AT THE SOUND of a curious noise the little boy pulls up the window hatch. Standing there he peers into the darkness, braving the chilled wind against his face. The window is neither glassed nor netted. It’s only a cavity. Open to everything. Like any hole. Airstreams blow past the child’s face into the tiny room making the people within shudder and the fire in the stove shiver. His mother shakes her head in dissatisfaction, but his father smiles, looking at his son from behind. He too has heard the sound and is just as attracted.
Cocking his head from side to side the boy tries to descry the source of the sound. But it’s difficult as his ears are assaulted with a cacophony of other sounds. Familiar ones. The sound of spitting, sneezing, blowing noses, or simply dry coughs. He hears someone singing a Hindi song, he hears a couple fighting, he hears another couple giggling. The boy feels restless; he huddles within himself. He strains his eyes and ears; the curious sound has now transformed into a lament. The wind blows into his face, crickets hum around his head as his eyes roam through the murky darkness outside the hut. For a while everything is dark and then out of the darkness it emerges. The boy’s eyes are widened instantly.
Moonlight has fallen on it making it look like a mythological creature; standing by the swamp, bending its neck it’s tugging at some grass. A necklace of flowers is hanging around its neck, and its skin is giving out a vegetal glow. It is a cow. A beautiful cow. A very beautiful cow. Majestic. Wonderfully White. A Maharani among the bovines. The boy has never seen such an elegant cow. He can hardly take his eyes off it. The cow turns to gaze at him in return — its munching jaws stop in mid-motion.
Inside the hut the boy’s mother shoves some extra timber in the stove. The other children gather around the fire. The father comes up from behind and wraps the boy with a ragged blanket. The child keeps looking at the cow. A rich cow without a shelter and without a blanket seems odd in his eyes. He looks at his father.
“It seems sad, Father. Can I bring it in?”
“Where? Here?” the father frowns.
“Yes, just to warm her up. She seems to be suffering out there.”
The father lets his hand glide over his clump of beard a couple of times and then nods. The boy goes out and approaches the cow. The cow moves a little, but it is not frightened; just a wee bit surprised. The boy notices the loose end of a rope, hanging from its neck. He tugs at the rope. The cow follows him into the hut, without making a single protest.
“It must have gone astray,” the boy says.
“I’m sure it has. We will provide it with a shelter until we find its master,” says the father.
“It’s cold outside.”
“Tie her to the pole in the backyard. We will put some empty sacks on her to keep her warm.”
“What can we offer it to eat?”
“I’ve some left over starch,” the mother intervenes.
“It’s a rich cow, Mother,” the boy says, “I wonder, if it has ever been fed rice starch.”
OVER THE YEARS, the father has gained the reputation of being an educated man among his uneducated neighbours. Once in while, people line up in front of his simple dwelling to have him fill in their forms, or ration cards, or to have their letters written, or read. He is also recognized as an honest man who holds to the Quran, and every Friday faithfully goes to the local mosque to perform his Jummah prayers. During the days, he works as a bookbinder, and during the evenings, he teaches slum children to read. He does not earn much from his work but just enough to feed his wife and offspring. “We will give it what we have,” he says, “tomorrow we will start searching for its master.”
As it happens, the master of the cow is a cattle-merchant in Mirpur who treats his creatures well not because he is an animal-lover, but because he is well aware of his consumers’ demands. Besides, fat and fit creatures bring in a fat profit. And particularly at Eid ul Adha market one can make a fortune in the cattle business. Now the Eid is in the offing, and the cattle-breeder has been over feeding his creatures to fatten them up. He has had them taken to the local vet to have them checked and rechecked. They were given extra vitamin injections; everyday his grooms have been brushing and bathing them, and a village girl has been polishing their horns and hooves. So as one may imagine, the merchant hits the roof when he realizes that his favourite cow is missing. He has been planning to put this nonpareil cow up for auction just to see how much money people were ready to pay for it. But now he is not only going to miss the money, he is also going to miss the fun at the auction. The cow can’t have run off by itself. Someone must have stolen it. Someone, who would like to sell it at a profit at Eid-bazar. Someone who begrudges him his fortune. Oh, the very audacity!
