The Indian “Cow Science” exam originally scheduled to be held on the 25th was announced to be postponed indefinitely. “India Express” reported on the 23rd that the day after Kadilia, the chairman of the Indian Government’s Milk Cow Welfare Agency (RKA), left his post on the 20th, the “oxology” exam was announced to be postponed.
According to reports, during Cardilla’s two-year tenure, his own remarks on “cow science” have repeatedly caused controversy. He once said, “In order to achieve the goal of India’s GDP reaching 5 trillion U.S. dollars by 2024, the 194,000 cows in India will play an important role. Even if cows do not produce milk, their feces are precious. If we use them, India’s entire economy will be on track.”
In addition, under the leadership of Kadilia, RKA even published a 54-page “Cow Science” exam reference material on its official website. The topics included Indian cows are better than foreign cows because Indian cows “have emotional perception” and slaughter cows. The “connection” with the earthquake, the “superiority” of Indian dairy cows compared to foreign breeds, and the benefits of cow dung have caused an uproar on the Internet.
Although Kadilia’s sudden resignation and examination delays surprised many people, according to sources, many people in the Indian government were dissatisfied with Kadilia’s previous remarks, which they believed were “promoting pseudoscience.” .
had bought ten years ago Johann Veraguth Roßhalde and respect, she was a dilapidated old manor house with unkept garden paths, moss-covered bench seats, crumbling steps and an impenetrably overgrown park was, and at that time there were at most eight acres of land no other buildings as the beautiful, somewhat dilapidated mansion with the stable and a small temple-like summer house in the park, the portal of which hung crookedly on bent hinges and on whose walls, once papered with blue silk, moss and mold grew.
Immediately after buying the property, the new owner tore down the dilapidated temple and left only the ten old stone steps that lead from the threshold of this corner of love to the edge of the Led down ponds. At the time, Veraguth’s studio was built in place of the parking garage, and he had painted here for seven years and spent most of his days, but had his apartment over in the manor house until the increasing disagreements in his family had led him to see his older son remove and send to foreign schools, leave the manor house to the wife and servants and add two rooms to the studio for his own needs, where he has lived like a bachelor since then. It was a shame about the beautiful manorial house; Frau Veraguth only needed the upper floor with the seven-year-old Pierre, she received visitors and guests, but never larger company, and so a number of rooms were empty year in and year out.
Little Pierre was not only the darling of both parents and the only bond between father and mother that maintained a kind of communication between the manor house and the studio house; he was actually the only master and owner of the Roßhalde. Mr. Veraguth lived exclusively in his studio and the area around the forest lake as well as the former game park, his wife ruled over in the house, she owned the lawn, the linden garden and the chestnut garden, and each spoke in the other’s territory only rarely and as a guest Apart from meals, which the painter usually ate in the manor house. Little Pierre was the only one who did not recognize this separation of life and the division of territories and who hardly knew about it. He ran into and out of the old and new houses without any worries, he was just as at home in the studio and in his father’s library as in the corridor and picture room over there or in his mother’s rooms, he owned the strawberries in the chestnut garden, the flowers in the linden garden, the fish in the forest lake, the bathing hut, the gondola. and they spoke French, and portraits of the boy, paintings and photographs, hung in the father’s bedroom as in the old house in the light-colored papered rooms of the mother. Pierre had it very well, he was even better off than children whose parents are on good terms; there was no program for his upbringing, and if the ground ever got hot in maternal territory, the area around the forest lake offered him a safe refuge.
He had long been to bed and at eleven o’clock the last bright window in the manor house had gone out. Then, late after midnight, Johann Veraguth came back from town on foot alone, where he and friends had spent the evening in the tavern. As he walked through the mild, cloudy early summer night, the atmosphere of wine and smoke, heated laughter and daring jokes had fallen from him; he consciously breathed the slightly tense, warm, moist night air and walked attentively on the road between already high, dark grain fields towards the Roßhalde , whose high tops stood tall and still in the pale night sky.
He passed the entrance of the estate without entering, looked for a moment at the manor house, the light facade of which shimmered nobly and enticingly against the black tree darkness, and for several minutes looked at the beautiful picture with the enjoyment and strangeness of a passing hiker; then he walked a few hundred paces along the high hedge to the point where he had prepared a way through and a secret forest path to the studio. With alert senses, the sturdy little man strode through the dark, wooded, overgrown park to his home, which suddenly lay in front of him, where the treetop darkness over the lake appeared to be stretched out and the dull gray sky was visible in the wide circle.
