Then there were the Hindu puritans who worried that impure urine was driving down the price of pure urine. The Hindus had entered the profession out of devotion, duty and dedication. The trade was passed patrilineally and bound in chains of trusteeship. They were titled Divyajalamsthapati (Keepers of the Divine Water). Why did they deserve such a privilege? Their grandfather said that they were responsible for the divine cow, Kamadhenu, for her upkeep in the royal chambers. Another old relative said that they had divine roots themselves. They were clinging to the udders of Kamadhenu as she emerged during the churning of the ocean.

‘Then why were we not in charge of milk? Were we hanging on to something else?’ his seven-year-old grandson enquired.

‘It doesn’t matter which body part we hung on,’ he said, ‘she is all sacred.’

The more secular among them asserted that there was nothing divine about their profession.

‘King Gopala Sena gave us the title in return for the permanent and free cleaning of the royal goshala. Nothing to be ashamed of. This is how the king’s barber became nobility in England and in the rest of Europe.’ The friendly feuds between the divine-rights royalists and the secular royalists had become a routine affair during their family gatherings at Diwali. These internal squabbles were not threatening. The world outside was far more precarious. A new family had ventured into the business a few years ago. They had managed to garner a substantial market share by undercutting their competitors. They also spread rumours that the titles of the families were fabricated and that there was no real evidence to corroborate their claim. No one was willing to concede that much. But repetition transforms rumour to fact.

Some of the older families joined forces to set up a labelling programme. There was a label in the market: Fed on Vrindavan Grass. This urine was three times the price of regular urine. Not all vendors could afford the greens of Vrindavan. They colluded in favour of a generic label: Raised in Open Farms.

~

‘We have our own cows. We don’t buy urine at all. How old is this urine anyway?’ asked Dhansukhlal.

‘I don’t know. A few months,’ Petit responded.

‘Very old then. It’s of no use now. We use fresh urine.’

‘Fresh urine. Do you follow the cows until they urinate?’

‘No. The cows are tethered. They urinate in one spot. We bottle it and use it on the same day.’

‘Does it taste better?’

‘We don’t know. But ours is pure. We don’t add pomegranate juice. It is pure, like honey.’

‘The men have crossed the street. Be prepared.’

‘Oh, golaka (heaven of the cows, Krishna’s abode)! Golaka! We’re going to golaka.’ Dhansukhlal appeared ready to transcend. ‘I see Kamadhenu. I see Krishna.’

‘What else do you see, tell me? So that I can see it too,’ said the second Hindu in the room.