Jitu Das Blog | Assamese Culture, Philosophy & Life Reflections

Rani's Catwalk

Gobindapur, a quiet little village just outside Pathsala, glinted in dawn's sable hushed light. Softly rising over the fields of Bajali, the sun spilled gold over Gobindapur at Pathsala, only for the last day before Bohag Bihu, specifically Goru Bihu; fresh banana leaves and turmerics are already stirring in the cool, damp comfort of earth after dawn in the air. The whole village hummed with activity.

In a modest cowshed hidden behind his own house, Rupam Kalita, an untiring farmer of 45 years, was brushing his cow, Rani, with slow, even strokes. Basically, she is not an ordinary cow. Rani has been the witness of all his fights against nature — floods, drought, poor crop yields, and inadequate harvests; of his delights and quiet heartbreaks. Her milk had fed his kids; she had grounded him in ways words never could.

However, a unique thing was happening this year.

For the first time, the village organized a cow fashion show, inspired by a nearby Bajali show and even featured in the local papers. Every cow will be washed with the traditional black gram paste, dressed up with garlands and bells, and brought down a bamboo ramp. No prizes — just to pay homage to the cows' silent and enduring role in village life.

Rupam only laughed when he heard it—for he really found it hard to believe. "Garu a rampot jabo niki! Anekua ki sunisu." (Really?  What have I heard !) he said, shaking his head as he mixed the feed.

But Mina, his wife, only smiled at him while tying a knot in her hair, casting a warm look at Rani. "Protibosor lau bengnare,natun paghare joriyate dhonyobaad janau. Eibar Ranik sakolore agat dekhuai ahok" (By rituals, every year we have expressed our thanks to them.

No rebuttal made Rupam deep down not certain. He simply wasn't someone who liked attention-the worst being at the Naamghar. What if something were to go wrong? What if people laughed?

That was the night when he rubbed a bit of turmeric over Rani's skin, paused for a little while when memories came in flood, the heartbreaking memories of floods, of tilling ruined lands, of walking beside Rani-all with a soaked body but not giving up. He recollected how his father would say quietly with pride:

"Manuhor gourav sonot nohoi - matit thake, aru jijor jibo taar logot iman bosor khate". ("A man's pride is not in any wealth- rather it is in the earth-and with the creature, which toils with him, through the passing of years"). 

It was like a festival on the next day, at Gobindapur. The air was filled with the sound of dhol and pepa. Children raced around barefoot, women flowing in mekhela sadors streaked colors, and the Naamghar courtyard dazzled through banana leaves and flowers. At the center stood a modest bamboo ramp, glowing in the morning sun.

Now she was all set. She almost looked majestic — a clean gamosa draped on her back, around her neck repeated wreaths of marigold and small red sindoor dots on her horns, applied so lovingly by Mina.

As they summoned her to the stage, Rupam gulped. His palms were sweating, but he whispered through gritted teeth, "Ja Rani... aguai ja. Aji toi mor gourav." ("Come on, girl…show us. Today, you are my pride.") 

And Rani - she did not falter. She walked down the ramp like she knew it was hers and only hers. Steady, untroubled, and graceful.

Then there was applause. Someone was clapping above the dhol. A girl nearer the front turned to her friend: "Seya saw, kenekoi ja! Ekebare Rani'r dore." ("Look at that one! She walks like a queen!") It was loud and clear.

Rupam heard it, and a lump rose in his throat. He had never been after recognition. But that day someone had seen the quiet majesty that Rupam had always seen within Rani.

This evening, after the Husori had ended and the air smelled of jaggery and firewood inside the house, Rupam sat by Rani with the ramp behind them, stars shining above. He fed her puffed rice mixed with jaggery, her favorite, and stroked her lightly.

"Dhonyobaad, Rani. Aji noi moi gorbita." (Thank you, Rani. You made me feel proud today.) 

It was not really about the competition; it was about exposure - not just Rani but everything she represented; love, beauty, loyalty, resilience, and the silent companionship that a farmer and his cow could ever understand. 

That day, it was not the fame or riches on display. 

Instead, it had glowed softly on a bamboo ramp, on a farmer, his cow, and a bond built in silence through many seasons of toil and trust.

Bohag Bihu was calling, short story by Jitu Das short stories