It was 4:00 p.m. and still light outside, but we had some distance to go. We would have to pass through the village with the dead cow; thankfully, it would be dark by then. Abdul was still adamant that it was not a good idea to stop. We would just speed through.
I was really feeling guilty. I just couldn’t live with myself; it would be easy for me to pay the cost of a cow. So I had to pull rank. I said, “We are going to stop and inquire about the owner. I will pay the money, and then we will leave.”
The mood in the vehicle was pretty glum. Villages were jet black at night because no one wasted kerosene just to light up a house. We slowed down, and Abdul kept the motor going, just in case.
“OK, just honk once so they know we are here,” I said. With the honk, we saw a wave of people coming out of their huts.
There was one older fellow who looked like a leader, so I rolled down the window and said to him, “This morning there was a lot of fog, and a cow came out suddenly, and we accidentally hit it—”
Before I could continue my sentence, the headman started jabbering in Bengali. Maybe this was not such a great idea. Then Dinesh started translating. “He said that he saw everything, and it was not our fault. The cow should have been tied up. And it’s OK; it just has a small gash on its right front leg. It will be fine.”
The headman said, “Thank you for stopping. Not a lot of bari admi”—big folk—“would do that.”
I was so relieved it wasn’t dead. I smiled and said we needed to be on our way. I was thankful that we had stopped and found out the truth; otherwise, to this day, I would bear the guilt of killing a sacred cow.
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