The agitated merchant sends out troops of his employees in every direction to find the cow. He sends out his three sons to the centre of the city; he himself goes to the nearest police station to report the theft. But all in vain. There is no sign of the lost cow. The morning passes, afternoon arrives, the evening draws closer. The wind falls. When the night settles in, the merchant walks to and fro on the roof of his three storied building. He pulls at his long black beard which has a fat stripe of white just in the middle. He pulls at his hair. He squashes mosquitoes on the bare parts of his body. He shouts, curses and swears that he will murder the thief that has stolen his number one cow. The night passes like this.
In the morning the boy wakes up in the slum. He thinks he has dreamt of the cow, but when he goes out of the hut, he sees the white cow tethered to the pole in the backyard. His mother has removed the sack from its back, and it’s sitting there on the ground with its legs folded under it; its white fur sparkling like silver dust along its flank and the bell on her neck — which he hadn’t seen the night before — glittering like gold. He can feel the smell of cow dung in his nostrils. He sniffs it in, as he hears his father’s mild voice from behind, “The brass bell around the cow’s neck has an address engraved within it. It must be her master’s address. She has to go, son.”
“Can’t we keep her one more day?”
“No. She has to go now. The master must be searching high and low for her.”
The father has to go to his work so he asks the boy to lead the cow to its owner. The boy puts on a pair of clean full pants and a full sleeved shirt. Slips his feet into a pair of rubber sandals and ushers the cow out of their yard. He says goodbye to his parents and siblings and walks slowly towards Mirpur with the cow walking by him. It takes him almost an hour before he reaches the area. He finds the house quite easily. For a few minutes he stands in front of the imposing three storied building, awe stricken. The size of the building frightens him in a peculiar way, and he begins to back away, when from the top of the roof the merchant sees the little boy and the cow walking away with him.
The merchant runs down the stairs, panting. The boy has by then passed the building and is about to walk round the premises. The merchant catches up with him.
“Where did you get that cow?”
The boy looks into the face of the man, his heart hammering. There is a black spot on the man’s forehead; he is wearing a lungi which is gathered far above his waist on the highest peak of his protruding belly. His long black beard with its sloping white stripe in the middle looks like the devil’s slide. His pan stained teeth red like a vampire’s. Beady eyes - full of fantastic suspicion. The boy stammers.
“It came to us yesterday.”
“You little thief!” The man raises his voice, “it came to you on a visit. Pah! You have chosen the right person to pull a fast one on. Now I will make you pay for it.” All of a sudden a whim seizes the man. He takes the rope from the boy’s hand, makes a loop and puts it around the boy’s neck and leads both the cow and the boy into the enclosed pasture by the building. The boy can’t understand what’s happening. The workers in the pasture look up, aware that their master is up to some wicked game. Nobody is concerned about the little boy, though. Then before anyone can react, the owner gives the cow a real bash. The cow seems reluctant as it persists in staying stay where it is. But the man is as stubborn as the beast; he gives it a bash again. This time with redoubled energy. The cow sets off. The boy tries to keep pace with it. The loop becomes tighter around his neck. Each time the cow gets close to the merchant, he releases a mocking laughter and gives it a new thump. The workers laugh a jeering laughter, but the herd of cows in the pasture moan and lament as though they are breathing in the warmth of a departing soul. After a couple of minutes, the man decides to stop the entertainment. He motions to one of his workers to stop the running cow. But by now the boy’s face has become purple from suffocation, his tongue is tumbling out and his eyes open in wonder. The panting cow stares at the man. Tears rolling out of its huge eyes.
The man looks stupidly at the cow and the boy’s slack body; the tattered pants, the torn shirt, the bruised bare feet. The cow is standing, but the boy is lying on the ground. Slowly the merchant begins to be aware that the incident has robbed the playful pursuit of its relish. This is not what he has been aiming at; he has only been trying to teach the boy a lesson for the thievery and at the same time have some good fun. Legitimate fun. Surely he has the right to punish a thief. A thief. Not just any thief, but a thief who has committed the gruesome crime of stealing his beast. His favourite beast! Of course, he has all the right in the world to punish him the way it pleases him. What a pity that the pursuit has to be over already; the climax – disappointing if not catastrophic. One never knows how things may turn out. It’s strange that man can’t have control over everything. A shadow of a thought suddenly settles on his face. He tries to shrug off the uneasy feeling. He should not be held responsible for this little accident. For sure, it is an accident. Like any other accident that people read about every day in the newspaper and then forget as easily. No one can be blamed for an accident. Accidents are accidents. He thinks quickly. Before the news spreads, he has to report the incident to the Police Station, and charge the boy with theft. To repair some of the damage, he will pay for the boy’s burial. Yes, a decent burial, similar to a rich man’s son’s burial. The thought makes him feel better. Much better.