The little lake stood almost black in complete silence, just like an infinitely thin skin or fine dust the weak light lay over the water. Veraguth looked at the clock, it was soon one. He unlocked a side door of the small building that led into his living room. Here he lit a candle and quickly took off his clothes, stepped outside naked and slowly descended the broad, flat stone steps into the water, which flashed fleetingly in small, soft rings in front of his knees. He went under, swam a short distance into the lake, suddenly felt the tiredness after an unaccustomed evening, turned back and stepped into the house, dripping. He threw on a shaggy bathrobe, brushed the water from his close-cropped hair and walked barefoot up a few steps to the studio, an enormous, almost empty room, where he immediately turned on all the electric lights with a few impatient movements.
He hurried to an easel where there was a small canvas, his work of the last few days. With his hands on his knees, he stood bent over in front of the picture and stared with wide eyes at the surface, the fresh colors of which reflected the glaring light. He remained like that for two or three minutes, silent and staring, that work to the last Brushstroke stood alive in his eyes again; for years it had been his habit not to take any other idea with him to bed and to sleep before workdays than that of the picture he was painting. He put out the lights, picked up the candle and went to the bedroom, on the door of which a small writing board and chalk was hung. “Wake up seven o’clock, coffee nine o’clock” he wrote on it in strong Roman letters; closed the door behind him and went to bed. With his eyes open he lay motionless for a short while and with an effort forced the image of his work into his senses. Satisfied with this, he closed his clear gray eyes, sighed softly, and quickly fell asleep.
In the morning Robert woke him at the appointed time, he got up immediately, washed himself in a small adjoining room in the running cold water, slipped into a coarse, heavily faded suit made of gray linen and went over to the studio, the huge shutters of which the servant had already opened . There was a plate on a small table full of fruit, a carafe of water, and a piece of rye bread, which he thoughtfully picked up and bite while standing in front of the easel and looking at his picture. He ate a few bites of bread as he walked up and down, fished a few cherries from the glass plate, saw a few letters and newspapers lying there that he ignored, and immediately afterwards sat spellbound in the field chair in front of work.
The small, wide-format picture depicted the early morning the painter had seen on a trip a few weeks ago and noted in several sketches. He had stayed in a small farmer’s house on the Upper Rhine, hadn’t met the colleague he wanted to visit on site, had spent an unpleasant rainy evening in the smoky inn and a bad night in a chalky, musty-smelling, damp guest room. Before sunrise, he had awakened from a shallow slumber hot and in a bad mood, had found the front door still locked, had climbed into the open through a window in the inn, had unleashed a boat next door on the banks of the Rhine and was in it Rowed out the weakly flowing, still dusky river. Just as he was about to turn back, he saw a rower approaching from the other bank, the faintly twitching cold light of the milky rainy dawn encircled the dark outline and made the fishing boat appear excessively large. Suddenly struck by the sight and the peculiar light and inwardly captivated, he had stopped and let the man come closer, who stopped at a floating net sign and pulled a trap out of the cool water. Two broad, dull silver fish came to light, shimmered wet for a moment over the gray river and fell into the fisherman’s boat with a clicking sound. Veraguth had immediately told the man to wait, fetched the most basic painting supplies and made a sketch in watercolors, and now he had been sitting at it for days and was almost finished.
He, who preferred to paint in full sun or in the warm, broken forest and park light, had been troubled by the flowing silver coolness of the picture, but it had given him a new sound, yesterday the solution was completely successful and now he felt that he was sitting in front of a good, unusual job, in which it was not about holding on and praiseworthy portrayals, but where a moment out of the indifferent, enigmatic being and happening of nature broke through the glass surface and let one feel the wild, great breath of reality .
The painter hung on the picture with attentive eyes and weighed the tones on the palette, which hardly resembled his usual and had lost almost all of the red and yellow colors. The water and the air were ready, a shivering cold, unwilling light ran over the surface, bushes and stakes on the shore swam like shadows in the damp, pale twilight, unreal and dissolved When the rough boat stood in the water, the fisherman’s face was devoid of essence and speech, only his hand, calmly reaching for the fish, was full of inexorable reality. One of the animals jumped glittering over the edge of the boat, the other lay flat and still, and its open, round mouth and terrified, staring eye were filled with the creature’s pain. The whole thing was cold and sad almost to the point of cruelty, but quiet and unassailable and without any other symbolism than that simple one, without which no work of art can be and which we not only feel the oppressive incomprehensibility of the whole of nature, but love us with a certain sweet astonishment leaves.
