Holy Cow

On one of her trips to the regional capitol, Becca explored the Peace Corps hostel’s library and stubbled upon a hot pink book. On the cover was a woman with blue skin, long coiled hair, hot pink shades, and a golden trident, below her read the words “Holy Cow.” At the time Becca was looking for a couple of lighter books to even out what was becoming a stressful month. Having already picked up Holes, a children’s lit classic she’d somehow missed as a child, the hot pink blue skinned lady book seemed a solid choice.

It was nothing like what she’s expected. In between the playful covers was the story of a woman who lived in India for several years and boldly told her honest story. Living in the developing world, Becca found herself constantly torn between exasperation, joy, anger, giddy happiness, pity, and then anger at herself for the blind pity. It was a difficult battle that a lot of people would never understand, a battle she still didn’t understand in a world she understood even less.

Becca devoured every word until she found this passage:

“Amid the manicured lawns of the embassy district cars slow down to avoid whar appears to be a branch on the road. But it’s not a branch. It’s the twisted limbs of a beggar ho’s been hit by a car; he is lying in the middle of the road crying and reaching out his hands for help...a bus lurches to a halt; its driver gets out, grabs the beggar by his arm, drags gim to the gutter and dumps him, his face and abdomen bleeding from the bitumen. He’s dragged in anger, not in sympathy; human debris removed....

India is the worst of humanity.

At the traffic light, Pooja runs up to our car; she is a local beggar whoknows we are the softest touch around. We’ve given her clothes, food and pay good money for the paper she sells. She has rat-tail Rastafarian hair, dimples and dirty teeth but still manages to be the most beautiful child I’ve ever seen, with a smile that would melt stone. She moves to tap on the window but sees we’re upset and hesitates. She gives me a newspaper and pats my hand. 

‘Poor memsahibs. Ap teekay hoga’ (You will be okay.)

The pity in her liquid brown eyes is an extraorindary communication of kindness from a child who has nothing to a woman who has everything.

India is the best of humanity.”**

She read it six times and then set the book down solidly. It was brash, it was honest, it was human. Not perfect, not pleasant, completely contradictory and probably not politically correct. Becca felt for a moment as if the contents of her heart had leaked onto the page. Someone else got it, someone else felt that gnawing feeling of anger and love for a country, of compassion and total bafflement. Becca signed and picked the book up again, feeling just a little bit less alone.

** The book Holy Cow was written by Sarah Macdonald, an Australian journalist and author, it was originally published in 2002. It is a highly recommended read.