“Rani’s Ramp Walk- Cow's fashion show story by Jitu Das Short stories
Rani's Catwalk
Gobindapur, a quiet little village just outside Pathsala, glinted in dawn's sable hushed light. Softly rising over the fields of Bajali, the sun spilled gold over Gobindapur at Pathsala, only for the last day before Bohag Bihu, specifically Goru Bihu; fresh banana leaves and turmerics are already stirring in the cool, damp comfort of earth after dawn in the air. The whole village hummed with activity.
In a modest cowshed hidden behind his own house, Rupam Kalita, an untiring farmer of 45 years, was brushing his cow, Rani, with slow, even strokes. Basically, she is not an ordinary cow. Rani has been the witness of all his fights against nature — floods, drought, poor crop yields, and inadequate harvests; of his delights and quiet heartbreaks. Her milk had fed his kids; she had grounded him in ways words never could.
However, a unique thing was happening this year.
For the first time, the village organized a cow fashion show, inspired by a nearby Bajali show and even featured in the local papers. Every cow will be washed with the traditional black gram paste, dressed up with garlands and bells, and brought down a bamboo ramp. No prizes — just to pay homage to the cows' silent and enduring role in village life.
Rupam only laughed when he heard it—for he really found it hard to believe. "Garu a rampot jabo niki! Anekua ki sunisu." (Really? What have I heard !) he said, shaking his head as he mixed the feed.
But Mina, his wife, only smiled at him while tying a knot in her hair, casting a warm look at Rani. "Protibosor lau bengnare,natun paghare joriyate dhonyobaad janau. Eibar Ranik sakolore agat dekhuai ahok" (By rituals, every year we have expressed our thanks to them.
No rebuttal made Rupam deep down not certain. He simply wasn't someone who liked attention-the worst being at the Naamghar. What if something were to go wrong? What if people laughed?
That was the night when he rubbed a bit of turmeric over Rani's skin, paused for a little while when memories came in flood, the heartbreaking memories of floods, of tilling ruined lands, of walking beside Rani-all with a soaked body but not giving up. He recollected how his father would say quietly with pride:
"Manuhor gourav sonot nohoi - matit thake, aru jijor jibo taar logot iman bosor khate". ("A man's pride is not in any wealth- rather it is in the earth-and with the creature, which toils with him, through the passing of years").
It was like a festival on the next day, at Gobindapur. The air was filled with the sound of dhol and pepa. Children raced around barefoot, women flowing in mekhela sadors streaked colors, and the Naamghar courtyard dazzled through banana leaves and flowers. At the center stood a modest bamboo ramp, glowing in the morning sun.
Now she was all set. She almost looked majestic — a clean gamosa draped on her back, around her neck repeated wreaths of marigold and small red sindoor dots on her horns, applied so lovingly by Mina.
As they summoned her to the stage, Rupam gulped. His palms were sweating, but he whispered through gritted teeth, "Ja Rani... aguai ja. Aji toi mor gourav." ("Come on, girl…show us. Today, you are my pride.")
And Rani - she did not falter. She walked down the ramp like she knew it was hers and only hers. Steady, untroubled, and graceful.
Then there was applause. Someone was clapping above the dhol. A girl nearer the front turned to her friend: "Seya saw, kenekoi ja! Ekebare Rani'r dore." ("Look at that one! She walks like a queen!") It was loud and clear.
Rupam heard it, and a lump rose in his throat. He had never been after recognition. But that day someone had seen the quiet majesty that Rupam had always seen within Rani.
This evening, after the Husori had ended and the air smelled of jaggery and firewood inside the house, Rupam sat by Rani with the ramp behind them, stars shining above. He fed her puffed rice mixed with jaggery, her favorite, and stroked her lightly.
"Dhonyobaad, Rani. Aji noi moi gorbita." (Thank you, Rani. You made me feel proud today.)
It was not really about the competition; it was about exposure - not just Rani but everything she represented; love, beauty, loyalty, resilience, and the silent companionship that a farmer and his cow could ever understand.
That day, it was not the fame or riches on display.
Instead, it had glowed softly on a bamboo ramp, on a farmer, his cow, and a bond built in silence through many seasons of toil and trust.
Read other stories by Jitu Das
Assamese Soulfood: Memory, Medicine, and the Rituals That Raised Us
Assamese Culture Through Food and Ritual | Ancestral Wisdom and Identity
🥣 Food That Holds Memory, Not Just Flavor
Take Khar, for instance. You won’t find it in most cookbooks. It’s not pretty or complicated. But it’s ours. It smells like Sunday mornings and tastes like childhood.
I once asked my grandmother why she made it so often. She said quietly,
“Khar khua tu petor karone bhaal. Eitu hol prokritiye diya upahar. Aamar biswax anujai, khare pet safa kore, gasor samasya komai, aru xorir uporat ek dhoronor poriskar prabhav thake.”
(Good for the body. A gift from nature. According to our people’s beliefs, Khar cleans the stomach, helps reduce gastric problems, and has a cleansing effect on the body.)
No branding. No trend. Just something that came from the land and stayed in our blood.
🕯️ Bihu: When the Land and Heart Dance Together
Come Bihu, and Assam bursts into color, music, and the scent of fresh pithas. But Bihu isn’t just celebration—it’s prayer, harvest, memory, and movement.