When the painter had been at work for two hours, the servant knocked and, at the distant call from his master, came in with breakfast. He quietly carried the jugs, cups and plates, straightened a chair, waited in silence for a while and then carefully warned: “It has been poured, Mr. Veraguth.”
“I’m coming,” called the painter, rubbing one Brush stroke he had just made on the tail of the jumping fish with his thumb. “Is there warm water?”
He washed his hands and sat down for coffee.
“You could plug me a pipe, Robert,” he said cheerfully. “The little one without a lid, it has to be in the bedroom.”
The servant ran. Veraguth fervently drank the strong coffee and felt the faint suspicion of dizziness and breakdown, which lately flew at him from time to time after strenuous work, dissolve like morning mist.
He took the pipe from the servant, let himself be lit and greedily inhaled the aromatic smoke that enhanced and refined the effect of the coffee. He pointed to his picture and said, “You went fishing when you were a boy, Robert, didn’t you?”
“Well, Mr. Veraguth.”
“Take a look at the fish there, not the one in the air, the other one below with the open mouth. Is the mouth right? ”
“It’s all right,” said Robert suspiciously. “But you know that better than I do,” he added with a tone of reproach, as if feeling a mockery of the question.
“No, dear one, that is not true. Man experiences what is due to him only in his first youth in all its sharpness and freshness, up to the thirteenth or fourteenth year, and from this he feeds his life. I never had anything to do with fishing as a boy, that’s why I ask. So, is the snout right? ”
“It’s good, nothing is missing,” said Robert, flattered.
Veraguth had got up again and was checking his palette. Robert looked at him. He knew this incipient concentration of the gaze, which made him almost glazed over, and he knew that now he and the coffee, the little conversation from before and all that would sink into the man, and if he called him in a few minutes he would be like awakening from a deep sleep. But that was dangerous. Robert cleared away when he saw the mail lying untouched.
“Mr. Veraguth!” He called out in a low voice.
The painter was still available. He looked back over his shoulder with hostile inquiries, just like a tired man who was about to fall asleep and who was called again.
“There are letters.”
With that, Robert went out. Veraguth nervously pressed a heap of cobalt blue onto the pallet, threw the tube on the little tin-covered painting table, began to mix, but felt disturbed by the servant’s warning, so that he angrily put the pallet down and took the letters.
It was the usual business affairs, an invitation to take part in an exhibition, a request from a newspaper editor for details of his life, an invoice – but the sight of a well-known handwriting went into his soul like a sweet shudder, he took the letter to himself and read with pleasure his own name and every word of the address, comfortably absorbed in the observation of the free, idiosyncratic lettering full of character. Then he tried to get the postmark to read. The postage stamp was Italian, it could only be Naples or Genoa, and then the friend was already in Europe, very close, and could be here in a few days.
He opened the letter with emotion and saw with satisfaction the small, dead straight lines in their strict order. If he thought about it correctly, for five or six years these rare letters from his foreign friend had been the only pure joys he had had, the only ones besides work and the hours of socializing with little Pierre. And as every time, in the midst of the joyful expectation, an unclear, embarrassing feeling of shame befell him, as he became aware of the impoverishment and lovelessness of his life. Slowly he read:
Naples, June 2nd at night.
As usual, a mouthful of Chianti with fatty macaroni and the roar of some peddlers in front of the inn are the first signs of the European Culture that I am approaching again. Nothing has changed here in Naples for five years, far less than in Singapore or Shanghai, and I take it as a good sign that I should find everything in order at home too. The day after tomorrow we will come to Genoa, my nephew will pick me up and I will drive with him to the relatives, where this time I am not expecting any overwhelming sympathy, because honestly I have not earned ten thalers in the last four years. I calculate four or five days for the family’s first claims, then business in Holland, let’s say five or six days, so that I could come to you on the 16th or so. You will find out by telegram. I want to stay with you for at least ten or fourteen days, you know, and disturb your work. You have become dreadfully famous and if that what you used to say about success and celebrities about twenty years ago was only halfway correct, you must have become considerably calcified and idiot by now. I also want to buy pictures from you, and my above complaint about the bad ones Business is an attempt to depress your prices.