He orders his men to move the body and put it inside the cowshed. Two workers volunteer to take the body away; telling each other that if all thieves were punished like this, the world would be a nice place to live in.
In the meantime, the boy’s father returns home for lunch and discovers that his son has not returned. His wife comforts him, telling him that the rich man is perhaps so happy to get back his cow that he has decided to offer the child a proper meal. And maybe the boy will return with some money as well.
The afternoon passes and evening falls. The father gets worried. No sooner has he finished his evening prayers than he leaves for the address he copied from the cow’s bell in the morning. The wind has dropped, the air is clear. There are a few stars in the sky. Wrapped in an inexplicable gloom, he walks on. He takes long and quick steps. When he gets tired, he jumps on an overcrowded bus, stands on the steps, clinging to its iron handle. The winter wind chills his body, ruffles his hair. He closes his eyes.
The bus stops at Mirpur zoo. He gets off the bus and walks towards the address in his pocket. When after some twenty minutes, he finds the address, in the wintry dusk he stands under a lamppost opposite the huge building and looks at it in equal wonder as his son did in the morning. But he doesn’t back off. It takes him ten more minutes to gather enough courage to press the calling button.
When the gate opens, he introduces himself and announces the reason for his visit. The servant shows him into a small room which is used as an office. It is a dim room, the floor covered with an old fat carpet, and the windows with heavy drapes. There are a few chairs around a desk topped with a thick glass. He carefully pulls out a chair and sits down on it. After a couple of minutes the meat-merchant appears. The poor man stands up immediately at the sight of the rich man. For a long while, they stand there looking at each other. One in fine clothes, the other in a darned lungi and Punjabi; one slim and taut from hard work, the other fat and flashy from sitting behind a desk.
The father tells the merchant his errand.
The merchant slowly sits down on his chair as it hits him that the boy was not a thief. He was an upright child of an upright father. The merchant finds himself thinking about the morning, the boy, the weeping cow, the loop around the boy’s neck. And the anti climax of the whole thing. He sees everything with clarity and precision. They all seem so real that he feels he still is in the pasture. And the dead boy speaking to him. Making faces at him. The man starts weeping…
A NUMBER OF years pass by. The merchant’s sons are all grown up now; they are all married and each has his own floor in the same building. The merchant and his wife have been given accommodation in their oldest son’s flat. The merchant is old and wizened and has become an ailing man over the years; during the nights he’s wakeful as the little boy roams in his brain, and the cow’s moaning repeats itself in his ears; during the days he fidgets inside the flat, nagging at everyone and every thing. His voice never stops. It sounds like a man’s jeering voice: I will make you pay for it. I will make you pay for it. The son gets tired of his father, and after a year, he shoves the duty to his middle brother. There the voice takes a different turn. Now it repeats in a child’s voice: It came to us. It came to us. The sentence comes out of the man’s fat mouth as though he was an idiot. A year goes by and the middle boy gets weary of his father too and shoves the duty to his youngest brother.
That very night as the merchant dozes off, he twitches convulsively and he feels a loop around his own neck. Tightening. He tries to scream. But the voice now takes a different route. Now it sounds like a cow’s voce. A lamenting cow. Crying from the depth of its belly. Moaning. Lowing, Crying. The voice of a cow! From this night on, this new sound becomes the merchant’s constant companion. His wife moves out of the room, the children and grand children are all annoyed. Finally, one day their patience runs out, and he is ushered out of the ground floor and steered towards the cowshed which now stands empty as his sons have given up the cow and cattle rearing business. The boys install their father in it, telling each other that it is the best solution under the circumstances. For, a man with a voice of cow should be treated like a cow.
