‘Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,’ was all Pandu seemed able to say, overcome with awe at the gracious appearance and prospective vast milk yields. ‘We must all work hard to make sure these pretty creatures do not suffer in our heat.’
Ice, prepared in the fridge, was crushed, poured into hot-water bottles and tied on the heads of the twelve new Jerseys. They stood in a mournful row at the shady end of their byre, looking silly under their ice-water bottle hats, water trickling down their eyelashes, their tails whacking exhaustedly at the attacks of fierce flies that were quite new to them. The darjee was called and set to work on his pedal Singer, stitching hessian coats for the cows to stop the flies from pestering them and Pandu had them dressed up till they looked like European women in frocks and hats.
Kuru Dadoo was shocked by his son’s new enthusiasm. ‘A zamindar should be out there, shooting tigers and sticking pigs, not spending his day in the dairy like some gwala.’
‘They are so beautiful, Papa. Look how they have dark round their eyes as if they have been painted with kajal. And don’t you admire their golden colour?’
Kuru Dadoo snorted with scorn. ‘If you wish for a beautiful golden creature with painted eyes why not go to Free School Street and find yourself a Nepali prostitute like I used to do.’
‘I prefer the local girls. And these cows are like pets.’
‘If you wish to keep pretty creatures you should go for cheetahs. My father had a hunting pair of great beauty and danger. Clever also. He never had such hunting luck when he was only accompanied with dogs. Shall I contact the zoo and see if they can obtain some for you?’
Gadhari was furious when she found out about the chandelier. ‘It was family property and worth a fortune. Why did you let him do it? You should take legal action against him,’ she raged at her husband. But DR Uncle, whose greatest joy in life was poetry, only smiled at his wife’s outburst, and said, ‘I’m sure it will be better cared for in its new home.’
A new-rich Parsee, called ‘Sodawaterbottleopenerwallah’ after the gadget he had so successfully marketed, had bought the chandelier. It now hung, pristine and resplendent in a brand new concrete and marble house in Alipore. No longer did sparrows perch and shit on its hand-cut Venetian pendants. No longer did pendants fall like leaves to be gathered up by the sweeper in the morning. No longer did it dangle sideways like a drunk going home from the foreign liquor shop.
The village gwala turned up at the Hatibari to give Pandu advice on how to care for the new cows and use the milk. ‘You do not know how to make ghee, Sahib, so I will show you. First we make kheer, then we turn that into butter, then we turn that into purest ghee,’ he said and began a demonstration on the Hatibari stove that took such hours that the cook was unable to prepare the midday meal.
The gwala brought milk from his own herd of desi cows and Pandu was forced to watch while the gwala and his daughter boiled it, stirring it till it was thick as heavy cream, and clotted with skin round the sides.
‘Surely that’s enough,’ pleaded Pandu. But the old man was merciless. He had known Pandu as a little boy and was not the least in awe of him. ‘We go on till the milk is solid,’ he said. It happened at last and the crusty lump that had once been twenty litres of fresh milk was crushed on the spice grinding stone till it separated into butter.
‘But I have read of butter being made in Western countries and it is not done like this at all,’ said Pandu. ‘There they take cream and beat it till it separates from its buttermilk. It is a much quicker process than this.’
The gwala roared with scoffing laughter. ‘If we made butter by such careless techniques in this hot country our butter would be left with water in it and go bad in no time. Now we cook this butter, always stirring, slowly slowly, into purest golden ghee.’ This took another hour of stirring. ‘Now see how the solid has fallen to the bottom, Sahib, and on top the butter oil is gold and clear. We pour this off carefully and there we are.’
‘Now I show you how to make channa,’ he said, just when Pandu thought he was to be let off the hook. ‘After that you can get cook to make it into all Bengal sweets, rossogulla, Lady Kenny, Gulab jaman and so on and also channa. We heat up the milk then curdle with alum.’ Pandu remembered alum. His father had used it to stifle the bleeding of razor nicks.
The boiling milk swished into two parts almost at once, as the alum was poured in and the old man brandished a soft firm lump of snow-white curd. ‘Now we grind again then mix with a little soojee. Roll in little balls then boil in syrup flavoured with cardamom pods till the jamans rise to the surface …’
‘I am tired,’ said Pandu. ‘I never intended to become a sweet maker.’
Ignoring him the old man went on, ‘Or we fry this with some of the ghee, rosewater, cardamom pods and jaggery till it goes thick and stiff and press it into moulds till we have shandesh …’
Pandu groaned.
‘As a small boy you were somewhat lazy and I see this has still not altered,’ said the gwala sternly. ‘Now we come to the feeding and the milking of the animals.’ He told Pandu that the animals must have hot feeds each evening of rice bran boiled with jaggery and that the cows would not let down their milk unless the calves were allowed first suck.
‘You keep a little muzzle on her baby during the day and at milking time you let baby have a little suck. Then mummy lets down milk and you give a pull. After a while mummy will find out it is your fingers and not baby taking the milk and she will pull it up again. Then you let baby have another, and so on.’
Pandu looked bemused, ‘But in the West they take the calves away from the cows at birth.’
The old man looked as though he was going to cry. ‘This is a terrible cruel thing. These poor Billaty cows. How much they must suffer. But then how do these foolish Billaty people get milk?’
Pandu shrugged. ‘I don’t know how, but they do.’
The old man went off at last, bemused and mumbling at the extraordinary ways of foreign cows, the cruel ways of foreign people and the terrible ignorance of the zamindar.
Pandu was thrilled with his new son, and when Koonty breastfed her child, Pandu would sit at her side, stroke her hair and murmur, ‘You two are the joys of my life,’ and think that he was the happiest man in the world. He would come each evening to watch with delight as Boodi Ayah bathed the new baby and pressed whiskery kisses on his body. ‘He is a big boy even now and when he is a man he will be magnificent like his Daddy,’ Boodi Ayah told Pandu. She was a hill tribe woman from Bihar with limbs like charcoal sticks that looked very black against the pure white of her short blouse and dhoti that exposed her bandy legs and large cracked feet.
After Adhiratha died Dolly wrote a letter to her parents, telling them what had happened to her and explaining about Karna. After a very long time her father sent her back a letter, written by the local scribe, in which he said that she should only come back to them if there was absolutely no other way she could survive. ‘For you are a widow and in this village such a person would, a generation ago, have been expected to perform suttee and even nowadays her being alive gives a certain offence in the villages. But as for this foundling child, we have barely enough food for our own stomachs and certainly not enough to feed another woman’s brat.’ He added, ‘I am speaking for myself and not your mother.’
Dolly cried when she read this letter, then she tore it up.
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