BY:� Shashi Kadapa ����
In Kannada - Gooli is an Ox, left as an offering to the village deity. No one dares enslave it no one dares beat it. It can do what it likes, forage where it likes. Every village had its Gooli. But ours was special, it was berated and extolled, depending on its latest pranks. Over the years it had grown massive, with the dewlap thick, its mean temper topped by two sharp and brass tipped horns, which ensured a free passage everywhere. A bell tied around its thick neck, when it was still a calf, usually gave us villagers enough warning of its approach and the wary/lucky ones sought cover.
It began its day by heading to the village market, where the fresh produce was bartered and just dug in. Why, the other day, poor Kamala, the vegetable seller, had her basket full of cabbage, gobbled up. And poor Bhimya had his fresh jaggery worth at least a mound of jowar, eaten by the animal.
No one dared lay hands on it. For it was the bull of the gods.
Late mornings saw it drifting to the fields, where the standing crop was ruthlessly pillaged. The poor farmer - all he could do was, bang on the dholak or drum in a vain attempt to scare it off. And of course, when the seasonal urge got into it, the milch cows where always around.
Not that we villagers grudged the Gooli a morsel or its divine rights. It was our mascot and our protector. When Gangavva's daughter, Yelli, was getting married, just as the avaricious groom was demanding a bag of jowar as extra dowry before entering into wedlock, in comes rushing our mascot with horns shaking & steam coming from its nostrils, warning the groom, not to take our girls for granted. The terror stricken groom went down on his knees, begging forgiveness. Yelli is now the proud mother of four girls and expecting her fifth, which she hopes will be a boy. She has even propiated the Gooli with a full block of jaggery. When the first crop of harvest was reaped, the gooli invariably would make its rounds to all the farms, demanding its share. The first jaggery 'penti' or cube was set-aside for it.
Then there was the time our village headman, the Gowda, drunk on arrack, mistook the supine Gooli, for his mistress Kenchi and tried to get a feel. Never had the Gowda run so fast, with his Dhoti flapping, revealing not so clean underwear, with the bull in hot pursuit and the whole village cheering it on. After all one could not laugh at the bully every day, without fear of retribution.
No marriage, festival or Puja, could be started, without the Gooli's presence. It would curl up in front of the venue, chewing cud and watching the activities. The first prasad was always to be given to it or woe betides?. That is why our village priest or pujari, still limps, after being gored in the haunches, after he deliberately ignored the animal and did not offer it, what was its due during the rath yatra.
And when, my younger sister was due and my mother was being taken to the hospital in the neighboring village, it was the Gooli, who followed our bullock cart, bellowing reassuringly, when my mother's groans were too loud. She always had some nice tidbits for him, whenever he showed up at our house. And he remembered the small acts of kindness.
Our village had the annual jatra or fair. Other than 'providing a forum for mutual exchange of commerce or bartering', the main attraction was arrack or country liquor.