Cow and Company

by Parashar Kulkarni

  Periodically, the committee sat to resolve cases presented by the cow psychologist. Some problems were self-created. The psychologist had read that old cows become rejuvenated if they spend time with young calves. He instituted a programme in which, every Friday, calves from the neighbouring villages would visit the cow shelter. When the calves arrived and tried to play, the old ones would kick them away.

  ‘It’s not their fault. Give them soft toys instead,’ suggested the milkman.

  ‘How absurd! Whoever heard of soft toys for cows?’ responded the cow psychologist.

  The milkman explained. Most mothers were used to soft toys during their productive years and didn’t have the ability to deal with real calves. Calves compete for milk. But religious injunctions do not permit their killing. Therefore, they’re starved to death. Then their skin is stuffed with straw. Four wooden legs are thrust into it. Each morning this soft toy is brought to the mother, and she, thinking this toy is her calf, allows her milk to flow freely. How can she be expected to deal with real calves?’

  The cow psychologist thanked the milkman for his insight. Motivated, he introduced a new programme: Pre-loved Toys for Cows. Soon they were receiving stuffed bovines from English boys and girls. Not all cases could be disposed of with soft toys. For some, they prescribed, ‘send her off to Vrindavan.’ For others, particularly on matters of attempted suicide—for they were concerned that the cows were contemplating suicide in a place that was meant to protect them, to be their sanctuary—they sought guidance from neighbouring cow shelters. Rich merchants and landlords did not support these cow shelters enough. Neither did they have strong committees that appointed cow psychologists. They were behind the curve on everything from funding to fodder to fellows. Here maggots seemed better protected than cows. The cow psychologist suggested that the committee approach the Maharaja of Jhunjhunu, who held the title Gau Brahmin Pratipalak (Defender of Cows and Brahmins)—the order was important—to set up a society for the mental well-being of cows.

  ‘Ask the moneylenders to put in a request. The Maharaja is heavily in their debt. He will not refuse them.’

  Soon children were applying for voluntary work in the cow shelter. The men had no choice but to develop a criterion for selection.

  ‘Do you know how to massage?’

  ‘The cow. Yes, I can.’

  ‘Not the cow.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They kept the girl. The children took to scrubbing, cleaning, washing and feeding their new mothers with new devotion. The cows could have truly become mothers, although most of them were abandoned on the street as soon as they stopped lactating. They demanded nothing from the children, and didn’t ask them to play, or draw, or read, or write, or learn. One infant had clung to a cow’s udders. The real mother was emaciated and transferred her duties to the cow-mother. The cow’s udders were dry and shrivelled as if all humanity had drunk off it. She merely kicked the baby away.

  ~

  ‘Do you have the plague?’ the cleaner asked.

  ‘No,’ the worker responded.

  ‘Why are you coughing?’

  ‘Cotton fever.’

  ‘Are you a mill worker?’

  ‘I was. I broke a lightbulb.’

  ‘Vandalism! Are you a felon then?’

  ‘We complained that there were mice and we couldn’t see them. When the lights were installed the supervisor said, “Work for fourteen hours now, not twelve.” Then some of us broke the lightbulbs.’

  ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Didn’t you think about your family, kicking the food off your children’s plate like that?’ the cleaner responded.

  ‘Don’t worry about that. My daughter is already dead.’

  The strikers had learned three lessons. Public enemy number one was the mill owners. Public enemy number two was the Bombay Improvement Trust. Public enemy number three was the Bombay Municipal Corporation. The mill owners kept the wages low, the hours long and the tenements ghastly. The Bombay Improvement Trust demolished these tenements, raised the rents for the new ones and reclaimed land that was in turn usurped by the real-estate companies. The Bombay Municipal Corporation decided the rules and allowed the system to run like a whistle. The plague shocked the system. The result: more segregation, more demolitions, more families in sordid huts on the outskirts of the city—some not even that, they lived on the pavements. Enemy number one. Enemy number two. Enemy number three. Who are our three enemies? He was told they are all the same men and they met regularly on the topmost floor of the red Bombay Municipal Corporation building in Wellington Circle to develop their blood-sucking schemes.

