They called her Gauri, for she came every Tuesday evening before sunset to stand and nibble at the hair of the Master. And the Master touched her and caressed her and he said: ‘How are you, Gauri?’ and Gauri simply bent her legs and drew back her tongue and, shaking her head, ambled round him and disappeared among the bushes. And till Tuesday next she was not to be seen. And the Master’s disciples gathered grain and grass and rice-water to give her every Tuesday, but she refused it all and took only the handful of grain the Master gave. She munched it slowly and carefully as one articulates a string of holy words, and when she had finished eating, she knelt again, shook her head and disappeared. And the Master’s disciples said, ‘This is a strange creature,’ and they went to the Cotton Street and the Mango Street, and they went by the Ginning Mills and through the Weavers’ Lines, but Gauri was nowhere to be seen. She was not even a god-dedicated cow, for never had a shop-keeper caught her eating the grams nor was she found huddled in a cattle-pound. People said, ‘Only the Master could have such strange visitors,’ and they went to the Master and said: ‘Master, can you tell us who this cow may be?’ And the Master smiled with unquenchable love and fun and he said: ‘She may be my baton-armed mother-in-law. Though she may be the mother of one of you. Perhaps she is the great Mother’s vehicle.’ And like to a mother, they put kumkum on her forehead, and till Tuesday next they waited for Gauri.

But people heard of it here and people heard of it there, and they came with grain and hay and kumkum water saying, ‘We have a strange visitor, let us honour her.’ And merchants came saying, ‘Maybe she’s Lakshmi, the Goddess, and we may make more money next harvest,’ and fell at her feet. And students came to touch her head and touch her tail, saying, ‘Let me pass the examinations this year!’ And young girls came to ask for husbands and widows to ask for purity, and the childless to ask for children. And so every Tuesday there was a veritable procession of people at the Master’s hermitage. But Gauri would pass by them all like a holy wife among men, and going straight to the Master, would nibble at his hair and disappear among the bushes. People unable to take back the untouched offerings gave them to the river and the fishes jumped to eat them as at a festival; but the crocodile had disappeared from the whirls of the deep waters. And one fine morning the Master woke in his bed to hear the snake and the rat playing under him, for when the seeker finds harmony, the jackal and the deer and the rat and the serpent become friends. And Gauri was no doubt a fervent soul who had sought the paths of this world to be born a sage in the next, for she was so compassionate and true.

There was only one other person whose hair she had nibbled — she had nibbled at the hair of Mahatma Gandhi. For the Mahatma loved all creatures, the speechful and mute.

Now at this time the Mahatma’s men were fighting in the country against the Red-men’s Government. The Mahatma said: ‘Don’t buy their cloth.’ And people did not buy their cloth. The Mahatma said: ‘Don’t serve under them.’ And people did not serve under them. And the Mahatma said: ‘Don’t pay their taxes.’ And people gathered, and bonfires were lit and processions were formed, and there were many men wounded and killed and many taken to prisons, but people would not pay taxes nor would they wear foreign clothes. And soldiers came from the cities, big men, and bearded men, with large rifles, and they said to some, ‘You shall not leave the house after sunset’; and to some, ‘You shall not ride a bicycle’; and to yet others, ‘You shall not go out of the district.’ And children carried blue cards when they were good, blue and red when they were a little wicked, and red when they were very wicked. And women could not go to the temples and marriages, and men could not go to the riverside to ease themselves in the morning. Life became intolerable and people moaned and groaned, but the Red-men’s Government would rule the country, happen what may, and make men pay more and more taxes.

Then the men in the mills and factories said, ‘We are with you, brothers,’ and the women said, ‘We are with you, sisters,’ and the whole town became a battle-ground. For, when the soldiers had passed through the streets, the workers of the mills builded barricade after barricade. With stones and bamboos and bedsteads and carts and mill-stones and granary-baskets they builded barricades, and the soldiers could not pass again. The Master came and said: ‘No barricades in the name of the Mahatma, for much blood will be spilt,’ but the workmen said, ‘It is not with, “I love you, I love you,” you can change the grinding heart of this Government.’ And they builded more and more barricades and put themselves behind these, and one day they were the masters of the town.

But the Red-men’s Government was no fool’s government. It sent for men from Peshawar and Pindi, while heavy cars were stationed at the City Gates, with guns to the left and guns to the right, and soldiers stood beside them, for the town would be taken, and cost what it might the Red-men’s Government would govern.

And, though Gauri had neither the blue card nor the red card she now came every evening to the Master; she looked very sad, and somebody had even seen a tear, clear as a drop of the Ganges, run down her cheeks, for she was of compassion infinite and true.

