The Road of the Hollow Cow

In the sweltering summer of 1972, my grandmother, Lakshmi, set out on a journey that would etch itself into the marrow of our family’s bones. Her destination was her sister’s home, a day’s walk through the dense, untamed forest that separated their villages. With her were her three children: Savitri, the eldest at twelve; Meera, barely eight; and little Raghava, just two, whom she carried on her hip. They had no choice but to walk, for there were no buses, no carts, only the winding footpath that locals swore was safe.

They started at dawn, the forest floor cool and damp beneath their feet. Lakshmi had packed a pouch of flattened rice, some jaggery, and a clay pot of water. They would rest under the giant banyan trees, sharing the meager food, listening to the calls of unseen birds. The first few hours were pleasant, the canopy filtering the sun, but by midday, the heat became oppressive, and Raghava grew heavy in her arms.

It was past noon when they came upon the cow. It stood in the middle of the path, blocking their way. It was a gaunt, skeletal creature, the kind that looked like it had been starved for weeks. Its ribs pressed against its hide, and its eyes were dull, almost milky. Lakshmi hesitated, for something felt wrong. Cows were sacred, and harming them was unthinkable, but this one seemed to be waiting for them, its head lowered as if in mourning.

‘Move aside,’ Lakshmi said softly, but the cow did not budge. It just stood there, its breath coming in slow, raspy heaves. Savitri tugged at her mother’s sari. ‘Amma, I don’t like this. Let’s go around.’ So they did, veering off the path to circumvent the animal. As they passed, Lakshmi felt a chill run down her spine, as if the cow’s milky eyes had followed them, and its tail gave a slow, deliberate flick.

They walked on, but the forest seemed to close in around them. The familiarity of the path was gone, replaced by an eerie stillness. Even the birds fell silent. Meera clutched her mother’s saree, and Raghava, who had been whimpering, grew quiet, his face buried in Lakshmi’s shoulder. The trees seemed taller, their branches like gnarled fingers reaching down.

It was then that they saw the second cow. It was identical to the first—same gaunt frame, same milky eyes—standing at another bend in the trail. This time, it was facing them, and as they approached, it let out a low, mournful moo that seemed to resonate in their bones. Lakshmi’s heart hammered. ‘We’ll go around again,’ she said, her voice trembling. But as they stepped off the path, the cow moved, its head turning with an unnatural swiftness to track them. It did not follow, but its gaze was fixed on them until they disappeared among the trees.

They walked aimlessly for hours, the path twisting and turning in ways it never had before. The sun began to dip, casting long, sinister shadows. Savitri cried out, pointing ahead. There, beneath a massive peepal tree, stood the cow again, waiting. Behind it, the path forked into two, both branches disappearing into thick darkness. Lakshmi knew they had to choose, but the cow’s presence seemed to point to the left fork, its head tilted as if urging them.

Desperate, Lakshmi decided to take the right fork, hoping to avoid the cow’s influence. But no sooner had they taken a step than the cow let out a chilling bellow, a sound so full of anguish that it shook them all. Then, in a blur, it charged. Lakshmi grabbed her children and ran, crashing through the undergrowth, thorns tearing at their clothes. Behind them, the cow’s hooves thundered, and then—silence.

They stopped, gasping, and turned. The cow was gone, but they were hopelessly lost. The forest had grown darker, and the trees seemed to watch them. And then they heard it—a sound that would haunt Lakshmi for the rest of her life. From deep within the woods, the cow’s moo echoed, but this time it was not a single voice. It was many, a chorus of hollow, anguished cries that seemed to surround them. Through the trees, they saw dozens of skeletal cows, their milky eyes glowing faintly, all facing them, all letting out that same mournful sound.

Lakshmi fell to her knees, pulling her children close. ‘Don’t look,’ she whispered. ‘Cover your ears.’ They huddled together, trembling, as the cries grew louder, closer. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. When Lakshmi dared to open her eyes, the cows were gone, and the path lay clear ahead, bathed in the last light of day. They stumbled forward, and within an hour, they reached the edge of the forest, the familiar village sights a welcome relief.

They never spoke of that day again. But Lakshmi, now ancient and grey, would sometimes wake in the night, drenched in cold sweat, reliving the moment she saw the hollow eyes of the cows. And she would whisper to herself, ‘We should have never walked that road.’ The villagers say that on certain nights, when the moon is full, the moaning of cattle can be heard from deep within the forest, a sound that strikes terror into the hearts of all who hear it. They say it is the curse of the hollow cow, a spirit that preys on travelers, leading them astray, feeding on their fear. And those who survive, like my grandmother, carry its mark forever—a shadow in their eyes that never quite fades.