The Sacred Cows of Kelawai Road

    

        Near our place there's a very busy street  called Kelawai Road.  It's the site of a massive construction project featuring two 43-story towers and a bunch of "lifestyle retail outlets."  But a mere half a block away, there's a scene so pastoral, you'd think you were out in the countryside.  

      I've always been curious about those cows.  One day, the owner  was there, tending to his herd.  Expertly dodging both steaming and dried-up cowpies, I made my way over to “interview” him. It went something like this:

            Me:  Hi.  Are these your cows?

            Him:  (Big smile.)  Yes, all of them.  (We counted together and determined that there were five.)

            Me:  Do you have any other cows?

            Him:  Yes.  (Mental counting.)  Thirty.  Over there.  (Broad gesture at some other place.)

            Me:  Are they for meat or milk?  (Stupid cultural mistake -- I’m talking to an Indian man who undoubtedly doesn't eat beef.) 

           

He forgave my ignorant mistake, and then we got onto a first-name basis, sort of.

            Him:  Does Auntie like milk?   (“Auntie” was me.  I never did get his name, more’s the pity.)  

            Me:  Yes, yes, she does.

            Him:  Where does Auntie live?  (My turn to gesture expansively in the direction of Pulau Tikus.)

     He was clearly considering providing me some cow’s milk, but we soon mutually decided not to go there, since the logistics of his delivering fresh milk to my doorstep seemed daunting.

            I asked if this was his land.  Nope – he didn’t know whose land it was.  I asked if it was OK for him to keep his livestock there.  He indicated that the  grazing keeps the grass down, so therefore it was OK for him to park his bovines there.  Next, I asked what he was feeding them.  He explained earnestly that the water had vitamins in it and the bagged feed was what I would call soy lees, the pulp byproduct of soymilk production.  Clearly, these animals are well-cared for and loved, or at least valued!  Two of them, the big black ones, are evidently "holy cows," related in some way to a local Hindu temple.  Maybe their milk goes there for ceremonies or maybe they pull ox carts for festivals. 

     I asked if they were “boys” or ‘girls,” something I suppose I could have ascertained simply by looking at their undercarriages.  But he kindly explained, “Boy, boy, girl, boy, girl.”  How old?  “Three years, two years, one-plus years, etc.”  He knew those animals’ ages better than some human fathers know those of their own offspring!

             Then we got to their names.  I asked if they had any, and no, they didn’t.  But then the owner brightened and suggested that “Auntie” could name them.  On the spur of the moment, I suggested “Blackie One, Blackie Two, Brownie One, Two and Three.”  (My seriously politically incorrect husband later suggested “Sirloin,” “T-Bone,” “Chuck,” Rump,” and “Rib-eye,” but that was tongue in cheek.) 

         Now you and I may well be the only foreigners who know the story of those "sacred cows."  Aren't we lucky?