I know Mashima loves me. Why then, did she send me on this torturous journey in the scorching heat? I don’t know. Nor do I know where I am going. The tar on the road beneath is melting and so are my eyes. Dragging on scalded feet on a hungry stomach is not easy. But I must walk on, because Mashima wants me to.

Had Mashima known that I would have to suffer like this, she wouldn’t have sent me on this journey. She can’t bear to see me suffering. I remember once, when thorns from the touch-me-nots had torn my tender lips, for days she fed me juicy grass from her palms. It felt wonderful when she stroked me. Sometimes, she scooped me up and brushed her soft cheeks on my body. But that was long back. Now I don’t have a pure white coat or a cute, cuddly body. All my beauty has flown away from me and settled with my daughters. I remember, when each of them was born, how villagers thronged to our place. There was not a single child in the village that hadn’t tasted my milk. Their mothers would look at me and say, ‘Mashima, you are so lucky you have Gauri. She gets you so much income.’ Mashima would then pat me proudly.

‘Hurrr…,’ the dark, squat man with an upturned moustache drives the herd ahead. I can barely walk. With his sturdy stick, he whacks my back. The jolt pushes me a few steps. But what really keeps me going is not the stick, but the gentle ringing of the bell around my neck. I recall the breezy summer morning when Mashima had tied it for me. She had shown me off to everyone, saying, ‘Look, isn’t my Gauri beautiful?’ Ah, my Mashima! Had it not been for this squat man, I wouldn’t have been separated from her. One evening he came to our place and pulled me callously by the rope on my neck. I cried, but Mashima was nowhere to be seen. Where had she gone? I had seen her talking to him just a while ago. My eyes glued to the door, I wailed, even as the squat man dragged me away. Since then, I have been with him. Unlike Mashima, he’s not gentle and caring.  He keeps me hungry and pulls at my rope like a yo-yo.  

For the past two days though, none of us have any ropes around our necks. We are as free as butterflies. Only we don’t have wings to fly. We must lumber on sun baked roads. ‘Hurrr…,’ the squat man drives us to a mud track. Clouds of red dust rise as we walk past. Some of it settles on my face, some on my bony back and some get into my eyes. As I close them, I see the green grass of my home, breezy shade of the mango trees and my Mashima’s gentle face. Another whack on my spine awakens me from my reverie.

At last, we stop near a shed with red tiled roof. I am goaded into a large room, where there are others like me, moving about restlessly. The stench makes me sick. Unlike many others, I don’t put up a fight. I can’t. My mind races back to the days I had spent with Mashima, always reassured of her love. In the flurry, the squat man’s gruff hands grab the black thread around my neck. It snaps, sending the tiny bell whirling down. Amidst the tramping of hooves, it disappears somewhere. Not that it matters anymore.