|
What is the charm that India possesses that lures so many Westerners?" a friend asked world traveler Brad Newsham.
"It's the absurdity that one finds there," he responded. "We lead such orderly lives here that the thrill of the absurd is lost. In India, you find that with every waking moment."
Cows lined the medieval cobbled streets. Some sat together, chewing their cud and swishing their tails over their manure-covered rears, while others strolled around haughtily. This was the day cows would rule Jaisalmer, extracting toll from those who dared to venture out.
The fate of cows in India is somewhat paradoxical. From an early age calves are nurtured to become prolific milk producers. Considered sacred by Indian Hindus, their life is of import and respectability … until their milk dries up. Sometimes, unable to maintain their upkeep, people let the non-productive ones go feral.
As Ravi, our hotel manager put it succinctly, "if the cow is still giving milk, everyone fights over who owns her. She cannot walk down the street without people trying to claim her. Once she stops giving milk, everyone is trying to convince each other that she belongs to the other." In hindsight, it is understandable how betrayed these domesticated beings must feel.
Frankie, Apple, and I, the three musketeers, were meandering aimlessly, when suddenly, Frankie uncharacteristically yelped and started running ahead of us. Apple and I, startled, glanced behind. And there she was, a furious cow who had sensed the Spanish matador in that gentle, peace-loving hippie. She made a beeline for him, her horns pointed aggressively as he zigzagged away from her, in fear for his life. Disgruntled, she turned on easier prey. I hurriedly scrambled onto a nearby porch, traumatizing the little children playing there. Apple, not too thrilled at being the lone quarry, followed suit, hurling her six feet of human mass on top of me, consequently starting a domino effect that ended with a screaming 2-year-old at the bottom of the pile. It was in those circumstances that the curious locals found us as they left the televised cricket match for a more immediate spectator sport.
The root of all trouble, the cow, now mollified at starting this chain reaction, merely walked away, swishing her tail like a Cheshire cat's grin, while the three of us attempted to muster some semblance of dignity and grace amid the smirks and sniggers emerging from the neighborhood. Later, we would chuckle at how we succeeded in getting the locals away from their television sets that fateful afternoon. But we would always steer away from the cows. This was truly a land where the meek inherited the earth.
Rinoti Amin works at Narika, a Berkeley-based domestic violence agency. When not working, she travels in search of cultural adventures.
|
