Holy Cow

44 MUMBAI, MON AMOUR

An hour into the flight, the “captain” came on the PA. “Uh, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We are currently cruising at thirty thousand feet in a clear blue sky, gentle winds out of the east at five miles per hour-I anticipate smooth sailing. In about seven hours we will arrive at our final, I said final, destination.” Here he paused for dramatic effect. “Mumbai, India.” Mumbai, the largest city in India, more than 18.4 million people, formerly known as Bombay, also known as Kakamuchee or Galajunkja. Rolling those magical, exotic names around in my head sounded like a lullaby. Mumbai aka Kakamuchee aka Galajunkja. I closed my eyes and slept the deepest sleep I have had since I was a calf napping by my mother’s side.

When I awoke, we were already making our final descent into Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport high above the Arabian Sea. Now it was my turn to look out the window at my own promised land. I could make out some of the seven islands that are Mumbai. From my window, I could already see it was a land of contrasts, the filthy shantytowns giving way to gleaming new buildings and high-rises. It looked like the past and it looked like the future-a living contradiction. I felt I had never seen such riches and such poverty, such squalor and such beauty. I started to get a little nervous as we floated down to land.

Wheels touched tarmac and we made our usual getaway out the back of the airport. We were getting quite skilled at that. We began walking toward where we figured people lived, which was not difficult here because it seemed people lived everywhere, like dandelion seeds scattered on the hot, heavy wind. The country was teeming with life, difficult, colorful life. Ramshackle houses that looked like they would be washed away in the next monsoon squeezed next to ramshackle houses that looked like they had been washed there by the previous monsoon. Some paved roads, but just as often, a dusty or muddy trail, which I have to admit I preferred. Felt good to feel some dirt beneath my feet, and Shalom loved himself some mud, of course. Everything was stark contrast here, beginning with the brown earth set against the Day-Glo colors the people favored for their flowing dress. Tom had an eye for some strange, vibrantly colored birds he had never seen before, one beautiful bird in particular. He said, “Oh my, my, is that a Pavo cristatus?”

“A pava-what?” I asked.

“The Indian peahen, Good Lawdy, Miss Clawdy. National bird of India. As I live and breathe. Top drawer, A-list all the way. But no female on the planet can resist a private jet. Stand back and watch a master at work.” He ambled over to this beautiful, vain bird and opened with “By any chance, are your parents aliens? ’Cause, damn, girl, you are out of this world.” The peahen squawked, turned tail, and strutted away. Shot down. Poor Tom, he could fly now, but he was still a turkey with the ladies. To save face, he paused a moment, and then yelled after the peahen, “I’ll call ya!” He came back to Shalom and me. “Got her digits,” he lied. “Air Turkey in full effect.”

As we approached Dharavi, one of Mumbai’s largest slums and one of the most densely populated areas in the entire world, I started to second-guess myself-what if it had all been a lie? Everywhere I looked, people seemed worse off than animals, and animals were being treated even worse than in the States. Even the dogs. Dogs! Man’s best friend? They all looked skinny and mangy and beaten down, and no one was petting any of them. What if cows were not revered in this country? What if they used and abused and ate us like they did in the States? Had I been a fool? Was I going to die thousands of miles away from my home and my bones never reunited with the bones of my ancestors?

My first clue came when we tried to cross a busy intersection. I stood waiting for the light, terrified of the cars and bikes, railway buses, auto rickshaws, and black-and-yellow metered taxis that careened by even more crazily than they do in the States. I put one hesitant hoof onto the road and, all of a sudden, the oncoming traffic halted like I had a Box God wand in my hand and had just put the world on pause. I looked to see if the light had changed, but it hadn’t. I looked over into the eyes of the drivers inside their cars, and they were looking back at me with a mixture of love, reverence, and patience. I told Shalom and Tom to jump on my back. (I was back to walking on all fours all the time again-I could be a cow!) I began to cross the street. Not one car honked impatiently, and they waited for me to be safely on the other side before starting up again. A dirty man in rags came and put his forehead on my forehead and stroked me, murmured lovingly, and then went on his way. This would happen hundreds of times in the next few days. It was true. It was all true. I was a queen.

“It was true. It was all true. I was a queen.”