Today Mohone has gone on some errand for his family. So pockmarked Kishen is the overlord. Kishen’s father is a clerk in the railways. And Kishen is always being beaten at home. His mother died some three years ago, and he and his two sisters seem to live, so to say, for the fathering of their father. Kishen has already accepted the idea of running off to Bombay with Mohone. Make money, and returning, keep the family in trim shine. They say in Bombay there are so many cinema studios, and, curl on his brow, an open shirt at the neck, flower behind his ear, Kishen is good-looking, and you could always have a part, in the films, if you are good-looking. Kishen loves Dev Anand, and he will go and say: ‘Star, I want to be a great actor like you. Take me.’ And Dev is just waiting for Kishen. On the other hand, Mohone’s hero is Prithvi Raj. A hero is one who fights a battle. And Mohone loves battles. He likes even unruly cows when they kick as he milks. His father has nine cows, and the cows’ milk deliberately increased with good Ganges water sold at one rupee four annas a seer. For pilgrims Ganga is holy, and so is Benares milk. One day Kishen and Mohone will take the Bombay Express at Mughal Sarai, and the people at home can beat their mounts as at their own funeral. Benares is no good for ambitious people. ‘What do you say to that, Bhedia?’ ‘O, O,’ says Bhedia, ‘the red horses of Indra have no noose, for the air in Heaven is so pure one needs no noose there. And the lotuses that bloom in Heaven, the blue lotuses, are what the horses eat, and the horsegrass is eaten by man,’ and seeing fallen grass (from some funeral on mango packaging), Bhedia puts it into his mouth and remarks: ‘Sweet as sugar! Sweet as sugar!’
Mohone however had a dream. Why not take Putli with him? With Putli the trio would work better. ‘Hé, Dasaratha’s son,’ you shout in the middle of the Bombay streets, and from the top of high Bombay buildings, there he comes, does Putli. ‘Why not steal him?’ thought Mohone. Kishen liked the idea. The only thing is to follow the trace of the magician, and for this, Bhedia is the best guide. Somehow Bhedia seems to be exactly where Shalwar Khan will come. How is this you may ask?
The answer is: ask the moon? Or ask Jhaveri Bai, the fine Brahmini cow lying on the street cobblestones, chasing away her flies, shaking her ears and nibbling away at a fallen string. Some South Indian Chettiar had bought her, left her for carrying his ancestor’s journey safely to the other world; and Jhaveri Bai has lived on for eight or nine years here in real regal splendour. Everybody loves her off Dashashwamedha Ghat because she is what she is. Jhaveri Bai is so gentle and civilized. Unlike the other cows she does not go and steal. She stands in front of a shop as if to say: Will you honour me? And the cow always got her mouthful of fruit or grains, unless it were some crook, and then she goes politely and stands elsewhere, thinking, thinking.
But there comes Bhedia. She also loves licking Bhedia, when Bhedia stands before her. Sometimes for hours Bhedia and Jhaveri Bai have long conversations. Bhedia stands there, his beard like a rope, and his face full of fresh scars — for once in a while Mohone and Kishen would give him a fine thrashing. And this is when his prophesies do not always come true. Bhedia after all speaks for Heaven. And the earth does not always live up to his celestial visions. So much the worse for the world. And Bhedia never minds being beaten by children. It makes him feel fit. It makes him even happy. And when it is too painful he simply howls and all the elders come running, from the nearby building. They throw a coin at him, laugh and go away. What can you do with an idiot? Where is Mohone now? Gone? Gone? Gone.
One day Mohone and Kishen indeed disappeared. They never could take Putli with them. Perhaps someday we’ll hear of them as great stars. Who knows? But for Bhedia he lost two good friends. ‘Now, I only have you,’ says Bhedia to Jhaveri Bai. ‘You are the Mother, and you are the Father, you are the Prince and you the charioteer. Lick me Goddess for your saliva is as honey. In Benares all dust is musk, in Benares all tears are nectar, in Benares there are no slaves and no animals! For all creatures are free. The mighty Shiva in his greatness takes his leap, and he dances. Hé, Jhaveri Bai, if you were not like Mother to me I would say, “Marry me, for I have a horse.” A horse is no good for just a wife. But a horse is not bad you know. And he can flit from earth to Heaven within the wink of an eye. O Jhaveri Bai, can you sing? I can. Listen.
When Kanhia went to steal
And the mountains moved
Yasodha came from the kitchen and cried:
‘Hé, you mischief, you diamond’
And hung him to her breast.
Isn’t that a good song? Now, come, Jhaveri Bai, sing. The boys have gone. They will throw no stones at widows or tear my beard or bring me stolen sweets, will they? I have sent them to hell. They deserve to be great stars as I deserve to be a father. Am I a father? Am I not good enough Jhaveri Bai?’
Jhaveri Bai licks Bhedia with a love that would move men. She has such tears, she could bring the four black horses of his master, and give Bhedia back his master. What’s an angry shout? All rich people shout. They think shouting is good for their throats. Lord, the humble alone are made for God. The humble who ask not like Bhedia, who beg not. ‘We can bathe in the Ganga and be pure.’ At this Jhaveri Bai gently gets up on her hind legs, whisks away a few flies, and slowly ambles down the lane to the ghats. The flies have remained behind with Bhedia. His wounds were fresh, and he did not care. Was Mohone in Bombay now, you think?
When Jhaveri Bai descends the ghats one step by one step, you feel as though the mountain was coming to the river. Jhaveri Bai sniffs the air a little, and just like a human being, she slips between pilgrims — between shaven-widows, and young married women, their shyness covered with the Ganges and wet cloth — she eats, does Jhaveri Bai, a banana peel here and there, smells a torn and forgotten towel, but before anyone has said a thing, anything, she has moved on to try and swallow some fallen pilgrim flowers. Then Jhaveri Bai looks up at the heavens, and contemplating the vast ocean which is Mother Ganga, she the daughter of the Mountains, who carries so much burden of this heavy, heavy earth — Jhaveri Bai steps one leg into the water. The flowers still hang out of her mouth. O it is so cold. Then a second step down and a third and a fourth, and sprinkling her back and face with her tail, she goes deep in till only the neck remains. Jhaveri Bai contemplates now as if she were the flow of the Ganga (and her thoughts were not far from Bhedia or the Chettiar who had offered her to God) and after she has looked across the ghats, over the pyres and the palaces and Dufferin Bridge, she shivers as if she gave up her thoughts to Mother Ganga, and looks across the river to Ramnagar. Sri Rama once set his foot there on his way to fetch the great Mother Sita. Yes, the image of Him is Sweet. ‘Rama, Lord of the Cows,’ she says, ‘Sita Devi, mother of us, I worship you, that my sins, my friends’ sins, and all evils be taken away. Birth is so mean, Death is so low. Mother give us no birth or death.’
The cow’s tears are purer than your Brahmin prayers. Come and see it there, if you will, by the Benares ghat. ‘God you made the elephant and the peacock, the bear and the porcupine — even the dog did you make and the hyena, creatures of the earth. But the cow, Lord, you made as your first child. Lord, I sink in your waters, I sink into my origins, Lord give me the gift of truth.’
The Ganges flows fierce and fresh on Jhaveri Bai’s back. Head in-turned and her horns unshaking, Jhaveri Bai contemplates her own face in the moving waters. There’s magic in this picture that appears and disappears.