India, Sept. 10 -- Scrolling through Instagram the other day, I came across a video that has been haunting me since. In a flood-ravaged village of Punjab, a boat carrying relief workers floated past a cow and her calf tied to a post, their legs submerged in muddy water. The trough lay empty, and the animals looked bewildered, as if questioning where their humans had gone. I couldn't help thinking of the families forced to flee, leaving behind the companions they had tended to daily. Anyone who has grown up in rural Punjab knows the farmer's bond with his cattle. These are not mere animals; they are silent companions, routine, and wealth all rolled into one. Farmers feed them with their own hands, keep them groomed, and even call them by name. To walk away, even in an emergency, is to leave behind a part of oneself. The floods have forced impossible choices, coaxing terrified buffaloes up to rooftops and waiting with them as the waters rose, or untying them so they could swim off to a drier spot and fend for themselves. The bigger question remains: Will they ever return where they belong? A cow today may cost anywhere between Rs 50,000 to a lakh, but its worth is not in numbers. This thought carries me back to childhood, to my grandmother, who accompanied by a house help, would often stay in the ancestral house in Dhilwan for long periods. Once, when my father urged her to return to the city, she simply said: "Of course, I would have come, but one of the cows has fallen sick." Displeased, he asked if she loved her cows more than her grandchildren. But that was Maanji. For her, cattle ailments always outranked children's sulks. For nearly a decade, fresh milk travelled daily from our village to our city home, carried in 'dolus' on buses by loyal staff. When the workers grew careless while we were in the city and the animals weren't treated with tenderness, with a heavy heart, she decided to part with them. Yet she refused to sell. "I cannot put a price on them," she declared, giving them away to relatives instead. Of all the people I observed, the one who showed the greatest care and devotion to her cows and buffaloes was Beeji at Mand. Many would say that her ability to remain in the pink of health even at the ripe old age of 97 was largely due to 'gau-sewa'. For her, the cows and buffaloes were family members whose moods were to be read, whose health was to be monitored, and whose comfort was to be fussed over in ways that baffled the rest of us. In fact, Beeji's constant instructions to the workers would tire them down so much that many of them would vanish at midnight, never to return. That is why the images from today's floods sting so deeply. When the waters recede, many will return to find empty sheds and broken hearts. Some will meet animals weakened by hunger and disease, others none at all. And yet Punjab is a land that has always known resilience. Relief, then, cannot be measured only in rations and tarpaulins. Compassion must extend to fodder, veterinary care, and shelter for the animals who stand at the centre of rural life. Let us, therefore, open both our hearts and our purses, for the creatures who cannot speak for themselves, yet whose absence would make the tragedy of these floods even harder to bear....