Holy Cow

I’ve always liked cows even though they were once a source of embarrassment for me. I recall my dad, raised a farm boy, would always get the biggest kick out of honking at cows as we passed them while driving. Growing up in Texas, there were plenty of cows. I would always cringe each time I saw a cow because I knew what was coming. I would sink in my seat, trying to avoid the stares of other drivers thinking that they were being honked at. How were they to know that a cow was simply being revered? Growing up in Texas also meant that I was raised, practically, a carnivore. Perhaps only Argentina can top Texas in terms of steak obsession and insanity. Imagine the culture shock when a horn-hating steak-loving Texan arrives in India. Even my years amid California vegans couldn’t snuff my enjoyment of steak. But here, the cow is holy. It is to remain untouched in every way. A cow in the middle of the road can remain in the middle of the road as long as it wants. A cow on the beach can come up to you and steal your watermelon. There is nothing you are going to do about it. And if you think this is all conjecture, I’m only touching on points I’ve actually seen with my own eyes. Who would’ve thought that cows liked watermelon so much. And when, after 3 weeks straight of rice, sambar, idly, and dosa, I become weak and crave a cheeseburger, I should’ve known what was in store. Yes, in the back of my head, I knew that the burger couldn’t have possibly been made of cow, but I somehow convinced myself that this was Goa. Goa, overrun by European tourists, would’ve had to succumb somewhat to European tastes. I mean, the beaches are lined with plenty of negative aspects of European vacationing, couldn’t they have at least imported the burger? So, when my cheeseburger arrived, and I realized the patty was none other than fried cheese, all I could do is laugh. Touché, India. Yes, a cheeseburger should be made of cheese. Laughing is really the only thing you can ever do when you travel and have a craving for something that you know you will never get.

But while the cow is highly revered, I’ve been trying to figure out where buffalo sit in this hierarchy. When my friend and I hit one while riding our motorbike, the herder didn’t trying to lynch us for striking a sacred animal. I always imagined that would happen if you hit a cow. All he kept repeating was go slow, go slow. We were going slow. The buffalo had been on the side of the road. Why did he wait until we got there to run in front of us? Does he enjoy seeing tourists fly over handlebars and skid on pavement? Did he get a kick out of watching the bike landing on me and pinning me to the ground? Perhaps he simply had a death wish and underestimated his own strength and resiliency. Most likely, he was just stupid, but I will not assert that forcefully, just in case buffalo are considered holy as well.