A Poser

It was a fabulous evening on an exquisite shoreline of Southern Goa. Along with bunch of my best girl friends I was accompanied with my classmates and rest of my juniors.  Posing for the memorable shoots and snaps were for all time in our ‘must to do things’ outline.  Around 7.30pm the HEAD of the Department announced that we got to leave the place for the day.  Despite of all day fun and fair, my classmates were not ready to leave the place. Somehow we got into our bus. Everyone in the bus was too active discussing about the day and the next day to-do list, when something in the vehicle in front of me caught my interest.

It was a tempo. And for some reason, it came closer to our vehicle, I took a closer look. The back was open, of course, and dark. But something shone in the headlights. I tried leaning closer, and made out the forms of four pigs.

They stood swaying slightly in the motion of the vehicle. Their necks laced with rope that anchored them safely. It was the look in their eyes that caught me.

I wondered where I had seen such a look before. Then I recalled.

On my way to a market in Mumbai, I often pass a butcher’s shop. The skinned carcasses of pigs hang there waiting for customers to demand a choice piece. And, often, I have seen, to my dismay, a live pig tied at the food of the stall, just below the mass of skinned flesh.

The look in the pig’s eyes is unforgettable. It is not of fear. With the instinct every animal has, the pig knows exactly why it is there. It knows it will die. And the look in its eyes is one of resignation, a glazing over as if it could not care anymore.

If the pig could pray, it would probably hope for a painless end.

But I don’t think pigs are thus enabled. So there was no anticipation, no horror, only a quiet acceptance. It could not be the same pig, of course, day after day. But they all had the same eyes.

The same look now faced me as I watched these pigs juggling along in the tempo ahead of my bus.

It injured my heart. How terrible to know that death waited. Many might argue that pigs are only animals and cannot be attributed with feelings. But I choose to disagree. However it makes me wildly uncomfortable. Comfort would exist in thinking animals know nothing and live every moment for it.

But my familiarity tells me otherwise. And a person who has lived with or watched flora and fauna closely knows they have sensibilities, only they are dissimilar from that of humans. I know these pigs knew.

How mixed up we humans are. There is a part of me that enjoys ethnic cooking. Not too long ago, I ordered a kilo of biryani from ‘Saibini’@ Dadar west, which I relished at my dinner table. I am quite at alleviating partaking of a meat or fish dish if it is well cooked.

Yet, the notion of butcher, of killing an animal that can look at me with accusing eyes hurts me to my very bones.

I know it is not viable to expect the entire world to turn vegetarian. I wonder, in fact, if even I, born a vegetarian, can really give up eating the occasional cold cut or meat dish completely, Or if I want to.

But, as humans, maybe we could all agree to be more benevolent even towards the animals we kill for food. Treat them with compassion and not to kill more than we need, after all, all life is sacred, and needs to be treated with respect.

Closed Abode... Lost people

Yes, it is factual. I hate waiting for people, even for the loved ones. Anyhow, last Saturday evening I had no preference but to wait for my cousin to come home. I murmured to myself and settled down on the stepladders to wait.

The twilight was meeting, and the heat was less passionate in the dimness of the clouds near the sea. I shifted edgily, not comfy being sheltered outside a house that was only a door away…and a glass door at that.

Then I memorized the splendid sea facing view at Worli, Mumbai. The tune of the sea waves pleased me fairly. I began to look around and stopped fretting. This, I told myself, is your chance to see how Mumbai unwinds as hours of darkness cascade.

Bandra Worli Sea link. Source: Google Images

Cars began to draw up. I wondered if my cousin had decided to return early…but it was a woman, hair clipped short, yarn printed sari perfectly in place, marching home with an intention while a man followed clutching files. She let herself into the house below and the man followed. Elsewhere I could hear loud welcoming stray dogs.

                                             

                                                A Overfed Pug. Source: Google Images

Another door opened and a damsel came out leading a rather overfed Pug.They went through the entrance and vanished. A gang of stray dogs came gambling up.

More cars drew up –mainly Mercedes, the real moneyed car of India.
People were returning to their sponsored domiciles, their day’s work officially done.

A pizza man stood at the foot of the steps looking optimistically at me, and then moved on to make his enquiry elsewhere.

The Pizza Man. Source: Google Images

Across the road, children came out to play in the garden, while their mothers began the ceremony of cuisine of the sunset feast. Somewhere a television set bloomed thunderous and was hastily silenced.

The Pug returned, tongue hanging sideways, and tired by 15 minutes of walking. The damsel, stern faced, led the pug inside the house. She stepped herself out, leaped in a car and drive off in to the darkening distance.

Lights came on around me, the small ones twinkling gold and silver, the big ornamental door lights enlighten slowly from deadly to brilliance.

The sharp smell of onions and garlic frying emitted from the house beneath. I wondered if Ms Perfectly –worn-sari was indeed cooking, or poring over her files while her maid stirred the contents of the pan.

The aroma of food made me feel a sharp hunger, but I stilled it, knowing that I had half an hour more, at least to go.

I contemplated the fact that no one stepped out of the dwelling, once inside. It was nevertheless the doors had sealed the inmates in and would not let them out till the next day. Cars kept coming in, depositing their occupants and then taking their positions for the night.

I scratched my ankle where a parasite had buffeted.

A parasite: Source: Google Images

Footsteps made me look up from an inspection of the bite, it was my cousin’ 30-year-old, who came running out of the cab on seeing me. He was remorseful. I conjectured why. The sunset had been an obligatory breathing space, which, I must admit I had enjoyed immensely. Then, it was time to let the house swallow me too.