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Bhartiya MOAB: Mother of All Bhakts

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Dear cow, I love you.

Yes, I mean it. I would never like to be beaten to death or lynched or hanged from a branch of a mango tree.

Dear cow, how gentle you are! How beautiful! But how dangerous your love may grow! How fanatic your lover may turn!

Look at your tail, holy cow, how it swings when you try to flick the flies away off your ass. It makes your lovers crazy. Like a beautiful girl swinging her arms, mesmerizing her lover!

Your gentle harmonious walk. Oh! Who wouldn’t be happy to kill in your holy name?

And the sound of your burp, the melody of holy rivers from the times of satyuga! Time goes but the belch remains.

But the belch of your sons smells of blood.

Holy cow, have you ever noticed your beautiful big eyes when you drink from the mud? The affection and the love and the care of a mother and kind of fear in a corner, not for yourself but for your children, lest they be arrested for beating, murdering, butchering, parading humans naked in the same streets where your take a nap in the middle of road.

Dear cow, I love you!

Yes I remember, one of your most enthusiastic sons boasts of keeping her human mother in eight by eight foot room though he is now the king. I wonder what kind of boast this is. And one day we found that frail lady in a line outside local bank for rupee 4000, and the son came to you with gifts and praises for your holiness.

Dear cow, it really hurts when a son of yours, the cunning Mr. Bhakt, offers paeans, sings hymns, day in and day out, but then sends you to old age homes, the Gaushalas when you are useless. You gentle cow turn into a burden to your child. Some smuggle you in crammed trucks to east or more east or far east. And some even own industries of your flesh for west or more west or far west.

Dear cow, I love you, and I speak the truth.

Your holiness knows, we breathe in our beloved India, which was always known as a country of diversities, you see, it is now also known as the country of suicides and saints, rapes and yogis, minerals and corruption, revolutions and religions, and riots. Dear cow, now it is also known as the country of cows. Bulls are not included, we respect women.

Dear cow, but the discrimination with your race can bring anyone to tears. The doctors prescribe your milk, for fat is lesser in it than that in black-buffalo. That’s okay. But the respect, love and fame that you are earning now a days in newsrooms and dailies and social media, are just burning that black creature with jealousy. You know we don’t discriminate on the basis of color, you know it, right? Why not! For thousands of years we are painfully accommodating southern niggers and migrants from Somalia, China and Bangladesh. We must be exceptionally great.

Dear cow, it is not the time for complaints and beefs and moans but the mischief your naughty kids are making is tremendous, if not much, at least more brutal than skinning a dead you, or keeping some meat out of you in one’s freeze. They are killing in your name. They are creating an air of fear. They are selling you hole sale in the market of hate and violence and votes and surely, in packets to abroad.

Dear cow, I know you are Mother Of All Bhakts and hence I consider your authority. I request you to teach your kids to act human. Please let them know falsehood fails and truth wins and prevails.

Cowly Yours,

Your nephew.

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