‘My mother died when I was very young. Since then I have always seen my mother’s face in a cow,’ said another committee member.

‘If we introduce purdah the cows will be fine. No perverted old lecher will go around looking for the right type of cow to fulfil his debaucheries.’

Then there was another cow, Champa, who took to dowry negotiations. One day she was casually grazing in the outskirts of the village. Members of the khap panchayat, on their way to a prospective bride’s house, happened to walk by. She followed them. The sarpanch took to her keenly and by the end of their journey, about an hour long, they were inseparable. The sarpanch was seen petting her lightly here and there. They nudged each other often, as if sharing an old joke. The cow sat beside the sarpanch’s charpoy while the panchayat negotiated the dowry. When the bride’s family declared that they were broke and had nothing to give the groom, the cow rose and ambled into their farm and found a bull hidden behind the shed. The bride’s family was forced to concede their only draught animal. Since then, under one pretext or another, families of many grooms took her along. Her reputation preceded her. In the hundred-mile radius of the village, brides’ families were often told: ‘Yahan se pachas pachas kos dur, gaon mein, jab beti ka buddha baap dahej chupata hai to beti ki maa kehti hai, “Sab sach sach bata do, nahin to champa aa jayegi.” (In remote villages, far far away, when the bride’s old father hides the dowry, the bride’s mother warns him: ‘Tell them the truth, else Champa will pay us a visit.’)’ Some of the more rational-minded speculated that Champa had a coterie of informers.

‘She is old. She should rest. It is time for us to give back to her, not extract from her,’ recommended the cow psychologist.

A committee member voiced his support. ‘We have developed this cow shelter so that cows can rest and spend their remaining years in dignity and peace. It’s a pension scheme, a social security system, a welfare programme. The villagers are abusing her good nature.’

There was a cow who could only follow instructions in English.

‘Ha! Roast beef! Sell her off to the abattoir,’ jeered a committee member. ‘When she finds herself on their Sunday roast, let’s see how her English will help.’

‘It is not her fault that she was taught in English. We should not discriminate between English-speaking and Hindi-speaking cows,’ said the cow psychologist. ‘Or against cows that speak any other language—they learn when they are mere calves.’

Then there was a cow who would stroll into the kitchen and tip the jar of kerosene onto the cook.

‘The cow must have been the cook’s daughter-in-law in her previous life. She seeks revenge,’ deduced one of the committee members.