Spiritual
Sundari is the most unusual cow in the goshala. She is not just any cow—she is one of a kind, with a personality that sets her apart from all the others. There is something special about her, a blend of affection and strength, that gives her a manner both distant and tender at the same time.
When I first met her, I tried to approach and greet her as I did the others, but she made it clear that she preferred distance—she lowered her head and pointed her horns toward me as a warning not to try again. The message was unmistakable, so from that moment on, we had a good relationship—at a respectful distance.
One day, while in the field, I was feeding the cows carrots and bananas. They would stretch their heads forward, open their mouths, and stick out their tongues for me to give them food. I went from one to another, and when it was Sundari’s turn, I threw the fruit on the ground from afar so I would not have to get too close. But she did not go for it. She looked straight at me and started walking directly toward me.
I backed away at the same pace she advanced until I reached the wall. Sundari stopped firmly in front of me. She looked at me—serious as always—but this time, I could see a deep gentleness in her eyes, Still frozen with fear, I did not move until she lowered her head and opened her mouth, asking me to feed her directly. Trembling, but understanding her message, I held out a carrot. She ate it—and then waited for more.
In that moment, I knew she was not going to harm me. Sundari’s love entered my heart. She wanted to be fed by hand like the others, and as I did so, she showed me through her eyes a glimpse of the affection she carried within.
Jagannatha — The Majestic One
Sundari became pregnant by Dharma, and when her calf Jagannatha was born, things were far from easy. Alberto was not there—he had gone to attend the Ratha-yatra festival in Barcelona. Since the birth was imminent, he had left clear instructions: they had to make sure the calf nursed right away. But Sundari—rebellious and distrustful as always—would not let anyone touch her. She kicked and moved constantly. The cowherd temporarily replacing Alberto did not know how vital the first milk, the colostrum, was for the newborn calf, so he let the little one nurse from Tilaka instead, as she was gentle and calm.
When Alberto returned to the farm the next day, they finally managed to get Jagannatha to nurse from his mother.
The bond between Sundari and her son was extraordinarily strong. For three full years, Jagannatha drank only his mother’s milk. All of it was for him. Although there were several attempts to milk Sundari, none were ever successful for long.
Sundari and her son Jagannatha
One day, Dina Sharana decided to try again. He tied her carefully and began to milk her—and it worked, but only for two days. On the third, Sundari vanished. She had understood what was coming and simply disappeared. That’s just her way.
Jagannatha wore a ring through his nose that caused him pain. Blood would often drip from the wound when he ate. He learned to eat with great care, moving as little as possible, because any sudden motion hurt. Because of this, his mother Sundari completely dominated him and often took his food. The poor fellow could not resist her.
Eventually, Dina Sharana and Damodara Priya decided to remove the ring and start training the oxen using only voice commands. They called in an experienced man, who tied Jagannatha and used a metal cutter to snip off the ring. The expression on Jagannatha’s face in that instant was one of utter astonishment—as if he could not believe that 
he was finally free from the source of his constant pain.
Jagannatha as a youth
“After that, for a week or maybe a little longer, Jagannatha came every day to the very spot where we had removed the ring. He would stand there quietly, looking around, as if trying to understand what had happened. He stared at the place as though asking, ‘What happened here? How is it possible that I no longer feel that pain?’ From then on, he showed deep gratitude. Even later, when he experienced some health problems, he would come toward us. If something was wrong with his leg, he would approach, gently lift it, and look at us with complete trust.” —Dina Sharana
Jagannatha is calm; he moves slowly and patiently. He never causes trouble—he is a good-natured ox, though somewhat aloof. His character is strong, and although he has never harmed anyone, he has given a few good scares, as Raghuvira recounts:
“One time I was out in the field among the cows, holding a stick in my hand. Everything was peaceful, and suddenly Jagannatha became angry with me. He came straight toward me. I had the stick in my hand and thought, ‘What am I going to do? I cannot defend myself—he is going to crush me.’
Instinctively, I dropped the stick, and Jagannatha stopped dead right in front of me. He did not touch me.
It was a moment of real fear. If he had attacked, what could I have done? Nothing. But the moment I let go of the stick, he stopped.
That incident stayed with me. I’ve always loved being among the cows; it is something that truly relaxes me.”
Our friend and cowherd Paul also tried to milk Sundari, but she would not allow it—she simply refused. He knew it would be a great challenge because Sundari was always alert, watching his every move. She looked at him with those large, slightly bulging eyes, wearing an expression that seemed to say, “What do you think you are doing?”
Paul remembers that he tried everything: touching her, brushing her, feeding her, pampering her… nothing worked. No method proved effective. He simply could not milk her. Until one day, he decided to speak to her seriously. He asked her what she was doing there. Paul said something like this: “Sundari, look at the other cows—all of them are giving milk for the Deities, serving Krishna. And you? What are you doing? Nothing. Just eating, resting, watching, and butting the others... Do not you think you should give something too?”
That is how he finally reached her—not in an aggressive way, not at all, but as if he were speaking to a friend. He told her how things were and how he saw her. It was a direct and sincere conversation.
From that moment on, Sundari allowed Paul to milk her, and she continued letting him do so for several days—perhaps about two weeks.
But Paul was the only one she would allow to milk her, which became a serious problem. If Paul was not around, who would do it? This turned into a real dilemma, because when a cow produces milk and is not milked, she can easily develop an infection.
“I felt confused. One day I decided not to milk her for that reason. But then I thought, ‘Now that I’ve started milking her, I should continue.’ However, she did not let me. The next day I tried again, but no… and she never let me again.
I had been milking her for two weeks straight without any problem—everything was fine… until the day I missed once. Because of that one day, I understood her nature. She understands, she has empathy, but she does not forgive mistakes. That is Sundari.” —Paul
Until recently, Sundari was the only cow in Rupa Goshala that was not milked. But now, at sixteen years old, she allows herself to be milked every day. She gives two liters daily and remains calm during milking. She has even been seen in the field, her milk dripping from her udders. Beautiful Sundari has always taught us the importance of respect and sincerity in relationships of love. Like all of Krishna’s cows, she has her story—and her own way of showing love.
Sundari is not a exactly a fierce cow but a mother with character. She is one of those mothers who do not smile easily, yet when they do, it is because they truly mean it. Sundari is not unreachable; she simply demands respect. She does not ask for affection or seek attention; she simply is—fully present, with all her strength, beauty, and hidden tenderness.
Sundari cannot be deceived.
Once, Alberto tried to get Sundari into her stall. With Radharani, it had been easy—a little trail of food, step by step, and once inside, a feast of fruits and vegetables. But with Sundari, it was different. She would come up to the door, sniff, look around, think it through carefully—and refuse to go in. Alberto offered her the best fruit, her favorite treats… nothing worked. She would not be persuaded.
So he decided to build a fence, stake by stake, over several weeks. Everything was planned so that, at the right moment, he could close it and keep her inside. When the day came, Sundari was eating calmly, completely at ease. Just as Alberto shut the gate and thought he had finally succeeded—boom!—with a small jump, she leapt out effortlessly. Calm and unruffled, as if saying, “Nice try, but no.”
She acted from intelligence, from awareness. She knew exactly what was happening—always alert, always watchful.
As mentioned earlier, Sundari had been transfered to Rupa Goshala from Anadi’s place, and that experience had left a mark. Since then, she has been wary—if something does not feel right, she simply leaves. She disappears, and no one can make her come back.
Sundari is not the most friendly or the most docile cow. Her beauty lies in her strength. Her sweetness is not obvious, but when it shows, it is genuine. Her fierceness, deep down, is her way of protecting herself—of preserving her dignity.