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Published: December 15th 2016
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The rear end of a cow. Black and white, projecting boldly from the house entryway into the street. Unmoving, patiently holding space, just there.
That morning I had seen only people and bicycles, dogs and water containers and motorbikes, until I had that vision. Timidly I walked closer, and through the protective metal grate across the entryway I spied the cow’s head, inches from the painted green door; she seemed to be peering right through it. Her head and horns were anointed with yellow paste and red dots—it had been blessed that morning by someone, but now here it was, most likely on its regular route, waiting.
The woman of the house opened the door with a basket of treats, and gently urged the animal out of the entryway into the street. She fed her only the best—carrots, biscuits, bananas, vegetables. She saw me taking photos, but she smiled for the cow, not my photo. Her affection for the animal was obvious. She held up a treat to the cow so it would turn its head so I could get a better photo.
The cow stayed, and the woman went for more treats. I watched with a neighbor
from across the street. I asked whose cow it was, and he indicated that no one knew.
After bestowing her focused attention on the visitor, the cow backed away and the woman disappeared. The fed cow ambled a ways down the street, and stood in the dawning light near the seated woman with her portable market of fresh vegetables spread before her. I suspected the cow wanted another handout from the vegetable lady, but none was forthcoming. So she stood and became a very natural part of the street scene.
I walked on for a ways, chuckling at what I had just witnessed, then turned and retraced my steps.
Another cow, cinnamon brown with muddy splats on her side, same house, same scene—her rear end stuck out on to the brick-lined street. The woman again appeared at her door. She had more carrots for this one, and since it had not been painted and blessed, she applied yellow paste and dots of red to its face and horns, and tied yellow and red flowers to its horn. I fancied that the cow did not enjoy so much being painted, but it did stick around for more carrots.
As I watched them, their bond—an old friendship, a veneration of woman for sacred cow—their sweet bond drifted up and down the street for all to witness.
That evening, during the Karthigai Deepam festivities, I went by her house, and she invited me and my young interpreter inside to drink coffee and meet her son, an engineering student. She and I laughed about the cow visit. Her name was Buva.
My interpreter explained, “Those cows don’t go to just any house. They feel the vibrations of this house, and they know that it is good, so they are drawn here.” He really did use the word “vibrations.”
Buva said that she knew the owners of each cow, so they weren’t unknown to her. She said that if she fails to respond quickly enough at the door, the cow will push on the door, sometimes opening it. When I said that she seemed to have much affection for the cows, she didn’t even need my comment translated, and eagerly nodded with a radiant smile.
She was in love with the bovine of the streets, who gives milk, and butter, and ghee, and dung that can be
dried and used for fuel or to fertilize the fields, and who looks into your eyes with her eyes fringed with dark lashes, and who sways solemnly down the road, bestowing blessings to the people of this Madurai neighborhood.
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Kuan Yin
Karen Johnson
Thank you
What a lovely story! Thank you for sharing this moment with me.