You get older, Johann. It was my twelfth voyage through the Red Sea, and for the first time I suffered from the heat. We were 46 degrees.
Christ, dude, another fortnight! It will cost you a few dozen bottles of Moselle. It’s been more than four years since the last time.
I can be reached by letter between the 9th and 14th in Antwerp, Hotel de l’Europe. If you’ve exhibited any pictures anywhere I’m passing, let me know!
He happily read the short letter with the healthy, tight letters and spirited punctuation marks again, found a calendar from the drawer of the little desk in the corner and nodded, reading it, with satisfaction. There would still be over twenty pictures of him on display in Brussels by the middle of the month; So would the Friend, whose sharp look he was a little afraid of and from whom the shattering of his life in recent years could not remain hidden, at least have a first impression of him that he could be proud of. That made everything easier. He imagined Otto walking in his somewhat massive overseas elegance through the Brussels room and looking at his pictures, his best pictures, and for a moment he was heartily pleased that he had given them to that exhibition, although only a few of them were still for sale. And he immediately wrote a ticket to Antwerp.
“He still knows everything,” he thought gratefully, “it’s true, the last time we almost only drank the Moselle, and one evening we even had a real drink.”
He thought about it and found that there was certainly no more Moselle wine in the cellar, which he himself very seldom visited, and he decided to order a shipment today.
Now he sat down again in front of work, but found himself distracted and restless inwardly, and came not back to pure concentration, in which the good ideas are uninvited. So he put the brushes in a beaker, put his friend’s letter with him and strolled outside with indecisive steps. The lake flashed against him with intense reflection, it was a cloudless summer day and the sunlit park echoed with many bird calls.
He looked at the clock. Pierre’s morning lessons must be over. And he strolled aimlessly through the park, absent-mindedly along the brown paths covered with sunspots, listened to the house, passed Pierre’s playground with the swing and the pile of sand. At last he came near the kitchen garden and looked with fleeting interest up into the high crowns of the horse chestnuts, on whose shadowy masses of leaves stood the last joyful, bright flower candles. Bees swarmed around the many half-open rosebuds of the garden hedge with wavy, soft peals, and through the dark foliage of the trees the cheerful little tower clock of the manor house went off couple of blows. It struck wrongly, and Veraguth thought again of Pierre, whose greatest desire and ambition it was, later, when he was bigger, to put the old percussion back in order.
On the other side of the hedge he heard voices and footsteps that sounded softly and softly together in the sunny garden air with the hum of bees and bird calls, with the lazy scent of the shrimp borders and the bean blossoms. It was his wife with Pierre, and he stopped and listened attentively.
“They are not yet ripe, you have to wait a few more days,” he heard his mother say.
A laughing twittering of the boy’s voice gave the answer, and the peaceful, green garden world and the soft, windy children’s conversation in the expectant summer silence sounded to the man for a fleeting, tender moment as if from the distant garden of his own childhood. He went to the hedge and peered through the vines into the garden, where his wife in her morning dress was standing on the sunny path, holding a pair of flower shears in hand and a light brown basket on arm. It was barely twenty paces from the hedge.
The painter looked at her for a moment. The tall figure with the serious and disappointed woman’s face bent down over the flowers, the large limp straw hat shaded the whole face.
“What are the flowers called?” Asked Pierre. The light played in his brown hair, his bare legs stood lean and sun-brown in the light, and when he bent down, the white skin of his back could be seen in the wide neckline of his blouse under the tanned neck.
“Shrimp,” said the mother.
“Yes, I know that,” continued Pierre, “but I must know what the bees say to them. In the language of bees they must also have a name. ”
“Certainly, but you can’t know it, only the bees know it themselves. Maybe they are called honey flowers. ”
Pierre thought about it.
“That’s nothing,” he decided then. “You can find just as much honey in the clover, and in the capuchins too, and yet they cannot have the same name for all flowers.”
The boy watched attentively as a bee flew around a clove, held still in the air with whirring wings in front of it and then eagerly entered the rosy cavity.
“Honey flowers!” He thought disdainfully and was silent. He had long since found out that precisely the prettiest and most interesting things cannot be known and explained.
