In The Kingdom of Bovis Rex

As I write this (in my notebook) I am sitting along the ghats (river steps) by the side of the sacred Yamuna river in the Hindu holy city of Mathura, surrounded by an army of monkeys, one of whom just stole a silver trumpet from a hapless member of a red-coated marching band and absconded with it into a tree. A baby monkey just did a backflip in midair to beat its siblings to a cookie thrown by an orange-robed, dreadlocked pilgrim. The marching band is doing its utmost to restore its dignity as they have just noticed the arrival of about 25 teenage girls. Baby monkeys can jump at least 7 feet and accurately land on an area the size of a toddler's head. It takes about 9 people to eject a grown monkey from a ceremonial river boat. I know all these things because watching them happen is my job. My life is awesome, and I haven't even started to write what I sat down here to write about.

I left Delhi at an ungodly hour this morning bound for the mythical forests of Braj, the realm in which the blue-skinned superbaby Krishna fought evil princes and lifted mountains with his finger while still having time to steal girls' clothes while they bathed. Krishna, one of the most popular incarnations of Vishnu was allegedly born here in Mathura and the city is overwhelmed by the trappings of Hindu holiness. The most impressive site I visited was the fiercely contested complex where Muslim and Hindu places of worship faced eachother over a heavily guarded prison-like wall, vying for control over the ancient site whose foundations contain the simple dark stone slab on which Krishna was born. It's not much to look at, but it matters enough that the army has a permanent garrison to maintain order. Of course the forests of Braj aren't so mythical these days, replaced by endless farms on the plains with villages tightly packed every few kilometers around a decrepit factory. The train ride was comfortable but unsettling.
note: Here I have excised a lengthy passage about the train ride that largely dealt with the appaling poverty alongside the tracks. It is truly horrendous and merits inclusion in a more thoughtful and, frankly, better-written piece on that subject rather than inclusion in this more comedic post

My first impression of Mathura was its bazaar, a long stretch of utter madness which after just a week in India I already feel all too familiar with. Though swarming, the city has a much more human scale than Delhi, affording one the oppurtunity to enjoy such sights as the intricate ritual interplay of boats and cloth on the river. The city can be crossed on foot and no grand roads clog the air with fumes. I marveled that this hectic place could be but a blip on the map of Northern India.

I went outside to write because the power keeps shutting off. Though mostly the fault of ramshackle infrastructure, I have beheld that it is at least partially the fault of monkeys, who use the power lines as their personal footpaths, occasionally knocking something loose to spark to the ground, prompting witnesses to throw their hands in exasperation as a local shopkeeper pokes his head out, rolls his eyes, and sighs as he goes to fetch a ladder because it is his turn again to fix up after the damn monkeys. The inhabitants of Mathura must be forbidden to harm monkeys (as I believe most Hindus are) because otherwise the adorable little bastards would all be dead after all the mischief they get into.

Try as they might, the monkeys will never rule this place. Sovereignty was long ago unconditionally and perpetually ceded to the cows.

I was passing through a narrow walkway at the side of the bazaar when I suddenly felt two hard objects pushing against the rear of my thighs. I turned to see a white humpnecked cow with its horns leveled at my posterior. The cow surged forwards, pushing me down the street upon its horns. It raised its head, lifting me off my heels so that I had to quickly tiptoe to maintain pace and balance and avoid being flipped...or worse. I felt a most unpleasant sensation. As the cow's horns pressed into my thighs I could feel those organs usually located between my thighs being pushed forcefully into my abdomen by the cow's head, my precious jewels coming to a most cursed equilibrium nestled between the beast's eyes. There is no knowledge on this Earth so terrible as the realization that one's scrotum can feel a cow blink. For five more yards I was gripped with fear, initially out of the obvious concern for the wellbeing of my manhood, but then even more I feared what the crowd might do to me, for I was essentially teabagging the physical manifestation of God.

The cows of Mathura defy man with impunity. Roaming the city by the thousands, they amble brazenly through open doors and into stairwells, making their way to landings and even balconies where they sit smug and indolent, knowing that they sit where they sit and everyone can just deal with it. Bovis Rex, King of the Streets.

Cows rule everything around me
C.R.E.A.M
Get the money
Rupee rupee bill y'all