  27

  As the sun rose on Wellington Circle and the pigeons did what they usually do on the Duke’s head, the streets seemed livelier. A crowd was congregating at the new eatery across from the circle although its shutters were still down. The eatery was not the sort of place that could have become popular overnight. It served bread and tea in the mornings. When the eatery did open, people stayed out. Although no orders were received, hot milk tea was served in short clear glasses. The shutters of the eatery remained at half-mast. The owner stepped out from behind the cash register and ventured to shut shop more fully by ineffectually pressing at the iron shutters, not once but twice. Two men remained inside and did not budge.

  ‘Oh, what a day! The tea has run out. I’ll have to get some more. These markets are so far away these days.’ A few glanced at the errand boy loitering outside the shop as if to suggest that the natural course of action would be to send him.

  ‘He doesn’t know much, he’s new,’ said the owner anticipating their words. ‘Doesn’t even know where Victoria Station is; a simple village idiot. Move along, you fool.’ The boy looked up with evident protest but didn’t say anything. He hadn’t left Bombay since the day he was born and knew no other place. He could have walked blindfolded to Victoria Station from anywhere in the city. The owner continued to lament, simultaneously downing the shutters and hinting to the boy to scram. The boy appeared easily excitable and the increasing size of the crowd did not help to curb his enthusiasm. He was unwilling to leave.

  ‘This time I’ll teach you how to do it, you fool, but never again. How I wish I had a donkey instead.’ He dragged the boy by his ear. Some laughed. A chair remained outside the eatery. An important-looking figure, the leader perhaps, sat on it. The owner decided not to make an issue of it. Several tea glasses were also left outside. Smiling, he walked away from the Circle. As the numbers grew, the guard at the museum ran towards them. He stopped when he saw sticks and steel. The people, they had become one by now, began marching towards Wellington Circle.

  Most of the policemen had been seconded to Doctor Street to prevent a Muharram riot from breaking out. The Bohras, a prosperous merchant community among the Shias, had petitioned against the festival. The year before, the Sunnis had attacked the Bohras. The police had intervened. They had fired rifles and there had been many Sunni casualties, most of them factory workers.

  ~

  Meanwhile, the annual meeting of the board of the Bombay Municipal Corporation remained a site of discord.

  ‘We will not survive. We cannot invest in housing and remain competitive.’

  ‘They’re all agriculturalists. They own houses in their villages. They don’t need much here.’

  ‘Some even have mango trees.’

  ‘Why should the mill owners foot the bill for the mistakes made by the corporation? It’s only fair that the corporation sticks to its mandate.’

  ‘The corporation has no money. You don’t allow us to increase land taxes.’

  ‘There are many other taxes that can be increased. Just the other day, a friend suggested we introduce fines for spitting. What we are missing is imagination.’

  ‘The housing scheme should sustain itself. It is the corporation’s job to tackle encroachments, not to encroach on the property of others.’

  ‘Who will use the houses?’

  ‘The workers
.’

  ‘Then increase their rents. Will your hospital charge me if your wife delivers a baby, Mr Petit?’

  ‘Ha, ha, ha. I will, knowing you.’

  In the middle of the discussion Mr Petit left the room. When he returned, he was sweating.

  ‘Close all the windows, gentlemen, and the doors.’

  ‘Call the police.’

  ‘Sir, most of the units are away on Doctor Street,’ the secretary said.

  ‘Call the army.’

  ‘Sir, the police have already requested assistance.’

  ‘For us. Not for the police.’

  ‘Get the rifles. We’ll go down fighting bravely.’

  ‘Will you shoot me, Burjor? Promise me when the men come in, you will pull the trigger and end my misery, promise me.’

  ‘Yes! I promise.’

  ‘Do it the moment they’re at the door. Don’t wait for them to come in. When you hear them on this floor, shoot me! You know what happens when people are burnt alive. Promise me you will be brave.’

  The secretary locked the door and barricaded it with a table. Chairs were piled on to the table. The twelve men had three rifles between them—all three ceremonial.

  ‘This rifle was given to me by Earl Rumpsteak himself during his visit,’ said Petit.

  ‘If you had only listened to me. I told you they would riot,’ said Burjor.

  ‘This is not the time. Where’s the cow urine?’

  ‘I always carry it in my briefcase.’

