BY KAVITHA REDDY GOYAL
Copyright is held by the author.
THE SUPER Chancellor of Multonia and his administration visited the smaller nation of Parvia. When the Multonian officials met their Parvian counterparts to prepare the agenda for the heads, the Multonian delegate heard tell of a little speck of a village in Parvia where an ancient woman lived on practically nothing. No one knew her origin, or how she came to live in a house made of uranium and cobalt. Iridium, plutonium, rhodium, and diamonds the size of black walnuts had been discovered on her grounds as well.
A Multonian minister rubbed his eyes. “Cobalt? Did you say . . . uranium?”
A Parvian minister replied, “Full of valuable minerals and gems. And she has the cow.”
“A cow?”
“The old woman is wealthy beyond compare.”
“Hmf.” The Multonian’s eyebrows knit together as he considered this fresh opportunity for acquisition. He was jet-lagged (despite the zero-gravity, time-travel Lear jet) and listless from the tropical climate. Parvia, the weaker nation, could sell the minerals to Multonia’s long-standing rival across the great waste-fill. And the Multonian couldn’t let that happen. “What do you know of this supposed wealth?”
The Parvian spoke with an erudite head dip to the side. “She has it all. She never married and has no children. She never becomes ill or feels lonely. If a neighbour brings her a meal, she eats. She feels a serene satisfaction with the way of things.”
“A fluffy yarn you’re weaving.”
“Naturally, the source of her wealth is the cow.”
The Multonian was properly fed up. “I want to see this, whatever it is, for myself! Tomorrow morning, early, before we fly out.”
“As you wish.” The host minister concluded with a bow, and left to attend to the arrangements.
Later, the Super Chancellor accosted his man. “When were you going to get around to telling me about this garden full of uranium and a rich cow somewhere in the infernal middle of this blighted nowhere?”
He demanded to see the old woman, and her cow, immediately.
As word spread that the official meeting between the two nations was cancelled, the people of Parvia, who had hoped opportunities in their country would improve, were very disappointed.
A security kerfuffle ensued as staff scurried to arrange transport to the remote village. Adding to the hullabaloo, the cow posed logistical difficulties as it was not known how a ruminant would handle weightlessness or the tesseracting of time. So how could they transport it on the Lear jet back to Multonia?
The Super Chancellor, flanked by minions on either side, stepped out of the sleek tank onto the grassy courtyard of a modest yet sturdy-looking home built of unidentifiable materials. He stopped and stared up. A tree of monumental proportions with a trunk of peeling grey bark, broader than the road, and heart-shaped leaves lent cool shade to the yard. Aerial roots hung down in all directions.
“What’s that?” the Leader barked.
“That’s the ancient Peepal tree, Your Excellency,” said the Minister from Parvia. “It’s close to 2,000 years old. It exchanges impurities in our air with the Breath of Life.”
Like ants fighting over a sliver of cake, the Multonians milled about, charging into the house, investigating, stripping.
A gentle brown cow nibbled grass a few feet from the front path, on occasion lifting her enormous eyes to observe their progress. Their Chancellor, who heretofore had been blustering orders nonstop, quieted and sauntered aimlessly. He eventually noticed a tiny, wizened old woman in a white tunic seated on a stone ledge between the tree’s canopy and the southern wall of the house.
The Super Chancellor stood in front of her. “We’re taking your cow.”
Meanwhile the staff were efficiently dismantling the house.
“And your house.”
The old woman’s glassy black eyes watched beneath unperturbed white brows. She spoke in a whisper-soft voice. One of the Parvians translated, “She said she doesn’t know who you are, but you are welcome to have whatever it is you desire. She has no need for it.”
She spoke again, to say the entire entourage was invited for a feast. She wanted to share her contentment with the guests.
In due course, the entire house had been packed. The cow was stowed into a large van with vents. A new crew arrived to begin to dig up the land.
Next to where they toiled, under the Peepal’s expansive arms, endless portions of tantalizing local fare appeared on a long table. The people of Multonia munched and smiled, as if drunk. The local people also feasted, though aggrieved that the providential cow was being taken. No one spoke. Except when they translated what the old woman said: “You must not disturb the tree.”
The visiting Multonian Minister, heady with air of unparalleled oxygenation, said, “Of course, no need to take the tree.”
The autocrat turned to him and snickered. He was about to say, “already got the minerals and the cow!” but he forgot, and the words never made it out of his mouth. Instead, he beamed agreeably and ate more food.
Satiated, the Super Chancellor and his man took a turn about the remaining grassy area between the Peepal’s trunk and aerial roots.
He said, “Funny, I don’t remember why we came here.”
“Odd, I don’t either,” the Minister replied. “Shall we go home now?”
After a brief period of languid indecision, the Multonians departed with all they had stolen. The old woman returned to her Lotus position on the stone wall, her face tranquil, her breathing slow. She wished for nothing.
The gleaming truck pulled away from the peaceful oasis; the jet sped across the divide. Away from the clarity of the Breath of Life, everyone returned to their usual way of thinking.
The cow never got to taste the grass of Multonia (indeed large mammals hadn’t ambled its farms for some time), but it was said to have yielded delectable cuts of meat. Even as tales of wealth amplified, spoils were used up for weapons and entertainment. Officials were lambasted and told to scour other countries for minerals, gems, cows, anything.
The source of wealth was not the cow, nor pure air, nor rare earth.
The people, with so much, had not understood that true wealth is the absence of desire.
***
Kavitha Reddy Goyal was born in India and raised in Ireland and the northeastern U.S. She recently transitioned from a 30-year career in medicine and the biopharmaceutical industry, and is enjoying working on a novel. Her short stories have been in Story Quilt, Empyrean Literary, Schuylkill Valley Journal, and a companion set will appear in serial editions of Novellum Magazine. She lives in the Philadelphia area, and loves to explore nature and the humanities in her free time.