Hostel Diaries: Straight from the mouth of MaGau

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Year – 2025

Om Prakash Dhankar who is now a 175 feet statue at Veer Savarkar Chowk previously known as IFFCO is fondly remembered as the only minister who kept his promise. It may be recalled that way back in 2017 the State Animal Husbandry and Dairy Minister had announced his grandiose plans for setting up “PG hostels” on 50-100 acres land in major towns in Haryana to rear cows and buffaloes. Thanks to his unwavering commitment and the ambitious Deen Dayal Gauwas Yojna, Haryana is now the Gau capital of the world. Cows from as far as Switzerland and Germany are now thronging to Jaat pastures forcing the steak loving firangs to switch to Patanjali paneer.

Our reporter decided to approach the inmaids of one of the oldest and most prestigious hostels Working GauMaata Chhatrawas (GOTCHA) in Haryana to get a first-hand account of life behind the four walls.

What you’ll read next will leave you speechless.

(Names of hostellers have been changed to protect their identities)

“I spend most of my evenings staring outside my window, looking at my lower caste sisters shitting without a care in the world and swaying their tails with gai abandon” says Bhuteshwari. We are at the grounds outside the hostel champitheatre, where the gau and bhains get their weekly massage. Bhuteshwari and a few of her friends have gathered to share their experiences of life in the hostels at GOTCHA. Shifting uncomfortably in her khakhi shorts, Slutty-Savitri hisses “you know why they made us wear these shorts?” “Our chief-rakshak, BC Bhagmat was inseminated with the idea that our naked butts were sending wrong signals to the bulls in the neighbouring hostel. Bullshit! They squeezed us and our tails into these discarded RSS shorts to curb our freedom of expression.”

“This is bloody bovine injustice!”

The gais and bhais don’t want reveal their names because they could “get suspended” for speaking up against the administration. And then, as the evening starts to fade into darkness, they must head back in time for the ‘curfew’ hour, that begins at 8pm.

“From 9am-5pm, we are busy being milked. After that, we only have time till 8pm to do things such as visit the main gaibrary with limited internet access, visit our favourite garbage joints, or meet friends to talk about our achhe din which is now just a mammary,” says Abhainstika. After the main gates close, there’s a roll call to ensure all the gais and bhais are in. “If you are not in by then, it’s a serious violation of rules,” says Moomita, another inmaid. “The bulls, however, can stay out till 10pm, and unlike us, don’t need permission to step out after the deadline. They are even spared the ignominy of squeezing themselves into RSS shorts.”

“It’s like being born a gai was the greatest sin!”

“It wasn’t always like that,” sighs Gauteeka, the hostel’s oldest inmate. “There was a time when we were free to roam from dawn to dusk, chew cud and ruminate about world peace at roundabouts while bringing the traffic to grinding halt. Why, we could even get men killed for daring to look at us with hungry eyes!”

“Not anymore. We are now like chattels of powerful dairy magnates and who can’t keep their hands off our booty. From our poop, to pee, to our milk, they want it all. Greedy bastards!”

“We all feel udderly exploited.”

Women not crackers make Diwali special

Take out the woman of the house from festivities and it becomes a cold, empty house waiting to be filled with happy laughter. 

A major cluster of our cherished childhood memories hover lovingly around festivals. And it was our parents, their extra efforts that made these celebrations so special for us. Add to it the innocence that didn’t count calories, fret about the logistics and then complain about the stress, these occasions were the most looked-forward-to. 

Festivals for most of us were not just limited to the day of celebration. Like any well scripted story it built up over time, kept us on tenterhooks, made us impatient with excitement before reaching its crescendo.

It would start with anticipation of goodies which would give an extra spring to the steps we took. Unlike the hedonism of the present that eats out twice a week and shops till it drops, our past had few excesses. Our parents belonged to the era that believed in rationing material pleasures. So eating-out, a new dress and shoes were would wait for special occasions. If we had just watched a movie, stopping for ice-cream on our way back was a sure shot way of corrupting our souls beyond repair.

It was during festive occasions that our parents loosened up a bit. We were allowed second and third helpings of sweet treats and a few more when Mom was not looking. Almost all of them were homemade and invariably made by her. She’d spend long hours in the kitchen while we danced around her like excited puppies.

Is there anything in this world that tastes better than fresh off the griddle malpua dunked in a degchi of sticky sugar syrup?

When she was not busy in the kitchen, she was engrossed in making alpona on the floor with ground rice paste while I’d squat beside her and watch her in mesmerised silence. Each festival we celebrated had her distinctive stamp –from the 14 diyas she lit on chhoti Diwali, to the bhog she made during Lakshmi Puja, to the paste of turmeric and mustard oil she’d keep for us in the bathroom to slather ourselves with in honour of the beauteous and talented Saraswati. Durga Puja meant weeks of preparation for the many competitions that were held at the pandal during the Pujas.

When you are ten, all you want to do is make your Maa happy. So you recite poetry with emotions you don’t comprehend, participate in dance-dramas with your face caked with ghastly make-up, play musical chairs even though you hate it, all in an attempt dazzle her friends and relatives with your unimaginable talent.