  ‘Give me some.’

  ‘Let’s rub cow urine on our faces.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Yes, cow urine for me.’

  ‘Do you have pomegranate leaves?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We can drink it without the leaves.’

  ‘If the leaves are mixed in it, it makes it easier.’

  ‘Here’s cow urine for you.’

  ‘Let’s recite the prayer of repentance together to purify ourselves.’

  The two Hindus in the room said they would like to have some cow urine too.

  ‘How’s it prepared?’ Dhansukhlal inquired.

  ‘Not prepared, natural. From our farm in Matheran. My cousin is a well-known supplier for special ceremonies,’ Petit responded.

  ~

  Elite Parsee families no longer sourced cow urine from Calcutta and Bombay. In these cities of vice, the cows too were non-discriminating; they ate and drank everything from leather chappals to alcohol.

  Then there were the Hindu puritans who worried that impure urine was driving down the price of pure urine. The Hindus had entered the profession out of devotion, duty and dedication. The trade was passed patrilineally and bound in chains of trusteeship. They were titled Divyajalamsthapati (Keepers of the Divine Water). Why did they deserve such a privilege? Their grandfather said that they were responsible for the divine cow, Kamadhenu, for her upkeep in the royal chambers. Another old relative said that they had divine roots themselves. They were clinging to the udders of Kamadhenu as she emerged during the churning of the ocean.

  ‘Then why were we not in charge of milk? Were we hanging on to something else?’ his seven-year-old grandson enquired.

  ‘It doesn’t matter which body part we hung on,’ he said, ‘she is all sacred.’

  The more secular among them asserted that there was nothing divine about their profession.

  ‘King Gopala Sena gave us the title in return for the permanent and free cleaning of the royal goshala. Nothing to be ashamed of. This is how the king’s barber became nobility in England and in the rest of Europe.’ The friendly feuds between the divine-rights royalists and the secular royalists had become a routine affair during their family gatherings at Diwali. These internal squabbles were not threatening. The world outside was far more precarious. A new family had ventured into the business a few years ago. They had managed to garner a substantial market share by undercutting their competitors. They also spread rumours that the titles of the families were fabricated and that there was no real evidence to corroborate their claim. No one was willing to concede that much. But repetition transforms rumour to fact.

  Some of the older families joined forces to set up a labelling programme. There was a label in the market: Fed on Vrindavan Grass. This urine was three times the price of regular urine. Not all vendors could afford the greens of Vrindavan. They colluded in favour of a generic label: Raised in Open Farms.

  ~

  ‘We have our own cows. We don’t buy urine at all. How old is this urine anyway?’ asked Dhansukhlal.

  ‘I don’t know. A few months,’ Petit responded.

  ‘Very old then. It’s of no use now. We use fresh urine.’

  ‘Fresh urine. Do you follow the cows until they urinate?’

  ‘No. The cows are tethered. They urinate in one spot. We bottle it and use it on the same day.’

  ‘Does it taste better?’

  ‘We don’t know. But ours is pure. We don’t add pomegranate juice. It is pure, like honey.’

  ‘The men have crossed the street. Be prepared.’

  ‘Oh, golaka (heaven of the cows, Krishna’s abode)! Golaka! We’re going to golaka.’ Dhansukhlal appeared ready to transcend. ‘I see Kamadhenu. I see Krishna.’

  ‘What else do you see, tell me? So that I can see it too,’ said the second Hindu in the room.

  ‘There are cows, hundreds and thousands and millions and billions of cows. They surround Krishna who is playing his flute. Beautiful young maidens surround Krishna too, they are mesmerized by his flute—’

  ‘Are there seventy-two virgins?’ Burjor interrupted.

  ‘Thirty-three. Sushila, Sashikala, Yamuna, Madhavi, Rati, Kadamba, Kunti, Jhanavi, Prabha, Chandramukhi, Padma, Savitri, Sudha, Parijata, Gauri, Sarvamangala, Kalika, Kamala, Padma, Durga, Bharati, Sarasvati, Gangambika, Madhumati, Champaparna, Sundari, Krishnapriya, Sati, Nandani, Padma, Damini and Nandana.’

  All eyebrows rose after that impressive recitation of names, although no one counted.

