We set out in a rickshaw – Sarala, Selva and I. Sarala would like us to make this trip on an auspicious day, preferably Tuesday or Thursday, but by this point, she doesn’t want to add an astrological complication into an already volatile situation.
Selva and I have been bickering for days because he suggests trips first thing in the morning. “Shall we go today?” he asks as I collect milk. “I need notice,” I say. “I can’t drop everything to go cow shopping.”
Then he adds irritation to my impatience by saying that he will go on his bike to scout out potential cows and take me for the final bidding. I only need to come to pay the money and finish the deal. But I insist that I want to be involved from the very beginning. If I am putting up Rs 70,000 – the price of the cow has somehow increased in the intervening week – I want to make darn sure that it is a good cow. We go back and forth, squabbling like kids.
Finally, we agree upon a day and at 10.00 AM we are standing outside my building, waiting for their friend Kuppa, a rickshaw driver, to show up. A few phone calls later, we are on our way to Thanisandra village, close to Bangalore’s new airport. We take a turn into a narrow lane from a bustling main road and suddenly the vibes are different. People walk slower. Courtyards have green cow dung splashed over them with kolam designs as decoration. Cows stand outside buildings. Women in housecoats lay red chilies out to dry.
We drive to a home where a cow is on sale for Rs 55,000. It is a brown cow with a slight hump. The cow is of medium build and kept in a nice room inside the house. Selva walks the cow around while discussing how much milk it will give. Muniappa, the seller, clad in a white dhoti, shirt and turban, says that the cow gives twenty litres per day and then quickly modifies it to seventeen litres per day. It almost seems like we have come to an automobile store to buy a scooter and he’s asking the salesman, “Kitna deti hain?”
But this, I know, is a barefaced lie. The average Indian cow gives four to eight litres per day, tops. In the past, says Sarala, when they bought cows that would come during milking time just to make sure that the cow was giving the milk that the seller said it would. Nowadays everything is too far away and everyone is too busy.
Selva can tell a cow’s health simply by looking at her teeth and tail. “Cows should wag their tails,” he asserts. “That’s how we know they are relaxed.”
We walk away after some time. Selva tells me that he doesn’t want this cow. It is an Indian breed; a reddish brown Sindhi cow. Selva is bent on buying a Holstein-Friesian, a hybrid. They cost more but they give more milk. That is the assumption, anyway.
“Then did we waste time looking at this cow?” I hiss.
“Just because you want a polyester sari doesn’t mean you cannot look at a Kanjivaram silk,” replies Sarala.
Selva has another, somewhat shocking reason: manners. “We can’t just glance at a cow and walk out,” he says. “It is disrespectful to the animal. Even if I am not going to buy it, I have to at least give it the courtesy of a thorough inspection.”
This from a guy who is uniformly surly to all humans. I guess his parameters of what constitute good comportment are different for cows.
Muniappa offers us milk. Sarala says that we must accept or he will feel bad. Manners, again. So we drink piping hot cow’s milk and start to take our leave. At the last minute, Muniappa jumps into the rickshaw. He knows someone nearby who is selling cows, he says. If he cannot be our seller, he wants to at least be our broker.
Muniappa rides with Kuppa in the driver’s seat. He takes us to a mango orchard nearby. We have to stop the rickshaw and walk the final five minutes through narrow village paths. Finally, we see the cows – a dozen of them – grazing underneath trees filled with green mangoes. Some mangoes have exploded on the ground. Their scent perfumes the air. Cows lie in the shade, chewing their cud. They are the epitome of rural contentment, except we are still technically in the city.
Sarala is elated. “Look at these beauties,” she mutters. “This is how cows should live. Look at them, how free they are! Their milk will be really tasty because they are so happy.”
Selva too is suddenly animated. We walk through the shady orchard, examining the cows. Selva grabs some of them, opens their mouth and stares at their teeth. He pulls and lifts their tails to examine their backs.
All the cows are Holstein-Friesian cows so their milk production will likely be about the same. Then comes the complicated process of establishing their personalities.
“We have to be careful to buy a cow that is suited to our own dispositions, Ma,” says Sarala. “Otherwise, these cows will simply take charge.”
Sarala and Selva assess cows using a few informal measures. Two cows lying beside each other are viewed benignly because they will fit into the herd. “Look at that cow licking the other cow,” says Sarala, pointing to a pair. “That means that she is naturally easygoing, willing to adjust.”
The cow that stares at us curiously is better than the cows that don’t even look in our direction. “We want animals that are inquisitive, interested in new things. How else will they adapt in a new home? Some of them pine for their old home and won’t eat for days. How will the milk come out if they don’t eat?”
Sarala is worried about buying any cow from such a pristine natural environment because her cowshed is quite literally a dump. She is sure that no cow that is used to such verdant broad surroundings will like her cowshed. “Why would you leave a palace like this and live in a hovel?” she asks.
Most of the cows are sunning themselves, enjoying the warmth on their backs and staring into space. “What are they thinking?” I wonder aloud.
As always, Sarala has an answer for everything. “Cows are like Buddha, Ma,” she says. “They can meditate for hours. Just sitting in one spot. Absorbing the sun’s rays.”
“I thought only native cows absorbed the sun’s rays.”
“All cows absorb the sun’s rays,” says Sarala. “Only native cows know what to do with them. Look at these Holstein- Friesian cows. They are happily relaxing under the sun, as if this were a beach.”
Right on cue, the fighting begins. One cow nudges another cow out of its spot. “Hey, hey,” says Selva reflexively, sensing a conflict breaking out. And it does. Both the cows face each other with bowed heads and try to ram their horns into each other.
“People think that all cows are peaceful,” says my running commentator. “Look at those two. Like wildcats. Imagine what they will do to my peaceful herd. No way we can buy those two.”
Excerpted with permission from Cows of Bangalore: And How I Came To Own One, Shoba Narayan, Simon & Schuster India.