DILRUBA Z. ARA is a Bangladeshi-born author living in Sweden. Her stories have appeared in various literary magazines such as Chattahoochee Review, Drunken Boat, and Shipwrights Review; and in newspapers in Pakistan and anthologies in Bangladesh. Her first novel, A List of Offences, has been translated into Spanish and Greek. Her second novel has recently been accepted by the literary agency Books Crossing Borders, USA. Visit her at www.dilrubazara.com
Cocking his head from side to side the boy tries to descry the source of the sound. But it’s difficult as his ears are assaulted with a cacophony of other sounds. Familiar ones. The sound of spitting, sneezing, blowing noses, or simply dry coughs. He hears someone singing a Hindi song, he hears a couple fighting, he hears another couple giggling. The boy feels restless; he huddles within himself. He strains his eyes and ears; the curious sound has now transformed into a lament. The wind blows into his face, crickets hum around his head as his eyes roam through the murky darkness outside the hut. For a while everything is dark and then out of the darkness it emerges. The boy’s eyes are widened instantly.
Moonlight has fallen on it making it look like a mythological creature; standing by the swamp, bending its neck it’s tugging at some grass. A necklace of flowers is hanging around its neck, and its skin is giving out a vegetal glow. It is a cow. A beautiful cow. A very beautiful cow. Majestic. Wonderfully White. A Maharani among the bovines. The boy has never seen such an elegant cow. He can hardly take his eyes off it. The cow turns to gaze at him in return — its munching jaws stop in mid-motion.
Inside the hut the boy’s mother shoves some extra timber in the stove. The other children gather around the fire. The father comes up from behind and wraps the boy with a ragged blanket. The child keeps looking at the cow. A rich cow without a shelter and without a blanket seems odd in his eyes. He looks at his father.
“It seems sad, Father. Can I bring it in?”
“Where? Here?” the father frowns.
“Yes, just to warm her up. She seems to be suffering out there.”
The father lets his hand glide over his clump of beard a couple of times and then nods. The boy goes out and approaches the cow. The cow moves a little, but it is not frightened; just a wee bit surprised. The boy notices the loose end of a rope, hanging from its neck. He tugs at the rope. The cow follows him into the hut, without making a single protest.
“It must have gone astray,” the boy says.
“I’m sure it has. We will provide it with a shelter until we find its master,” says the father.
“It’s cold outside.”
“Tie her to the pole in the backyard. We will put some empty sacks on her to keep her warm.”
“What can we offer it to eat?”
“I’ve some left over starch,” the mother intervenes.
“It’s a rich cow, Mother,” the boy says, “I wonder, if it has ever been fed rice starch.”
OVER THE YEARS, the father has gained the reputation of being an educated man among his uneducated neighbours. Once in while, people line up in front of his simple dwelling to have him fill in their forms, or ration cards, or to have their letters written, or read. He is also recognized as an honest man who holds to the Quran, and every Friday faithfully goes to the local mosque to perform his Jummah prayers. During the days, he works as a bookbinder, and during the evenings, he teaches slum children to read. He does not earn much from his work but just enough to feed his wife and offspring. “We will give it what we have,” he says, “tomorrow we will start searching for its master.”
As it happens, the master of the cow is a cattle-merchant in Mirpur who treats his creatures well not because he is an animal-lover, but because he is well aware of his consumers’ demands. Besides, fat and fit creatures bring in a fat profit. And particularly at Eid ul Adha market one can make a fortune in the cattle business. Now the Eid is in the offing, and the cattle-breeder has been over feeding his creatures to fatten them up. He has had them taken to the local vet to have them checked and rechecked. They were given extra vitamin injections; everyday his grooms have been brushing and bathing them, and a village girl has been polishing their horns and hooves. So as one may imagine, the merchant hits the roof when he realizes that his favourite cow is missing. He has been planning to put this nonpareil cow up for auction just to see how much money people were ready to pay for it. But now he is not only going to miss the money, he is also going to miss the fun at the auction. The cow can’t have run off by itself. Someone must have stolen it. Someone, who would like to sell it at a profit at Eid-bazar. Someone who begrudges him his fortune. Oh, the very audacity!
The agitated merchant sends out troops of his employees in every direction to find the cow. He sends out his three sons to the centre of the city; he himself goes to the nearest police station to report the theft. But all in vain. There is no sign of the lost cow. The morning passes, afternoon arrives, the evening draws closer. The wind falls. When the night settles in, the merchant walks to and fro on the roof of his three storied building. He pulls at his long black beard which has a fat stripe of white just in the middle. He pulls at his hair. He squashes mosquitoes on the bare parts of his body. He shouts, curses and swears that he will murder the thief that has stolen his number one cow. The night passes like this.