  ‘He said “Padma” thrice,’ the secretary whispered to Mr Petit.

  ‘They are dancing in wild abandon in the moonlit forest. Some are bathing in the river. There are a thousand more gopis (milkmaids). Among them a thousand Krishnas. They are in a thousand ashrams that look like palaces. Beyond, there are a million gopis, a million Krishnas, and a million ashrams. Further away, a billion gopis who in beauty, virtue, attire, appearance, youth, spirit and fortune are like Radha.’

  ‘What a pity he is only one. What will he do with a million billion gopis?’ Burjor commented.

  ‘The ashrams have palatial windows and doors studded with rubies. The curtains are made of the finest white linen. The domes on the ashrams are encrusted with thousands of jewels. A stream passes by the ashram. Its bed is made of crystal. The streams swirl around small moats. On the banks are kalpa trees.’

  ‘That is a lot of inventory. I hope he won’t be an accountant there,’ Burjor interrupted again.

  Undeterred, Dhansukhlal continued transcribing the visual across his starstruck eyes. ‘Surrounding the ashrams are lakes with swans on them. Red, pink and white lotuses bloom in the lakes. Beyond, there are gardens with flowers, fragrant as if Kama has shot an arrow in the air and it has rained sweet nectar for days. Beyond the flower beds are trees—coconut, sriphala, banana, pomegranate, banyan. The gopis dance in circles in the forests, their breasts heavy, thighs firm, hips broad, teeth like pomegranate seeds, movements graceful, eyes like deer, glistening with black kajal, suggestive, their braids decorated with blossom, their body fragrant with sandalwood paste. Their gaze is on Krishna. They swoon with love for him, then rise and join in the singing of rhythmic songs. They dance spontaneously. Their jewels tinkle melodiously. Their beholders lift them, their footsteps become uneven, caught in passion, they embrace again, more tightly, more firmly. Among the billion cows is Kamadhenu. She stands beside Krishna. Standing on her horns Brahma, Vishnu and Mahesh offer jasmine flowers. Kamadhenu’
s breasts overflow with milk. The milk covers the earth, the moon, the planets, the sun and the stars; they all rise and float in this cosmic milky ocean. The Gopastami festival has begun. Yashoda, Devaki, Rohini and Surabhi overflow with love. Now Krishna himself addresses me.’ Dhansukhlal’s eyes widened. In his trance, he appeared to have opened yet another door.

  ‘Come! Come to me, my disciple. You have faithfully done your duty. You’re the epitome of steadfastness, not agitated by suffering, not agitated by anger. You have pursued action, not inaction. You have realized, like the wise, that each one of us is responsible for his own fate. You have realized that you and I, you and they, are all the same. Those who perish in the plague are you, those who perish on the streets in hunger are you, those who live in palatial houses are also you, and they are all me.’

  Meanwhile, the Parsees, lacking theological access to such unity of being, began weighing their own life in a balance.

  ‘Haven’t we been charitable, Adi?’

  ‘Yes, we have.’

  ‘I have doubts, Adi.’

  ‘Have no doubt. There is no Parsee on the streets. The poor, the weak, the orphans, the disabled, all live in care. All have a roof. All have food, education and health.’

  ‘Yes, they all have jobs as well.’

  ‘Yes. We’ve tried, haven’t we?’

  ‘We have relieved the poor. Let us sing the Ashem Vohu together.’

  ‘Ashem vohû vahishtem astî

  ushtâ astî ushtâ ahmâi

  hyat ashâi vahishtâi ashem.’

  They sang although they were not in harmony.

  ‘Now the Yatha—’

  ‘In the entire scheme of things, this will not matter. The universe is just a string of beads around Krishna’s neck. Krishna is manifest in my acts and I, in his. Here I come. Here I come for you, Krishna. Take me in your arms.’

  Dhansukhlal appeared to have attained a sort of spontaneous nirvana. With his arms outstretched, he ran towards the window and through it, out; down, down, down he went, eluding all the dualities; his mind fixed on Krishna, his mouth chanting Om, Om, Om, he transcended life and death, became deathless; only his soulless body, his materiality, hit the earth with a loud shattering thud, and split into a million billion pieces.