by Ankitha Venkataram
What a strange land I’ve been born in, I reiterate once again in my mind. After my mother gave birth to me in the shed a few years ago, I’d been well taken care of by Bholu and his wife who owned the sparse yet homely farm located just a bit away from the city. They’d lovingly christened me Rani after my mother, and they were happy to receive their usual bounty from her after my birth.
Life on the farm was more or less idyllic. I had nothing to complain about while I was growing up. I was told grand stories about the strange ways of the people here in India. Mother once told me, “These people treat us well; many a time, even like Gods, Rani. They worship us like we are sacred, milk us till we can offer no more because they think of our milk as pure, bathe us during festivals and even feed us coconuts and tulsi leaves. If times are good people will be good too. Eat all the food Bholu gives you and work hard. You will lead a good life then.” I wanted to ask her what would happen if times were bad but I was too happy with the way life was going then that I didn’t bother. I wish I had really asked her that, for I would have been better prepared for harder times.
Mother died shortly after that, and Bholu grew increasingly despondent. I worked hard like mother said, provided as much milk as I could and bore many babies – investing all that I could from my end, hoping to keep my good times going. But Bholu sold my children off as soon as they were born, so unfortunately I couldn’t see them. Soon there were talks around of times turning bad and just as I grew fearful of the storm coming and happiness drifting farther away, Ganesh Chaturthi arrived and I was treated like a queen, even better than the grand way Mother used to be treated. I was scrubbed clean, offered fresh leaves, fruits, coconuts and even carefully prepared dishes. In this land, where I am God, I thought, nothing bad can happen.
Things took a turn for the worse though, afterwards, and Bholu and his wife decided to move to the city. I remember them washing me and giving me lots of good food at that time, and I was puzzled because times were supposed to be unpleasant. Bholu took me to many places and to meet many people, and I now understand that he wanted to sell me. Bad times affect everyone though, and no one could afford to buy me. I don’t know what happened to my friends but Bholu and his wife took me along, praying to me, crying and bowing in penitence along the way. When people saw me, they would kneel down and sometimes even give money to Bholu. When we finally reached the city, Bholu released me. He didn’t pray or repent or do anything of that sort. He left me all alone in the city where I roamed for ten years, the city I now die in. It was as Mother had said. My treatment was a result of the times. When times were good and things were going well for him, he was gentle. When they weren’t, he drained the last drop of labour he could and abandoned me. I realised soon afterwards that that was how humans were. Still, a lingering attachment to him remains even now because my happiest times were spent with him, and I always wonder and hope that he felt a bit of regret for letting me go, not because I could no longer be of any use to him, but because he had a little bit of affection for me.
I never had a home in this city. I suppose my home could be the streets I roamed in. People here aren’t as kind as Bholu, but then again, I wonder about Bholu’s “kindness”. The streets are an odd place. They are grey but they seem to always have colour in them. They’re mostly dirty colours though, that don’t do much favour to the streets. The first year was hard. I didn’t have enough food, and while there were some people who were kind, others weren’t. I faced many such unkind people but as Mother used to say, it was better to stay here rather than somewhere else where they kill us in slaughterhouses and sell our meat.
I’ve had many masters in the city, but no one who cared as genuinely as Bholu of course. I actually had a master for a whole year in my second year in the city. I don’t remember his name because no one mentioned it enough for me to remember it. He put a bright red cloth with sparkly gold at the edges on top of me and fixed a picture on my back. I don’t know whose picture it was but it must have been someone important, because everyday he would take me down the road, when the traffic lights turned red and all the vehicles stopped. It took me a while to learn that. In the beginning, I would wander, no matter what colour the light was and the other animals I met told me doing that was suicidal. Once I casually walked across the road without noticing a speeding two-wheeler zooming past. The poor fellow avoided me but crashed into a divider. They wanted to carry him to the hospital but he insisted on paying respects to me first. He was screaming and wailing. He said something about being scared of dying while almost committing a sin and pleaded forgiveness before being admitted. I knew he said that because they were a little wary of us because of our purported “supernatural powers” but I also knew the whole incident was obviously my fault.
So my second master used to take me around these traffic lights chanting “Hare Krishna! Hare Om!” with a steel plate in his hand, and I must say he made quite a hefty sum. But eventually, he let me go too. I wasn’t really that sad. He didn’t give me good food despite making so much. He had a lot of those fancy metal things with lights. I still don’t know what they are. I never saw them on the farm, so it evidently cost a lot of money but for some reason, he wore the same shabby clothes everyday and didn’t even bother washing them.
After he abandoned me, I wandered street after street for six years. No vehicle hit me, and food was scarce but since I’d lived in the city for a while now, I’d taken notice of how people would throw leftovers in the same mounds around the city. The leftovers were stinky and smelly but it was still food. I would hate the humans for wasting food but I think it was also beneficial for creatures like us. I started reflecting more often on the irony that had become my life. I was worshipped by humans sometimes and humiliated by the same race at other times. On festivals, people would worship me more than usual and feed me. But my ‘city masters’ only used me to make money and many children would hit me with stones and I would bleed. During those occasions, I could still walk, but I would wish Bholu could be there to nurse my wounds.
I had more of my own children in the city but I couldn’t take care of them here either. I was with my children for around three months before letting them go. They had to survive on their own now, eating garbage and being worshipped on the city’s innumerable streets – the irony extending to their lives as well.
There are a lot of other animals here, some who are good and some who aren’t. Dogs are the worst, especially when they’re in a pack. They would look at me as if I was dinner, and I’ve had to run very far to escape them. One time though, one of them managed to tear off a piece of flesh from my leg, and I haven’t been able to recover since. It’s been hard to walk.
My mother told me that if cows are taken care of well, they can live up to 25 years, but now as I lie down in a vague place, tired and unable to move, I sadly realise that I have to leave this kind and unkind world when I am just twelve. I wonder how the cows in other places are treated. I feel a bit angry and sad about how I was treated in this place, but then I think of Bholu and wonder what he’s doing with his wife, if his children have grown up and if he misses me too. I think of my mother and my family at the farm and wish I knew what eventually happened to them. Then I realise this wasn’t a terrible place after all and that I have had my memorable moments too. But the thought that dominates my mind now is this: I want to leave this world in peace.
It’s not on the street but there are a lot of people around me. I’m really tired. I haven’t eaten much except for what’s in those mounds, the water I drink here forever tastes funny for some reason and this time, things have taken a turn for the worse – I have fallen sick after drinking it, my leg hurts more than ever and I can’t keep count of how many children I’ve had. People are surrounding me. Some of them are crying, one is kneeling down continuously and a few others are bringing fire on a plate. I wish they wouldn’t do that because I hate fire. I wish they would get me something to eat or a bucket of water to drink. But no, they just don’t do that. Most of them have their hands clasped. I want to tell them to leave me alone at least now but there’s no way they’ll do that. I contemplate mooing for the final time with my last ounce of strength. I wonder if people would consider it a curse or a blessing. Suddenly, I want to do what I want to do without thinking of anyone else. So I do – moo with all my energy and in a blur, I catch glimpses of their surprised visages before my eyes close.
Ankitha is an 18-year-old journalism student who loves writing. She has a penchant for writing poetry and short stories and fancies herself to be a novelist someday. She has many ideas for the novel and wants to start work on it but is constantly distracted by her battle with procrastination. With her head in the clouds most of the time, she adores fantasy novels and thrillers. Her favourite author is Sidney Sheldon because of his unbeaten ability to enslave readers to his world, characters and situations.
