Titin - Chronicles of an improbable journey - the white cow

The story of the white cow:

I can’t recall my precise age –somewhere between three and five in all likelihood. Our quarters, a one bedroom, one bathroom one kitchen deal was located at the end of the street. There was a brick and mortar boundary wall on one side of the house – a sort of a quarter-of-an-yard by American standards. The wall was plastered and lime-painted with a yellowish tint; no bare bricks with their ugly, dilapidated joints shining like British teeth. A bougainvillea, twined along the bedroom window, which faced the street. It wasn’t much of a street I would say. You would see the occasional bicycle; if you got lucky you would see a rickshaw.
There was a wooden gate by the yard from the front-side of the house. It wasn’t rickety – but its hinges screamed out quite loud when it was opened or closed. You could get to the small yard through a door from the kitchen. A couple of stairs and the yard was mine. This is where the story of the white cow starts. We, Bengalis like food. And my mother happens to be an exceptional cook – an art she says she learnt from her mother-in-law. A number of preparations are made from lentils that are crushed to a paste with water and dried – otherwise known as Bodi. On an uneventful summer day, while I was doing whatever three year olds do (or did –a generation back – a lot has changed since I am sure); most likely monkeying around. My Mom, prepared her crushed lentil paste. She carefully, laid out irregular cones of the stuff on an aluminum plate. A patch of sunlight, illuminated the two stairs to the yard, that led to my territory. On that day, I was fore-warned. The steps to my world of imagination, was soon to be consumed by a process called – “drying bodis”. I had to stay away. And the bodis were laid out to dry, in that patch of intense Indian summer sun.
Three year olds can be excited by anything I guess. My amazement about the bodis never ceased. My Mom, was pummeled with the same question every two minutes – “When are they going to be done?”. I even ventured to the edge of the steps a few times, to take a personal and close-up look to provide some expert comments –“I think it is done now”. Soon, it was lunch-time and I was called up to eat. We did not have a dining table in those days. We sat on the floor – which was cool and I still think it is a cool way to eat. With food, and other distractions at hand, the bodis were soon history in my mind, much to the relief of my Mom.
The afternoon siesta followed, both me and Mom blissfully asleep. Human memory is a tough thing – even in three year olds. At some point, the dream of bodis all over the place woke me up. I promptly ran to the kitchen door. It was shut, but I could hear strange noises in the yard. So I promptly returned to Mom, and shook her up. She did not get mad – in fact, in my entire life I have seldom seen my Mom get mad. She heard the story of strange noises in the yard, and decided to investigate. She had been thinking about the bodis in the back of her head as well. The kitchen door the yard was opened with caution. Lo and behold – the plate was there on the steps, the bodis had vanished. The culprit was standing, quite arrogantly I must say in front of us. Completely non-chalant about her abominable behavior. To add to the wound, she stared at us, almost asking for more bodis, all the time moving her jaws like chewing a gum.
Unfortunately someone had left the yard gate open. And the white quadruped had promptly taken advantage of the fact, without the slightest of considerations for a three year old. Mom, sprung into action – “Hat hat hat”. She walked out with the gait of a queen – slow, deliberate.
I was inconsolable. The biggest event of my life had been completely devastated by a lousy white cow! No matter how much Mom, tried to explain that she would make those same bodis the next day – I was adamant – the cow had stolen our bodis. She had to be punished. After all I would be punished if I ate Dad’s food as well.
Dad returned from his work soon after. He heard the monstrosity unleashed by this brute of an animal. He decided, I had a case after all. With seriousness that would befit a Supreme Court judge, he declared he was going to the police station to lodge a complaint against the white cow. The police had to take action against such a heinous crime. I was asked to stay with Mom, lest the cow invaded again. The police station was about five minutes walking distance – on Aurobinda Road. He came back soon after and announced that the complaint had been made; and the police had taken prompt action. They had traced the cow and taken him to the police station. I had to see that justice was done. So a rickshaw was called and all three of us rode by the police station. Of course we could not get inside the compound; the police were notorious for catching whoever dared to cross that gate and throwing them to jail. So we rode on the rickshaw by the side of the police station, going towards Netaji Bhavan. You could see my smile from miles away, when I saw the “white cow”, inside the police station compound, standing on a patch of grass. She looked somewhat smaller than when we saw her in our yard. But Dad assured me, this was the villainous cow – the police had cross-examined all evidence.