The Matriculation Miracle

The other day, while waiting at a roadside tea stall in Bhubaneswar, I overheard a man defend the practice of letting his cow roam the streets, clogging traffic and occasionally giving automobile drivers a nightmare. His reasoning was odd but delivered with conviction:

“Cows nowadays prefer the road,” he explained. “The fumes from automobiles drive away mosquitoes, so they enjoy a far more comfortable stay on the road than in a cowshed. Besides, if the Supreme Court can affirm the right of stray dogs to live on the streets, why not the right of holy cows? Are they less sacred?”

I had no answer. More importantly, I did not want to get entangled in an argument and end up branded a cow-antagonist. However, his words carried me back in memory to a different time when cattle were not left to fend for themselves on highways but returned dutifully each evening to their cowsheds.

In my high school days, every evening was marked by the sight of cows, calves, and bullocks streaming back from the fields, their bells tinkling softly around their necks. It was a village rhythm as sure as the sunset. If one animal failed to return, the family that owned it would not touch dinner until the missing creature was traced and brought back.

That was the custom. A cow, especially a bullock that provided strength for ploughing and carting, was as much a member of the family as any child. Losing one was not just an economic blow; it was considered a calamity, a breach of the moral order.

One summer evening, in a neighbouring household, a bullock did not come back. At first, the family assumed it had overgrazed somewhere and would soon wander in. But as the night deepened, anxiety rose. Lanterns were lit, and men and boys fanned out along the fields, the railway track, and the riverbank.

The search went on until midnight. Finally, the searchers returned empty-handed, their clothes clinging with dew. Everyone sat down to dinner except the head of the household, who silently pushed away his plate. His fast was an act of responsibility—he would not eat until the animal was back under his roof.

The next day dawned with more hope. The men scoured the countryside, some even walking to the nearby cattle fair, checking if a thief was selling the bullock. Again, nothing. The head of the house still refused food, lips parched but resolve firm.

On the third day, clouds gathered and rain lashed the village. Search parties trudged through mud, their torches dimmed by thunder and lightning. In the evening, exhausted and wet, they returned empty-handed once again. This time, the priest was consulted. He suggested a “relay fast”: the burden of abstinence could be passed from one family member to another so that the head of the household did not collapse. His wife took the baton and continued the vigil.

By now, whispers had started: “Perhaps the bullock has been stolen.” “Perhaps it fell into a ditch.” Finally, someone suggested visiting a famous astrologer, twenty kilometres away.

So, with nothing to lose, the bullock’s owner set off. The astrologer received him with a knowing smile, as though he had been expecting the visit. Without asking a single question, he declared:

“Your bullock is in the deep forest, tied to a sal tree. It has not eaten for three days. Go northwest, walk for two hours, and you shall find it.”

The man was astonished. No astrologer had ever spoken with such certainty. He felt like scoffing, but desperation has a way of lowering scepticism. He set out in the indicated direction, and after four kilometres—Eureka! There was his bullock, tethered exactly as described, hungry but alive.

The village celebrated. The astrologer’s reputation soared; his name was whispered in reverence, as though he were part prophet, part detective.

But the story did not end with the bullock.

In the next house lived a poor family with three children who, year after year, failed their matriculation examinations. The eldest would stumble in mathematics, the middle one in Sanskrit, and English was a common graveyard for all three. Their father was a man worn down by poverty and disappointment. Only the previous year, he had sold a cow to pay their exam fees.

When they heard of the miraculous bull recovery, the children’s ears pricked up. Two of them—a nineteen-year-old boy and his eighteen-year-old sister—decided that the astrologer must be consulted. If they were destined to fail again, better to know beforehand than waste their father’s meagre savings.

The third sibling scoffed. “I’d rather fail for the seventeenth time than waste more money on an astrologer,” he declared. But the brother and sister were determined.

So, one bright morning, they borrowed a sturdy bicycle. The brother pedalled, his youthful frame strong, his soft moustache waiting for its first shave. The sister perched on the front rod of the bicycle frame, clutching her satchel. The twenty-kilometre ride was long but not daunting for young legs filled with hope.

They arrived at the astrologer’s modest house, breathless but expectant. Before they could even narrate their woes, the astrologer fixed them with a piercing gaze and spoke in a booming voice:

“Why do you come to me after committing the forbidden act—even before marriage? If you love each other, that is one thing. But why indulge in what is forbidden?”

The words fell like stones. At first, the siblings were bewildered. But when the astrologer repeated his accusation, the meaning was clear—and shame scorched them. They, instead of protesting the false charge, leapt onto their bicycle, eager to escape.

From behind came the astrologer’s indignant cry:
“You haven’t paid my fee of one rupee and four annas, which I would have used to perform your expiation!”

The boy and girl fled home, shaken to the core. Whatever the astrologer had seen or imagined, his words pierced them. They turned their embarrassment into fuel. From that day, they studied with renewed determination, spending long nights over lantern-lit books.

When the results came, something astonishing happened: all three children passed. For the first time, not one but all of them cleared their matriculation. Neighbours who had written them off as hopeless were stunned. Their father, who had expected another year of failure, wept with relief.

Looking back, I wonder what the true miracle was. The astrologer’s uncanny description of the missing bullock? Or the shock he delivered to two desperate siblings, which pushed them to prove him wrong?

Perhaps both. Perhaps neither. But one thing is clear: faith—whether in cattle, custom, or even an astrologer’s cryptic words—can sometimes nudge people towards unexpected strength.

And so the story circles back to the present, where cows still roam the streets, no longer bound by custom or cowshed, while motorists swerve around them with curses under their breath. Times have changed. But memories of a fasting father, a found bullock, and three improbable passes remind me that belief, however misplaced, can shape destinies.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar

13-09-2025

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