During my commute every day, I see upended chicken hanging from the handle-bars of bicycles, bunched at the legs, tied with any tie, tight according to the mercy of who pulled the knot. I see them bunched up and lying about the feet of men in rickshaws: their slender necks rest on the edge of foot-boards and their heads fall over. Scooters ferry lamb one at a time, legs on either side, belly on the lap of the pillion rider, its eyes darting left and right. At Madivala, butchers cut up and tuck the flesh of lamb each in its own gut. The sacs hang before shop-fronts the way flower-strings dangle on stall-fronts at Gandhi Bazaar and Malleshwaram.

I ask Sujaya and Yashas if they can be vegetarian like me. They say I am unkind to say that.