In the Eye of a Cyclops

Written on Mother's Day, May 14, 2023

Amok she darted, bellowing into the evening. Delirious, fraught with frenzied pain, her unshared sorrow grazed past the rest of the herd, which sat peacefully, cudding and  enjoying the muddy coolness on a hot summer day. "Five days after giving birth, a mother has to be separated from the calf (for obvious reasons). A couple more days of searching, baying, mourning, and then, she would return to normalcy," the caretaker of the neighborhood dairy reassured us in a kind voice.

Normalcy? You separate a mother from its baby, and you call it normalcy? Have you heard of PTSD? How do you know that the mom-and-baby duo won't succumb to this terrible syndrome? 

For more than two weeks, cyclone Mocha has been gathering strength and moving across the Bay of Bengal, inching towards Bangladesh and Myanmar. Millions of people are being evacuated and relocated to makeshift camps. We in Southern India feel its fallout in the form of intense heatwave. It is almost impossible to step out the house. The little breeze coming through the window burns the skin by its slightest touch. Yet, gardenia, hibiscus, cowpeas, and teenie tiny grass flowers continue to bloom and smile at us. The yearning cries of peacocks crowd the morning silence and lymn the fading colours of late evenings. The double-note song of the koël permeates the pall of heat and hangs there like tiny dewdrops, albeit not enough to cool our exasperated selves battling the weather. The bellowing of the cow separated from its baby continues to ring in the ears.

"Ours is the best dairy in the region and our cows are amongst the healthiest with only  organic natural fodder for them to feast upon", the young caretaker had proudly proclaimed. Of course, we had believed him. It was a heavenly sprawl of green space with grass, paddies, palmyras, and Leucaena trees. We had sat around a rustic round table enjoying some delicious food that one of the domestic hands had lovingly prepared. Our collective mirth and determination to have a good time had overridden the sight and sound of the grieving mother. Our small talk, our oohings and aahings, exaggerated laughs once again left an impression that we were hanging on to  an undefined sense of belonging in one last attempt.

Cyclone Mocha continued its steady pace. According to the forecast it would make its landfall in Cox's Bazaar where one million fleeing Rohingyas have been taking refuge in camps comprising of flimsy shelter.

My mind's eye wanders off to seek a calf sitting forlorn in a dark corner of a faraway shed, whimpering. I can only hope it's a female so that it may be allowed to live and join the herd. 

The wind speed is reported to have reached an unholy 250kms per hour. I sit and watch a thick column of ants moving, disappearing into an imperceptible hole. They are going underground to escape the heatwave. Where do I go to escape my battling self, my own incessant column of thoughts and emotions?  Trembling hands reach out to caress the suckling calf...