A Meaty Matter

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 tied just like that and lying about the feet of men in rikshaws: their slender necks rest on the edge of foot-boards and their heads hang over. Scooters ferry lamb one at a time, two legs on either side, its belly resting on the lap of the pillion rider, its ever-bemused face looking left and right and 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 flowers are hung in Gandhi Bazaar and Malleshwaram.

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