‘Do you know Sinhasan Battisi?’ Battisi would say when asked about his unusual name—Sinhasan Battisi were the thirty-two parables of King Vikramaditya. But the moment the cleaner opened his mouth, it became evident that he was called ‘Battisi’ not because of some king from the past but because of his own thirty-two teeth. Each one of them could hold a story. When he smiled the room lit up.

‘Daant hain ya motiyon ka haar! (Are these teeth or a garland of pearls!)’

When he was a boy, Battisi would smile hesitantly, but now he had come to terms with his dental endowment. There were days when he did not smile but that was because he was cautioned more than once.

‘Dhak kar rakha karo, nahin to nazar lag jayegi (Keep them under wraps, or someone will cast an evil eye).’

Today, he didn’t seem to care about his new found direction and now there were four of them; the junior officer, Banerjee, Natwarlal and Battisi, who had stepped out of Metro House looking for a cow.

The men turned left on Causeway without waiting to coordinate. They knew where the cows were at that hour. The blazing noon sun overwhelmed them all.

‘I always see two cows here, every day. Is today a holiday?’ the officer asked.

‘They must be at the fair,’ Natwarlal responded.

‘Did you go?’

‘No, I was there last year.’

‘Let’s look by the station.’

‘I have to balance the ledgers today. Mr Pestonjee said it was urgent,’ said Banerjee, his legs already moving in the opposite direction.

‘This cow business is also for Pestonjee and it’s due by noon,’ said the officer.

‘Yes, hmm  . No, no. See you at lunch.’

The remaining three men continued their journey. Natwarlal glanced back periodically, then looked up at the sky and then the officer. Twice, when the officer had looked his way for no reason other than the variation in their pace, Natwarlal would vigorously wipe sweat off his brow. Unlike Banerjee, he was in no position to excuse himself. Half an hour later, despite her many manifestations—cow milk, cow curd, cow butter, cow leather, cow dung, cow paintings, cow murals, cow sculptures, a cow temple, shops named after cows, conversations about cows, a cow cart without a cow, and a man standing on one leg, hands together, chanting ‘cow, cow, cow,’ repeatedly—the animal in its whole earthly form was not to be seen. A dozen or so people had assembled around the man standing on one leg. Inquiries indicated he had been in that position for eight months, nine days and five hours.

‘Ha! Who cares!’ scoffed the officer. ‘There are many such men standing on every street in Varanasi. Some on their heads. My uncle at the temple told us about an old man who has been walking on his hands since he was six.’

~