And people were much affrighted, and they took the women and the children to the fields beyond and they cooked food beneath the trees and lived there — for the army of the Government was going to take the town and no woman or child would be spared. And doors were closed and clothes and vessels and jewels were hidden away, and only the workmen and the men ruled the city, and the Master was the head of them all, and they called him President. Patrols of young men in khadi and Gandhi-cap would go through the streets, and when they saw the old or the miserly peeping from behind the doors they called them and talked to them and led them to the camp by the fields, for the Master said there was danger and nobody could stay but the strong and the young. Grass grew beneath the eaves and the dust of monsoon swept along the streets while the Red-men’s trains brought armies after armies, and everybody could see them, for the station was down below and the town upon a hill. Barricades lay on the streets like corpse-heaps after the last plague, but the biggest of them all was in the Suryanarayana Street. It was as big as a chariot.

Men were hid behind it and waited for the battle. But the Master said, ‘No, there shall be no battle, brothers.’ But the workmen said again, ‘It is not with, “I love you, I love you,” that you can change the grinding heart of this Government,’ and they brought picks and scythes and crowbars, and a few Mohammedans brought their swords and one or two stole rifles from the mansions, and there was a regular fighting army ready to fall on the Red-man’s men. And the Master went and said this and the Master went and said that, but the workmen said, ‘We’ll fight,’ and fight they would. So deep in despair the Master said, ‘I resign from the Presidentship,’ and he went and sat in meditation and rose into the worlds from which come light and love, in order that the city might be saved from bloodshed. And when people heard this they were greatly angered against the workmen, but they knew the workmen were right and the Master was right, and they did not know which way the eye should turn. Owls hovered about even in midday light, and when dusk fell, all the stars hung so low that people knew that that night would see the fight.

But everybody looked at the empty street-corners and said, ‘Where is she — Gauri?’

At ten that night the first war-chariots were heard to move up, and cannons and bayonets and lifted swords rushed in assault.

And what happened afterwards people remember to this very day. There she was, Gauri, striding out of the Oil Lane and turning round Copper Seenayya’s house towards the Suryanarayana Street, her head held gently bent and her ears pressed back like plaits of hair, and staggering like one going to the temple with fruits and flowers to offer to the Goddess. And she walked fast, fast, and when people saw her they ran behind her, and crowds after crowds gathered round her, and torch and lantern in hand they marched through the Brahmin Street and the Cotton Street and past the Venkatalakshamma Well, and the nearer she came to the barricades the faster she walked, though she never ran. And people said, ‘She will protect us. Now it’s sure she will save us,’ and bells were brought and rung and camphors were lit and coconuts were broken at her feet, but she neither shuddered nor did she move her head; she walked on. And the workmen who were behind the barricades, they saw this and they were sore furious with it, and they said, ‘Here, they send the cow instead of coming to help us.’ Some swore and others laughed, and one of them said, ‘We’ll fire at her, for if the crowd is here and the Red-men’s army on the other side, it will be terrible.’ But they were afraid, for the crowd chanted ‘Vandè Mataram’ and they were all uplifted and sure, and Gauri marched onwards, her eyes raised towards the barricades. And as she came near the Temple-square the workmen laid down their arms, as she came by the Tulasi Well they folded their hands, and as she was beneath the barricades they fell prostrate at her feet murmuring, ‘Goddess, who may you be?’ And they formed two rings, and between them passed Gauri, her left foreleg first, then her back right leg, once on the sand-bag, once on the cart-wheel, and with the third move men pushed her up and she was on the top of the barricades. And then came a rich whispering like a crowd at evening worship, but the Red-men’s army cried from the other side of the barricades, ‘Oh, what’s this? Oh, what’s this?’ and they rushed towards the barricades thinking it was a flag of truce. But when they saw the cow and its looks and the tear, clear as a drop of the Ganges, they shouted out, ‘Victory to the Mahatma! Mahatma Gandhi ki jai!’ and joined up with the crowd. But their chief, the Red-man, saw this and fired a shot. It went through Gauri’s head, and she fell, a vehicle of God among lowly men.

But they said blood did not gush out of the head but only between the forelegs, from the thickness of her breast.

Peace has come back to us now. Seth Jamnalal Dwarak Chand bought the two houses on either side of the barricades, cut a loop road through them, and in the middle he erected a metal statue for Gauri. Our Gauri was not so tall nor was she so stiff, for she had a very human look. But we all offer her flowers and honey and perfumed sweetmeats and the first green grass of spring. And our children jump over the railings and play between her legs, and putting their mouths to the hole in the breast — for this was made too — shout out resounding booms. And never have our carpenters had gayer times than since Gauri died, for our children do not want their baswanna-bulls but only ask for Gauris. And to this day hawkers cry them about at the railway station, chanting, ‘Gauris of Gorakhpur! Polished, varnished and on four wheels!’ and many a child from the far Himalayas to the seas of the South pulls them through the dusty streets of Hindusthan.

But even now when we light our sanctum lights at night, we say, ‘Where is she, Gauri?’ Only the Master knows where she is. He says: ‘Gauri is waiting in the Middle Heavens to be born. She will be reborn when India sorrows again before She is free.’

Therefore it is said, ‘The Mahatma may be all wrong about politics, but he is right about the fullness of love in all creatures— the speechful and the mute.’