HERE, THERE & ELSEWHERE. Cow quest

Deep gloom envelops the car. Losing Punky the skunk affects each of us differently. Birk, who has been at the wheel ever since the Burger Rest Room Incident as he calls it, claims that we have lost our sacred mascot. “Every journey is a quest,” he says in the authoritative voice of one who plays multi-player war games in all of his spare time. “Every quest has its mascot. We have lost our mascot. So we are bound to fail.”

Bins prefers to lash himself with guilt. “He was in my care! It is my fault! I cannot forgive myself! If only I can remember to zip my bag!” Whereupon he clutches his skull and pulls out his few remaining grey-blond hairs. I, on the other hand, am of the Pollyanna Persuasion. “Who knows? We might find a replacement!” This goes down so badly with the other two occupants of the car that I have to amend my statement. “What I mean is, maybe we will find some OTHER animal companion — or mascot — or whatever ...” Snarling groans and mumbled oaths from the front seat convince me that silence is the safer option.

We plough on northwards. As if attracted to our misery, clouds gather overhead and drop their load over us in a dreary, relentless pitter-patter. Twice Birk misses exits we were supposed to take, resulting in long, looping detours through small grey towns so featureless that we are amazed anyone bothered to name them. “Why not just give them serial numbers!” we cry, as we pass through yet another celebration of boredom, flat tires and snot.

Late in the evening, we cross the state boundary into “more-cows-than-people” Vermont. The rain has stopped, the sky is clear. We turn off the interstate, driving along a two-lane highway. The only light source is our own headlights and the flashing of the reflective stripes on the road surface. Small green markers blink by on the sides now and then. Birk, who travels North routinely, says “Got a couple of aunts and a rash of cousins living on the land,” he says in his laconic way. “Used to bash me up when I was little. Then one year I came by for the annual visit and they had all become midgets —” He stops mid-sentence and whoops, “Whoa! Did you see that? It’s a COW!”

We all turn to look as Birk slows the car. Sure enough, behind us, sauntering along the highway in the darkness is a lone quadruped. Bins nods approving, “Ya. Smart lady. She is walking by the side. In Tamil Nadu they walk straight down the middle —” “You don’t understand!” exclaims Birk. “American cows NEVER walk around on the road! NEVER!” He has pulled over to the shoulder. “We have to call someone — Highway patrol! Bovine Emergency Services!”

Bins cannot believe this level of concern. “Tcheh — let her be! She is just another Seeker, looking for The Way.” Birks snorts. “Ha! A cow on a quest! Seeking what, exactly?” Bins points sagely up at the stars twinkling overhead. “The Milky Way,” he says.

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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