In the morning the boy wakes up in the slum. He thinks he has dreamt of the cow, but when he goes out of the hut, he sees the white cow tethered to the pole in the backyard. His mother has removed the sack from its back, and it’s sitting there on the ground with its legs folded under it; its white fur sparkling like silver dust along its flank and the bell on her neck — which he hadn’t seen the night before — glittering like gold. He can feel the smell of cow dung in his nostrils. He sniffs it in, as he hears his father’s mild voice from behind, “The brass bell around the cow’s neck has an address engraved within it. It must be her master’s address. She has to go, son.”
“Can’t we keep her one more day?”
“No. She has to go now. The master must be searching high and low for her.”
The father has to go to his work so he asks the boy to lead the cow to its owner. The boy puts on a pair of clean full pants and a full sleeved shirt. Slips his feet into a pair of rubber sandals and ushers the cow out of their yard. He says goodbye to his parents and siblings and walks slowly towards Mirpur with the cow walking by him. It takes him almost an hour before he reaches the area. He finds the house quite easily. For a few minutes he stands in front of the imposing three storied building, awe stricken. The size of the building frightens him in a peculiar way, and he begins to back away, when from the top of the roof the merchant sees the little boy and the cow walking away with him.
The merchant runs down the stairs, panting. The boy has by then passed the building and is about to walk round the premises. The merchant catches up with him.
“Where did you get that cow?”
The boy looks into the face of the man, his heart hammering. There is a black spot on the man’s forehead; he is wearing a lungi which is gathered far above his waist on the highest peak of his protruding belly. His long black beard with its sloping white stripe in the middle looks like the devil’s slide. His pan stained teeth red like a vampire’s. Beady eyes - full of fantastic suspicion. The boy stammers.
“It came to us yesterday.”
“You little thief!” The man raises his voice, “it came to you on a visit. Pah! You have chosen the right person to pull a fast one on. Now I will make you pay for it.” All of a sudden a whim seizes the man. He takes the rope from the boy’s hand, makes a loop and puts it around the boy’s neck and leads both the cow and the boy into the enclosed pasture by the building. The boy can’t understand what’s happening. The workers in the pasture look up, aware that their master is up to some wicked game. Nobody is concerned about the little boy, though. Then before anyone can react, the owner gives the cow a real bash. The cow seems reluctant as it persists in staying stay where it is. But the man is as stubborn as the beast; he gives it a bash again. This time with redoubled energy. The cow sets off. The boy tries to keep pace with it. The loop becomes tighter around his neck. Each time the cow gets close to the merchant, he releases a mocking laughter and gives it a new thump. The workers laugh a jeering laughter, but the herd of cows in the pasture moan and lament as though they are breathing in the warmth of a departing soul. After a couple of minutes, the man decides to stop the entertainment. He motions to one of his workers to stop the running cow. But by now the boy’s face has become purple from suffocation, his tongue is tumbling out and his eyes open in wonder. The panting cow stares at the man. Tears rolling out of its huge eyes.
The man looks stupidly at the cow and the boy’s slack body; the tattered pants, the torn shirt, the bruised bare feet. The cow is standing, but the boy is lying on the ground. Slowly the merchant begins to be aware that the incident has robbed the playful pursuit of its relish. This is not what he has been aiming at; he has only been trying to teach the boy a lesson for the thievery and at the same time have some good fun. Legitimate fun. Surely he has the right to punish a thief. A thief. Not just any thief, but a thief who has committed the gruesome crime of stealing his beast. His favourite beast! Of course, he has all the right in the world to punish him the way it pleases him. What a pity that the pursuit has to be over already; the climax – disappointing if not catastrophic. One never knows how things may turn out. It’s strange that man can’t have control over everything. A shadow of a thought suddenly settles on his face. He tries to shrug off the uneasy feeling. He should not be held responsible for this little accident. For sure, it is an accident. Like any other accident that people read about every day in the newspaper and then forget as easily. No one can be blamed for an accident. Accidents are accidents. He thinks quickly. Before the news spreads, he has to report the incident to the Police Station, and charge the boy with theft. To repair some of the damage, he will pay for the boy’s burial. Yes, a decent burial, similar to a rich man’s son’s burial. The thought makes him feel better. Much better.
