The man and his companion were hustled out of the compound. Blood trickled down his head and marked the ground. His shirt was in tatters. He was left with the handle of his cotton bag. The bag, along with its contents—a new copy of the Gita, a purse with small change, and half a dozen bananas—had disappeared. His black umbrella was bent from having taken part in a blow to his own head. He held on to his companion’s shoulder although much of the momentum for his journey from the edge of the school compound to the main gate came from the crowd. He did not realize his leg was broken until he was on the street.

‘This is no time for jokes. Manu asks us to worship the cow. We have fought for our cows in Azampur. We have fought for our cows in Bareilly. We have fought for our cows right here in Bombay. We will fight to the death to save our cows from the beef-eating Victoria.’

‘Hindus and Muslims should live like brothers,’ a man shouted from the crowd. Panditji fell silent for about ten seconds.

‘A few years ago, I was in Azampur. I saw the sharp blade move over a cow’s neck. One by one they cut her blood vessels. She struggled with whatever strength she had. It took ten men to hold her. The drops of blood turned into a flow like water from a tap. It was collected in a pot. She began convulsing. Her eyes, still soft, were looking around, seeking humanity, or at least propriety. Finish me off once and for all, she pleaded. Let me not see the spectre of my own death. She looked at me. I saw my mother in her eyes. She called for the milk she had offered me when I was an infant. She called for the work she had done year after year in the farm. She called for the warmth she had provided in my kitchen when the only fuel was cow dung. She called for her soul that she had offered when she patiently listened to my woes of family and life, of longing and belonging. By the end, she was bleeding in red, yellow and white. My mother fainted. But this was a celebration. And now it’s a part of their identity; identity from where? From Arabia; an identity that the rest of the sects slavishly follow. Month after month, cows are killed on the streets while we have to watch in brotherly love. I have no problem with the Mohammedans. They’re our brothers. But they should live like brothers. What do you do if your brothers kill your mother?’

‘Will you kill a human being for a cow? What kind of justice is this?’ a voice called out.