Surya Narayan Das, the man who takes his calves for a drive

Every summer morning, Surya Narayan Das places three calves in the backseat of his Nissan. This unique ritual, far removed from folklore, unveils a demanding and unexpected daily relationship. Recently, a photo circulated on Facebook showing a small calf, unrestrained and calm, sitting in the back of a 2016 Nissan Santa, gazing out at the road like a child on an outing. Within hours, thousands shared it, with Mauritians amused and curious—who does this? And importantly, why?

The man’s name is Surya Narayan Das. At 66, he lives in L’Espérance Trébuchet, and the viral photo only captures a fraction of his daily routine. This car ride isn’t a publicity stunt or a fleeting whim; it’s a long-standing ritual.

During the summer, when the heat bears down on the fields, Surya selects three calves from the fifteen he raises. They climb into the car, settling into the backseat—"on the sofa," he always corrects—and embark on drives that can last for hours. Sometimes they head to a deserted beach, other times to a blooming garden or a peaceful nature spot. "The little ones need to be comfortable. They are like children. I want them to relax and see more than just the pen."

When asked if it’s dangerous, he calmly responds, "No, not at all. They sit like children. They are used to it. I drive carefully." A stressed calf might fidget, but none of his seem to panic; they all patiently await their turn.

These calves live on a 9-acre plot in Dubreuil, which Surya has named Vrindavan, after the sacred place of Krishna. There, he cares for 108 adult cows and 15 calves—a symbolic number. "The adults go out to graze, but the little ones, I need to protect."

He has built a modest house next to the enclosure, living simply beside them. He invests his entire pension into their upkeep, including hay, medicine, food, and transport. Donations from Mauritians touched by his dedication also help. "My life is for them."

Surya has known this life since childhood, growing up surrounded by the few cows his parents owned. He spoke to them, petted them, and fed them—the connection was immediate. "These animals, I grew up among them. Some people have children; I have cows."

For him, a cow is no ordinary animal; it is a symbolic mother—"Like a second mother," he says—a source of nourishment and gentleness.

Yet, Surya wasn’t always a farmer. He was a mathematics teacher, a serious, methodical, and calm man. He studied at Delhi University in 1978 after attending Bhujoharry College. His life seemed to be heading in a different direction until 1999, when a neighbor sold two cows. Surya hesitated but eventually bought them. "That’s when everything started again." From then on, he purchased any cows for sale nearby, gradually turning his herd into a mission and then a vocation.

Today, he wakes before dawn to care for the calves, checking each one’s health, cleaning the pens, and preparing for their outings. He does even more: he takes his calves to prayers across the island. Whenever asked for a cow or calf for a ceremony, he is there. "It’s a spiritual service. I do it gladly." His Nissan Santa then becomes a vehicle of blessing.

Caring for 108 cows requires immense energy. The heat, rain, potential injuries, logistics, expenses, and fatigue can be overwhelming. Some days, he barely sleeps. His neighbors always see him in motion. He could live a peaceful retirement, but he doesn’t want to. "My well-being lies in their well-being."

Since the photo spread, his phone has been ringing nonstop with journalists, friends, children, and tourists all wanting to meet the man with the traveling calves. He remains humble. "I’m not a celebrity. The stars are those animals." He dislikes being the center of attention but loves sharing the story of what he calls "my little ones."

At 66, he continues with the same vigor. "As long as I have the strength, I will care for them." He dreams of developing Vrindavan further, improving the spaces, enlarging the shaded areas, and providing more comfort.

As the light dims at Vrindavan, the calves gather near the fence, and the cows slowly move toward the shade. Surya finishes tidying up the buckets, wiping his hands on his pants. There’s nothing heroic or extraordinary about it—a 66-year-old man who will start again tomorrow. He knows the photo will eventually fade from memory, but not his daily gesture. "They need me," he simply states.