push.
“Don’t touch its tail,” Sarala says.
The startled animal sort of jogs into the elevator. It does not poop.
The doors close. I have sanctified my new abode with the cow. For reasons that I cannot put my finger on—that may or may not have to do with keeping up with the Joneses, or, in my case, the snarky neighbor who lectured me about holy animals—I am inordinately pleased.
The elevator doors open. This time, it is not an animal that exits but a human—my husband.
“What happened?” Ram asks. “You look happy.”
I shrug. “I got the cow to walk through our house,” I say. “My uncles will be thrilled.”
“But not the kids. Don’t tell them.”
After Ram, the movers come, carrying large boxes filled with our belongings. Within moments, we get caught up in directing them to the different rooms. The boxes smell of New York—a potent combination of subway, hot dog, petrol fumes, and smoke. I gulp. What have we done?
2
Bangalore
We used to live on Sixty-sixth Street and Central Park West, in the shadow of Lincoln Center. In many ways, it was an idyllic life. We walked across Sheep Meadow—had sheep ever grazed on that particular meadow?—to pet the animals in the Central Park Zoo. We woke up before dawn to move our car across the street depending on the day’s alternate-side parking rules. We bought Priscilla’s Pretzels from a cart down the street before ducking into the Museum of Natural History to see dinosaurs on winter afternoons.
I knew exactly which subway car to get into so that I could escape through the turnstile at the 116th Street station before anyone else in order to sprint up the steps to Columbia University’s Journalism School when I was late for class. I knew the cashiers at Fairway, and could catch the eye of the baker b
ehind the counter at Zabar’s—a decided privilege, particularly on weekends when the suburban hordes descended. He would nod slightly and throw me a box of chocolate rugelach.
We used nebulous words—culture, identity, and homeland—to explain the impending move to our friends, our two young daughters, and mostly to ourselves. Both Ram and I grew up in India. Though we became naturalized American citizens, we ate vegetarian Indian food at home and went to the Hindu temple in Queens. We spoke to our daughters in English and to our parents in Tamil. We have American passports but listen to Carnatic and Hindustani music. I watch House of Cards, Homeland, and The Good Wife rather than Indian soap operas; indeed I cannot relate to their high-octane histrionics, which make Jane the Virgin seem tame in comparison.
Exile, wrote Palestinian-born cultural critic and scholar Edward Said, is the “unhealable rift forced between a human being and his native place; between the self and its true home. It’s an essential sadness that can never be surmounted.” For immigrants like Ram and me, this is a double whammy. Born in India, we came of age in America. We could relate to both cultures, yet belonged to neither. We were like the primordial Trishanku of Indian mythology, who hung between heaven and earth, unable to choose his home. We straddled India and America, sandwiched between our Indian parents and American-born daughters.
Heritage is a hazy concept but that’s what we used to explain our move to the children. We wanted them to know their heritage, we said, while hoping that they wouldn’t ask if we knew it. The more tangible reason was our parents—both sets were still in India. They were getting old. Their annual trips to the States to spend time with us wore them out. We wanted our kids to know their grandparents, their cousins and relatives. After much heartache and discussion, we pulled the plug on our life in New York and moved to Bangalore.
Having my brother and sister-in-law in the same city makes the transition easy. Their son and daughter get along famously with our girls. My sister-in-law, Priya, helps me figure out which schools to put my girls in. When they buy an apartment on St. John’s Road, we decide to follow suit and buy a place in the same building. My parents live around the corner and so we recreate a new avatar of the old Indian joint family: both endearing and aggravating.
Across the street from our new building is a large army settlement, reflecting Bangalore’s colonial roots. The British army was stationed in Bangalore, thanks to its temperate climate. We live in what’s called the cantonment neighborhood, with the barracks now used by the Indian military and their families. Winston Churchill served here in his youth and still owes thirteen rupees to the Bangalore Club—a private club with a waiting list of thirty-two years for membership. Prince Charles offered to settle the account when he visited Bangalore in the late ’80s, but the club, which proudly displays young Churchill’s outstanding dues in a glass-enclosed ledger, refused.
The self-sufficient army enclave has schools, churches, clinics, homes, training grounds for its staff, and, as I come to find out, a milk woman to service their dairy needs. From our terrace, we look out at meticulously maintained roads bordered by flowering trees, clean sidewalks, and no garbage, all unusual for a large Indian city.
It is from this vantage point that I first see Sarala the cow-lady again. As I drink coffee at around six thirty in the morning, I watch army families enter and exit the campus. Cadets in khaki uniforms march out for training exercises nearby. Security guards are stationed at the entrance to ask if you are “phriend or phoe” (friend or foe), parroting a wartime instruction in a language that means little to them. Army wives clutch the hands of their children and walk them out to school buses. Civilians need to show a special permit, or answer questions before they are allowed inside. They can enter the army quarters to pray at the temple, church, or mosque inside, but that is about it. Cows and their caretakers, however, are granted a visa-free, no-questions-asked entry. The cows are led in to graze on the pastures that surround the barracks.
