My Life.... - Chapter 10, In Memory of Lakshmi

Chapter 10

In Memory of Lakshmi

“Unleash your cows,” was the call-out with which cowherd Chellappan marked his entry to the village at nine every morning.

With his unkempt, long and dry hair, his bulging eyes reddened by previous night’s liquor, a glass too many, and wielding a cane, the scene in no way reminded me of the cowboy Krishna descending on earth for the job. On the contrary, if Chellappan mounted a buffalo and the cane replaced by a mace, he would pass for Yama Raj on a morning shift for a hurricane cattle sweep.

Accustomed to his drinking habits, impatience and short-temper, the moment ladies heard his shout they suspended all their kitchen activities, rushed to their cowsheds and unleashed their cows or buffalos before he got past their homes. He would never look back to check if every household had released its cattle. The delayed ones were at their own peril to join the herd. And the ladies couldn’t just let that happen, for they tended these not only to meet their own domestic needs but also to sell the surplus in the form of milk, butter, or ghee. It was in a way the ladies’ source of input to the family kitty. So they could ill afford their cash crop go astray.

Chellappan herded the forty or fifty cattle to a vast meadow past the village. The cattle too did not create any problem to him. Either they knew too well his nature or were eager to enjoy in the open a temporary freedom from the life under leash in the cowshed.

He allowed them to graze there happily as he reshaped his shoulder towel into a pillow for a nap under the shade of a bush to get over what was still left of the hangover. Often a passerby innocently stepping on him walking along the single path, a snake hissing past his legs, the in-fight grunt among the cattle for territorial grazing rights, or the oppressive sun caused him to wake up from the siesta. He would look up at the sun for the approximate time. If there were still some moments left, he would light a bidi and smoke to the last puff - or till his finger felt a burn. Around 3.30, he would get the cattle together and take them back.

This went on regularly for years until his dedication deteriorated. He began bringing the cattle back initially at 2 pm, then 1 pm, 12 noon, and finally at 11.30 am. The ladies found this unacceptable. That gave a totally different twist to the term ‘till cows return home’, which meant sunset. Surely, even in the wildest imagination the sunset couldn’t commence at 11.30 in the morning, they felt. But Chellappan had his own explanation: “Dry ground. No grass to graze. Subjecting the cattle unnecessarily to the scorching sun could impact the milk output.” But the ladies knew no less about cattle; they did not buy this. At the same time individually no lady had the guts to argue with him fearing that he might stop taking her cattle for grazing from the next day. So they were content grumbling about it among themselves during their afternoon chat or while at the pond for a bath next morning. Some guessed a possible second marriage as a strong reason, others his worsening drinking habits.

 

Unable to bear it any longer, my Patty took a bold step to withdraw our cow and buffalo from Chellappan, and entrusted them to the Dhobi’s young son whose right leg was affected by a polio attack. It was thus two birds in one shot – a modest response to Chellappan’s dictatorial attitude, and giving life to a physically challenged boy. Starting with just our cow and buffalo, in a month’s time the number began to swell to ten. He gave the cattle a bath as well in the canal. This disturbed Chellappan’s peace of mind. He couldn’t let this go unchecked.  But at the same time his return-hour schedule witnessed no change.

It was past 4 one evening and still there was no trace of our Vellachi Maadu (snow white in colour, hence called so; otherwise her name was Lakshmi). The milking time was 5 pm. Patty got worried. Enquiries with the ladies who entrusted their cattle to the same boy revealed that their cattle had returned since, but unaccompanied by the boy.

Patty sent me on a search mission. I ran across all possible places; I could not locate Lakshmi. No trace of it. I got worried. I asked all passersby if they had seen a white cow grazing. No positive response, until one man said that he had noticed an animal lying at a far end - near the village cremation ground. Elders had prohibited children from going near the cremation ground.  So I went just up to two hundred yards from the place, and saw a white cow lying. I called her by name, “Lakshmee…, Lakshmee,” my volume increased and the duration of the call prolonged.  But she did not raise her head. For once I violated the instructions and went close to the cremation ground. Yes, it was Lakshmi, lying with her right front leg broken and hanging, and tears rolling out of her eyes because of pain. 

I sped home, informed Patty. She mobilized manpower and had her loaded on to a cart drawn by two oxen. The Government Veterinary Hospital was closed for the day since it was 6 in the evening. But the doctor lived next door to my Vadakkantharai house. I ran as fast as I could from Ramanathapuram to Vadakkantharai and brought him along. After a thorough examination, he opined it was not any vehicle accident but a deliberate act that had caused this. He said he would fix a cast for some weeks and if things didn’t improve, the leg would be amputated.

Two months of vigorous attempts to naturally join the leg did not help. There were clear indications of puss formation. The leg was amputated. In course of time Lakshmi managed to move around, one leg short. But Patty did not want to send her again out for grazing. One of Thatha’s clients had a huge agricultural land in his village twenty miles away. He volunteered to have her taken there and let her lead a peaceful life grazing there. Eight or nine months later we got the news that Lakshmi passed away.

The usual practice was to replace a cow or buffalo once the milk yield declined or stopped. But from the time I could remember till Lakshmi’s leg got broken, she was all along part of our house – milk or no milk. So the news of her passing away was no less than the loss of a member of the family.

For Patty it was still worse, for while she milked Lakshmi, on several occasions she would talk to her, direct her not to move her legs or to postpone her excreta disposal act till she finished milking, plead with her if the yield fell short of her daily commitments to customers, or sing songs to persuade her as I sat at a permissible distance enthusiastically watching the proceedings, with occasional pleas to Patty to let me milk Lakshmi.

Continued…