…Until The Cows Come Home

Lost, on a Himachal Hillside

The sun set with dramatic speed.

And there we were, my husband, two children, and I. All around us were trees so tall and with such thick foliage, that they effectively shut out what light was left in the sky.

Except for a brief stint in Muscat, my children and husband had always lived in Mumbai. Mumbai never sleeps. There is always light and noise. All. The. Time. Silence of any kind spooked them out.

Born and brought up in Kerala, I knew silences. And I knew the sounds within the silence. An orchestra of crickets. A sudden sharp breeze rushed through coconut fronds. The sound of ripe mangoes falling from the tree. The sudden screech of some nocturnal bird. The scurrying feet of mice and rats on dry leaves and undergrowth. I know them all.

So, that cold night, on a hill in Chail, Himachal Pradesh, a quarter of a century ago, I smiled to myself and looked around. The men folk huddled together.

It was pitch black and there was not even a pinpoint of light in any direction, to guide us. Somewhere close to us, within that dense blackness, was the cottage that had been allotted to us. We had left it in the afternoon, to have lunch, and a look around, in the tiny town.

My husband and elder son, are navigators. You can put them down in any part of the world, and they will return to civilization and light and action, with unerring instinct. My younger son takes after me, and my paternal family branch. We can get lost anywhere. We also have this touching faith that no matter where we are, we will be found, rescued, and led home. I don’t know any basis for that belief, but well…

So there we were. On a dark hillside in a strange place, surrounded by towering trees and darkness in whichever direction we turned our eyes. The silence was loud, and when the night noises began, they seemed cacophonous.

My husband and elder son began plotting pathways and thinking back to which direction we had walked in, and which direction the cottage lay in. My younger son and I stayed close and looked at them respectfully. For us, every path looked the same.

And then, through that darkness came the sound of faint bells. We clutched each other, terrified out of our wits. All the ghost stories that I had ever heard rushed back to me. We looked at each other, paralyzed with fright. The sound came closer and closer and now was accompanied by stamping feet. Feet that didn’t sound human.

We stood where we were like we were glued to the ground. We held the kids close, preparing to fight for them, and not give them up to whatever evil thing was coming to get us.

The sounds came closer. The bells, the tramping feet, and the smell, as of rotten, decomposing things.

We drew closer together.

Now we could see a faint moving light, like a will o’ the wisp.

I could feel the hair on my head rising. We stumbled backward. There was no place to hide.

I prayed that even if we had to run, we wouldn’t get separated from each other.

Into the clearing where we stood, preceded by the light, stepped a cowherd, and two cows, with bells around their necks. They were going home. The home was beyond the hill the Sun had set behind.

The cowherd looked at us kindly.

“Lost?” he asked.

“Come, I’ll show you the way.”

And he led us straight back to the cottage, which was no more than a minute away.

My husband tried to offer him money for helping us, and the cowherd laughed. “What will I do with that?” he asked. “God takes care of all my needs. I don’t need to buy happiness with that.”

And still laughing merrily, he went on his way.

And we unlocked the cottage door, and almost fell into its welcoming warmth and security.

ⓒ 2022 Suma Narayan. All Rights Reserved

This story is a response to a prompt from Dr. Preeti Singh

Shoutout to this exquisite combination of photographs and poetry, by Jenny Lane

to Warren "Storyteller" Brown for this eternally significant message to never give up:

and to William J Spirdione for this heartwarming piece: