Five Past Midnight in Bhopal - Dominique Lapierre [6]
One month after this accident, a uniformed official from the Orissa Department of Animal Husbandry appeared in Mudilapa. Driving a jeep equipped with a revolving light and a siren, he was the first government representative ever to visit the village. Using a loudspeaker, he summoned the villagers, who assembled around his jeep.
“I have come to bring you great news,” he declared, caressing the bullhorn with fingers covered in rings. “In accordance with her policy of helping our country’s most underprivileged peasants, Indira Gandhi, our prime minister, has decided to give you a present.” Bemused, the man marked the astonishment clearly visible on the faces of those present. Waving a hand at random in the direction of one of them, he inquired, “You, do you have any idea what our mother might want to give you?”
Ratna Nadar, Padmini’s father, hesitated. “Perhaps she wants to give us a well,” he ventured.
Already, the man in uniform had turned to someone else. “And you?”
“She’s going to make us a proper road.”
“And you?”
“She wants to provide us with electricity.”
“And you? …”
In less than a minute, the government envoy was in a position to assess the state of poverty and neglect in the village. But he was not concerned with any of these pressing needs. Heightening the suspense with a protracted silence, at last he continued: “My friends, I’ve come to inform you that our beloved Indira has decided to give every family in Mudilapa a cow.”
“A cow?” repeated several stupefied voices.
“What are we going to feed it on?” someone asked anxiously.
“Don’t you worry about that,” the visitor went on. “Indira Gandhi has thought of everything. Every family is to receive a plot of land on which you’ll grow the fodder you need for your animal. And the government will pay you for your labors.”
It was too good to be true.
“The gods have visited our village,” marveled Padmini’s mother. She was always ready to thank heaven for the slightest blessing. “We must offer a puja* at once.”
The government envoy continued his speech. He spoke with all the grandiloquence of a politician coming to dispense gifts before an election.
“Don’t go, my friends, I haven’t finished! I have an even more important piece of news for you. The government has made arrangements for each one of your cows to give you a calf from semen taken from specially selected bulls imported from Great Britain. Their sperm will be brought to you from Bombay and Poona by government vets who will themselves carry out the insemination. This program should produce a new breed in your region, capable of yielding eight times more milk than local cattle. But take note that to achieve this result, you will have to undertake never to mate your cow with a local bull.”
The bewilderment on the faces of the onlookers had been replaced by joy.
“Never before have we had a visit from a benefactor like you,” declared Ratna Nadar, sure that he was relaying the gratitude of them all.
The day the herd arrived, the women dug out their wedding saris and festival veils from the family coffers as if it were the Diwali or Dassahra † celebrations. All night long they danced and sang around the animals, who joined in with a concert of mooing.
The Nadars named their cow after Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth to whom the Adivasis were as fervently devoted as Hindus.
Just as the government envoy had announced, a few weeks later, vets arrived in Mudilapa. They came bearing fat syringes to inseminate the cows with British sperm. Ten moons later, in the yard outside every hut in the village, a calf made its entry into the world. But the villagers’ joy lasted only one night. Not one of the young calves managed to get to its feet and suckle from its mother. Sheela tried in vain