He orders his men to move the body and put it inside the cowshed. Two workers volunteer to take the body away; telling each other that if all thieves were punished like this, the world would be a nice place to live in.
In the meantime, the boy’s father returns home for lunch and discovers that his son has not returned. His wife comforts him, telling him that the rich man is perhaps so happy to get back his cow that he has decided to offer the child a proper meal. And maybe the boy will return with some money as well.
The afternoon passes and evening falls. The father gets worried. No sooner has he finished his evening prayers than he leaves for the address he copied from the cow’s bell in the morning. The wind has dropped, the air is clear. There are a few stars in the sky. Wrapped in an inexplicable gloom, he walks on. He takes long and quick steps. When he gets tired, he jumps on an overcrowded bus, stands on the steps, clinging to its iron handle. The winter wind chills his body, ruffles his hair. He closes his eyes.
The bus stops at Mirpur zoo. He gets off the bus and walks towards the address in his pocket. When after some twenty minutes, he finds the address, in the wintry dusk he stands under a lamppost opposite the huge building and looks at it in equal wonder as his son did in the morning. But he doesn’t back off. It takes him ten more minutes to gather enough courage to press the calling button.
When the gate opens, he introduces himself and announces the reason for his visit. The servant shows him into a small room which is used as an office. It is a dim room, the floor covered with an old fat carpet, and the windows with heavy drapes. There are a few chairs around a desk topped with a thick glass. He carefully pulls out a chair and sits down on it. After a couple of minutes the meat-merchant appears. The poor man stands up immediately at the sight of the rich man. For a long while, they stand there looking at each other. One in fine clothes, the other in a darned lungi and Punjabi; one slim and taut from hard work, the other fat and flashy from sitting behind a desk.
The father tells the merchant his errand.
The merchant slowly sits down on his chair as it hits him that the boy was not a thief. He was an upright child of an upright father. The merchant finds himself thinking about the morning, the boy, the weeping cow, the loop around the boy’s neck. And the anti climax of the whole thing. He sees everything with clarity and precision. They all seem so real that he feels he still is in the pasture. And the dead boy speaking to him. Making faces at him. The man starts weeping…
A NUMBER OF years pass by. The merchant’s sons are all grown up now; they are all married and each has his own floor in the same building. The merchant and his wife have been given accommodation in their oldest son’s flat. The merchant is old and wizened and has become an ailing man over the years; during the nights he’s wakeful as the little boy roams in his brain, and the cow’s moaning repeats itself in his ears; during the days he fidgets inside the flat, nagging at everyone and every thing. His voice never stops. It sounds like a man’s jeering voice: I will make you pay for it. I will make you pay for it. The son gets tired of his father, and after a year, he shoves the duty to his middle brother. There the voice takes a different turn. Now it repeats in a child’s voice: It came to us. It came to us. The sentence comes out of the man’s fat mouth as though he was an idiot. A year goes by and the middle boy gets weary of his father too and shoves the duty to his youngest brother.
That very night as the merchant dozes off, he twitches convulsively and he feels a loop around his own neck. Tightening. He tries to scream. But the voice now takes a different route. Now it sounds like a cow’s voce. A lamenting cow. Crying from the depth of its belly. Moaning. Lowing, Crying. The voice of a cow! From this night on, this new sound becomes the merchant’s constant companion. His wife moves out of the room, the children and grand children are all annoyed. Finally, one day their patience runs out, and he is ushered out of the ground floor and steered towards the cowshed which now stands empty as his sons have given up the cow and cattle rearing business. The boys install their father in it, telling each other that it is the best solution under the circumstances. For, a man with a voice of cow should be treated like a cow.
DILRUBA Z. ARA is a Bangladeshi-born author living in Sweden. Her stories have appeared in various literary magazines such as Chattahoochee Review, Drunken Boat, and Shipwrights Review; and in newspapers in Pakistan and anthologies in Bangladesh. Her first novel, A List of Offences, has been translated into Spanish and Greek. Her second novel has recently been accepted by the literary agency Books Crossing Borders, USA. Visit her at www.dilrubazara.com