At the entrance is a cement culvert, about the length of a park bench. Here the milk woman sells her wares from a large, stainless-steel drum. Her cows are milked right there on the sidewalk so that her customers buy fresh milk straight from the source.
Three days later, I see her again. She is walking into my building as I am walking out.
“Got milk?” she asks. She is carrying a stainless-steel container filled ostensibly with milk. “Have you finished your paal-kaachal [milk-boiling] ceremony?”
Milk is the first thing that Hindus boil after moving into a new home. They allow it to froth, rise, and run over. The Hindu equivalent of “my cup runneth over.”
“Yes, I have,” I reply. “I used packet milk.”
“Packet milk is inferior to fresh cow’s milk,” she says. “Just ask those army folks across your street.”
“Do you sell your milk in my building also?” I ask.
“I’m carrying this milk for the new family that has moved in on the eighth floor. Do you want some?” she asks.
“It is very nice of you to ask, but no thank you,” I hear myself reply with the exaggerated politeness people use when they want to shake someone off. With years of practice, Indians have a highly honed instinct for spotting artifice, power hierarchies, and the limits of negotiation. From across the room, in a crowded wedding hall, for example, people can zero in on another guest as a useful ally or useless loser. They might accost perfect strangers at the reception to ask if they know of any “good boy or girl” with whom they can forge “an alliance” for their daughter or son. There are subtle undercurrents that hinge on several questions that are occasionally at odds with each other: will she take advantage of me, or can I take advantage of her? Even if I take advantage of her, how can I preserve the relationship? How can I win this particular negotiation without pissing her off?
And on a daily basis: How far can I push the vegetable vendor/milk woman/insert choice of profession into reducing the price of his goods so that I don’t get scammed?
Raised in India and trained on the streets of New York, I am already a master of this. I know that the milk woman views me as not just a potential customer but also a potential marketer who will find her new clients in this brand-new apartment building of seventy families.
“My name is Sarala,” she says.
I nod. I remember her name.
“You can find me every morning and evening across the street with my cows. We have been supplying milk for the last ten years. Ask anyone in the neighborhood. It is the best milk you can find. Here, have a taste.”
She opens the container and waves it under my nose. Inside is frothy, white milk. Having drunk only pasteurized milk from plastic containers for twenty years, I am nonplussed by the earthy, grassy smell of fresh milk.
I shake my head. “No, thanks,” I say. “But if I ever need it, I will come to you.”
Sarala tells me that the army wives are tough, discerning customers who keep her on her toes. They demand the best milk, she says. You will get the same high-quality milk. You ought to try it, she says.
I nod distractedly. I have bigger problems to deal with—an elephant of a problem, to be precise.
Ram and I have joined the building’s volunteer maintenance committee, taking turns attending meetings.
“We have a situation,” Ram announces one day as he walks in after a meeting.
Apparently the German tenants want to hire an elephant to give rides at their daughter’s birthday party. When our building committee refuses, they produce photographic evidence of a cow in the elevator. Since we have allowed cows into the building, why not an elephant? they ask.
Unlike our co-op in New York, our home here is part of a complex. There are three high-rise buildings arranged in a triangle. In the middle are a swimming pool, party hall, gym, and pool room. The entire complex is enclosed by a boundary wall. Around the towers is a driveway built to accommodate fire trucks but used mostly for walking or jogging. It is here that the German family wants to parade the
elephant. There is only one problem: our parking garage is underneath the driveway.
No one on the committee is against elephants. In fact, it would be nice to get a ride on an elephant. The problem is whether our driveway can withstand the weight.
“The parking garage is a hollow space, which could collapse under the weight of an elephant,” says Ram. “Heck, the whole building could collapse if the elephant walks on our driveway.”
There is no way an elephant can be accommodated. What next, we think with outrage, but can’t even come up with a bigger animal. We need a compromise. So we negotiate with the Germans. A horse is out of the question, they say. They have ridden horses in Germany. They need an exotic animal. What about a cow? we ask. There are plenty of cows around. The Germans look interested.
The committee deputizes me to approach the milk woman when they hear that I have interacted with her. My assignment is to make nice and secure one of her cows to give children rides around the building.
Now it is my turn to ask Sarala for something, and her turn to view me with suspicion.
“Cows don’t carry people, Madam. They give milk.”
What about bulls? She must have bulls in her stable of animals. After all, a cow needs a bull to fornicate and reproduce, yes?
She looks at me with pity. “Urban dairy farmers don’t keep bulls,” she says. “They rent bulls on demand. Most of the impregnation of cows is done through injection [artificial insemination] anyway,” she says.
Can she find us a bull? I ask. The Germans will pay good money for the animal. There is a bull parked outside the post office down the road. I have seen it every day “with my own eyes,” I tell her. A beautiful sleek animal with curved horns and a shiny white coat, loosely tied to the metal fence.
The Milk Lady of Bangalore Page 2