The brief was to put a village milk cooperative — the quiet engine of rural Gujarat — into shrine-cloth grammar, and the trick was to let the Goddess preside over it rather than be replaced by it. So she keeps the large central seat on her cockerel, with a cow drawn flanking her on each side as her own attendant animals, and the working day runs below: men queue with milk cans toward the collection point, a woman churns, and a flat boxy collection truck loads in the lower corner. The cans are stacked as plain cylinders, kin to the ritual pots in a classical panel, and the truck is reduced to a flat silhouette so nothing breaks the three colours. Mata ni Pachedi has always ringed the Mother with the community's daily labour; the dairy line is simply this generation's version of that labour, and the cow — already sacred — bridges the old grammar and the new scene. Madder red, iron-black, cream, nothing more.