Veraguth stood behind the hedge and listened, looking at the calm, serious face of his wife and the beautiful, precocious, delicate face of his darling, and his heart petrified at the thought of the summers when his first son had been such a child . He had lost it, and so had his mother. But he didn’t want to lose this little one, not him. He wanted to eavesdrop on him as a thief behind the fence, he wanted to lure him and to himself pull, and even if this boy were to turn away from him, then he would no longer live.
He withdrew quietly down the grassy path and walked away under the trees.
“Strolling is not for me,” he thought angrily and made himself hard. He went back to his work and then, overcoming the displeasure and obeying an exercise that had been cultivated for years, found the tense working atmosphere again, which allows no side paths and focuses all energies only on what is currently wanted.
He was expected at table over there and changed carefully around noon. Shaved, brushed and in a blue summer suit, he looked no younger, but fresher and more elastic than in the neglected studio dress. He reached for the straw hat and was about to open the door when it opened towards him and Pierre came in.
Veraguth bent down to the boy’s head and kissed his forehead.
“How are you, Pierre? Was the teacher good? ”
“Oh yeah, he’s just so boring. If he is a Telling a story, it’s not about being funny at all, it’s just a lesson, and in the end it always comes down to the fact that good children have to behave so and so. – Did you paint, papa? ”
“Yes, on the fish, you know. It will be finished soon, and you can see it tomorrow.”
He took the boy’s hand and went out with him. Nothing in the world did him so well and stirred up all sunken goodness and helpless tenderness in him like the feeling of walking next to the boy, adjusting the step to his small steps and feeling the light, trusting child’s hand in his.
When they left the park and crossed the meadow under the thin hanging birches, the little one looked around and asked: “Dad, are the butterflies afraid of you?”
“Why? I do not think so. The other day someone sat on my finger for a long time. ”
“Yes, but there aren’t any now. If I sometimes walk over to you all alone and then I come by here, there are always many, many butterflies on the way, and their name is blue, I know that, and they know me and love me, they always fly very close to me. Can’t you feed butterflies? ”
“Yes, you can, we want to try it next time. You put a drop of honey on your hand and calmly stretch it out until the butterflies come and drink from it. ”
“Fine, dad, let’s try that. Don’t you tell Mama that she has to give me a little honey? Then she knows that I really need him and that it’s not stupid. ”
Pierre ran ahead through the open front door and the wide corridor, in the cool twilight of which the father, blinded from outside, was still looking for the hat stand and groping for the dining room door when the boy was long inside and his mother stormed with his request.
The painter came in and shook hands with his wife. She was a little taller than him, a sturdy figure, healthy but without youth, and although she had stopped loving her husband, she saw but to this day he still regards the loss of his tenderness as a sad, incomprehensible, through no fault of his own misfortune.
“We can eat right away,” she said in her calm voice, “Pierre, go and wash your hands!”
“Here’s some news,” began the painter, handing her his friend’s letter. “Otto is coming soon and I hope he stays there for a while. Isn’t it okay with you? ”
“Mr. Burkhardt can have the two rooms downstairs, there he is undisturbed and can go in and out at will.”
“Yes this is good.”
Reluctantly, she said: “I thought he would be coming much later.”
“He traveled earlier, and I didn’t know anything about it either. Well, the better. ”
“Now he’s meeting Albert.”
Veraguth’s face lost the faint glimmer of amusement and his voice went cold when he heard his son’s name.
“What about Albert?” He called nervously. “He should go to Tyrol with his friend.”
“I didn’t mean to tell you earlier than necessary. The friend was invited by relatives and decided not to go on foot. Albert comes at the beginning of his vacation. ”
“And stay here all the time?”
“I think so. I could travel with him for a few weeks, but that would be uncomfortable for you. ”
“Why? I would take Pierre over to me. ”
Frau Veraguth shrugged her shoulders.
“Please don’t start again! You know I can’t leave Pierre here alone. ”
The painter grew angry.
“Alone!” He shouted sharply. “He’s not alone when he’s with me.”
“I can’t leave him here and I don’t want to. It is useless to argue about it again. ”
“Of course, you don’t want to!”
He was silent when Pierre came back and they went to dinner. Between the two estranged people The boy sat and was served and entertained by both of them as he was used to, and his father tried to hold out the meal for a long time, because afterwards the little one stayed with Mama and it was doubtful whether he would come to the studio again today.