“My elders used to say, dancing Bihu isn’t just for joy—it’s a way to align our bodies with the earth’s rhythm, to ask the land for a good harvest, and to shake off old sorrow.”
And when the meji is lit during Magh Bihu, the flames don’t just warm the winter air. They burn away the old, the tired, the unspoken, and invite renewal.
🗣️ The Hidden Wisdom in Assamese Words
Some Assamese words don’t quite translate. They carry entire histories in a syllable.
“When someone says ‘iman xohoj nohoi,’ they’re not just saying ‘it’s difficult’—they’re saying life takes patience, resilience, and surrender.”
We speak in poetry without realizing it.
🍲 Kitchen as Temple: Grandma’s Medicine and Meals
I still remember the sound of the bonti slicing ginger in my grandmother’s kitchen. The way she would add a pinch of black pepper, not for taste, but for healing.
One winter morning, I watched her make paro mangkho (pigeon curry), her hands working from memory.
“Paro mangkho jodi khao, sardi laga bhal hoy.”
(If you eat pigeon meat in winter, it’s good for colds and fever.)
Food wasn’t just sustenance. It was care. It was tradition whispered through spices.
🌿 The Rooted Soul
Culture isn’t something we visit in museums. It’s in how our grandmothers stir the pot. In the songs that carry our grief. In the words we speak without thinking yet feel in our bones.
Assamese culture lives in moments we almost forget to notice—like the way Khar settles your stomach, or how Bihu reminds your body to move with joy. These are not just traditions. They are survival stories passed down as lullabies, recipes, and dances.
If this piece stirred something in you—maybe a forgotten memory or the urge to call home—then let that feeling lead you back. Back to the roots. Back to the rhythm. Back to yourself.
Written by Jitu Das | Explore more cultural stories at www.jitudas.com
Why Writing Is the Most Powerful Tool for Self-Discovery and Healing
Why Writing Is the Most Powerful Tool for Self-Discovery | Jitu Das
Explore how writing can become your most powerful tool for healing, self-awareness, and transformation. Learn why the act of writing is a sacred path back to your truest self.
“You don’t find yourself by chasing validation or scrolling through someone else’s life.
You find yourself by listening—really listening—to your own voice. And writing? That’s how you hear it.”
I Didn’t Plan to Be a Writer. I Just Needed to Breathe.
I never set out to become a writer. Honestly, I just had too many thoughts—and nowhere safe to put them. Talking didn’t help. Thinking made it worse.
But a blank page? That felt like home.
Over the years, I’ve learned something beautiful and a little haunting: writing isn’t just a creative outlet—it’s a mirror. It shows you what you’ve been hiding. It holds up the truth, even when you’re not ready to see it. And sometimes, it hands you clarity so sharp it slices through all the noise.
✍️ Writing Is Free Therapy (With No Appointment Required)
You don’t need a degree or a perfect pen. Just a little honesty. Yes, writing is free and it's priceless when it comes to give you a great feeling.
Journaling saved me—on the days when I couldn’t explain what I was feeling, when nothing else made sense.
It gave me space to rage. To unravel. To remember.
And over time, it helped me see the loops I was stuck in—the same stories I kept retelling myself, again and again.
That awareness? That was the beginning of healing.
Tip for deeper journaling: Write when you’re exhausted. Write when you’re emotional. That’s when the truth leaks out—raw and real.
💬 Writing Unlocks What Words Can’t Always Say
Have you ever tried explaining your feelings and ended up sounding… awkward?
Yeah, me too.
But when I write, the words spill. No filter. No stutter.
I’ve cried over letters to my younger self—not because they were pretty, but because they were honest.
That’s the gift of writing: it lets you grieve without being interrupted. It lets you forgive, reflect, and celebrate, all without needing applause.
🌀 Real Writing Is Messy—and That’s What Makes It Magical
Forget grammar. Forget outlines.
Some of the most transformative things I’ve ever written were total chaos. But they were real. And that’s what mattered.
It doesn’t need to be a blog post. It can be:
-
A note in your phone at 3 AM
-
A love letter you never send
-
A rant on the back of a bill
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Or a journal entry that starts with “I don’t even know what I’m feeling…”
Pro tip: Don’t aim to impress. Just aim to express.
🔑 Ready to Explore Yourself Through Writing? Start Here:
Use these writing prompts to go deeper:
-
Write a letter to your future self. Be bold, be kind, be brutally honest.
-
Describe the hardest moment of your life—without using the word “hard.”
-
Write about your happiest memory. Then ask: what does this say about your values?
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Try “Morning Pages” for 7 days: 3 pages, free-flow, no editing. Just let it out.
💡 Why This Matters (Even If You’re Not a Writer)
You don’t need to be an author or a poet. You just need to be willing to express your heart out.
Because the truth is, your story—the messy, unfiltered, real one—is the most important story you’ll ever tell.
Not to the world.
To yourself. To express the hidden thoughts that keeps you thinking.
And maybe your writing won’t go viral.
Maybe no one will read it.
But if it brings you back to yourself—even just a little—that’s a win.
So go ahead.
Now Grab a pen. Or your phone. Or that half-empty notebook that you already have on ypur desk.
Because your soul has something to say.
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Jitu Das
“Find the right frequency that resonates with your soul.”
Assamese writer. Observer of life. Capturing thoughts, stories, and reflections with a touch of soul.