Through my reminisces of my residence in Plymouth, and the experience of re-visiting the place 22 years later, I would like to show you what a nice place Plymouth is.

That was in 1984-85.  Imagine having to do a professional assignment in a small, beautiful, holiday town by the sea! And getting to take your wife and 1 year old child. And being paid too!

We stayed on Eliott Street, on the top-floor of an ancient house in

Eloitt Street: Back after 22 years

the prettiest part of town called the Hoe

The Hoe is a manicured grassy hill sloping down to the bay. The hill is criss-crossed with paved walkways and lined with benches. A lighthouse stands up rather suddenly on one side.

The hill extends into a park which overlooks the small town below.

The Hoe is lined with several Bed-and-Breakfast hotels which are homestays and a great institution in England: squeaky clean, flowers on the window sill, and the lady stuffing you with the famous English breakfast every morning. Plymouth is a popular weekend sea-side resort, a walk-about town with lovely walks and B&B hotels and the Barbican, an area with cobbled streets and old-world shops and charm.

A B&B at the Hoe

I had later moved to the landlord’s own house on the Hoe, again on the top floor. My address was very impressive: 1, Esplanade, The Hoe!  It was a simple 3-story house, entirely lined with a red carpet, a regal staircase with a shiny brass balustrade running through all the floors. The Robinsons lived on the second floor. Almost every evening, Mr. Robinson would see me going up to my flat and call me in and play “I Had A Dream” on the piano and tell me how better it was than playing a Harmonium, the Indian keyboard which is played with one hand. The Robinsons were very generous with their wine and very kind to my wife and lovingly played with Jineesha, calling her “Babino”. I took the Robinsons to The Ganges, a very respectable, Indian restaurant well known for a mean vindaloo. The last I saw of Mr. Robinson was when he saw me off on the coach to Heathrow, giving a fiver to the driver telling him to “take care of my friend”.

My residence at 1, Esplanade. The 4 windows on top floor, 2 on each side of the corner

My favourite commute to the place of work took 15 minutes by the longest route! It would take me past a green patch where elderly people played Bouille (played with palm-size marbles over a 15-20 metre strip)….

Now: The green where old folk played Boules: my ol' residence seen between the trees

along the side of the hill…

Then: Rupa and li'l Jineesha on the path along the hill

then turning into the Town Hall

past the fountains, ….

Then: Li'l Jineesha and Rupa at the fountains

… past the town hall

22 years later: Rupa and Pravin at the Town hall

Then: Li'l Jini and Rupa at the Town Hall

— past the Dingles and Debenhams and Boots and Marks and Spencers and C&A

22 years later: at the City Centre

reaching Drake Circus, a round-about,

Then: Drake Circus

and finally, place of work, Western Trust & Savings building

22 years later: Western Trust & Savings building. My place of work, 3 windows above me in the pic

From my window on the third floor, I overlooked Drake Circus. I would see my wife come with the lunch, daughter in tow, and sit on a bench waiting for me. After work, my colleagues and I would make a brief stop at the pub located conveniently just outside our office building and the bachelors in our contingent would stay on till closing time. When one had to buy drinks for the other(s), the other(s) always ordered Glen Fiddich, much to one’s chagrin!

22 years later: I went back to Plymouth after 22 years with my wife Rupa and Jineesha, then all of 23 years, for a day-trip from London. It turned out to be a miserably wet day and we spent most of the time looking for shelter instead of reminiscing and telling Jineesha fondly of all the places and times when she was here as a 1-year old.

Is it Still the Same? Or is it not the same anymore?

Well somethings are gone forever, and somethings never change!

Then: at 10 Eliott Street, with Rupa and li'l Jineesha

22 years later, at 10 Eliott St, Rupa with no-longer-li'l Jineesha

Then: Li'l Jini and Pravin on Eliott Street

22 years later: Jineesha and Pravin at same spot on Eliott Street

Then: Li'l Jini and Rupa at the Hoe

22 years later: Jini and Rupa at same spot on The Hoe

We went to 10 Eliott and 1 Esplanade, knowing that the Robinsons would be long gone, and peeped through the door: the place looked entirely stripped down inside. The bank was shut, having been incorporated into a larger bank. The Drake Circus was gone, too.

So, is it still the same? or it is not the same anymore? Well, it leaves one sad to see the places, people and the times that one went seeking, gone forever. But the place is still as beautiful as before, and the memories are still as green as ever, and the fondness hasnt abated.

But more the times change, the more they remain the same.

Would be interesting to see what they were 5 decades ago, the issues that ruled centre-space, human values, social-economic conditions…

I looked at this through the prism of Guru Dutt’s work. Look at these lines from Guru Dutt’s Pyaasa (1957):

Yeh Mehlon, Yeh Takhton, Yeh Taajon Ki Duniya, 
Yeh Insaan Ke Dushman Samaajon Ki Duniya,
Yeh Daulat Ke Bhookhey Rawajon Ki Duniya,
Yeh Duniya Agar Mil Bhi Jaye To Kya Hai.

 (This World of palaces, thrones and crowns/ This World of societies which are enemies of mankind/ This World of parasites hungry for wealth/ What use even if you can clinch This World?)

and so the song goes on in a most fatalistic strain, ending with the hero exhorting all to burn “this world”.

Doesn’t look much different from today, does it?

Next, Guru Dutt as a simple, naive accountant observes the decadence of the very rich in a world of the very poor in his production Sahib, Bibi aur Ghulam. This, and the lines above from Pyaasa ring a striking bell when today, 55 years later, Occupy Wall Street protests are going around the world against corporate greed.

The enigma that he was, Guru Dutt, the maker of classic depressing movies also acted in, and directed several light romantic films too and championed optimism rather than defeatism. In his production Baazi, he made the cabaret dancer tell Dev Anand that if he had faith in himself, he should play the game of his life (at a poker table) and change his bad destiny to good destiny (apne pe bharosaa hai to ye daav lagaa le).  Just a couple of years before the depressingly classic Pyaasa, Guru Dutt produced CID (1955), a film starring the debonair  Dev Anand, which had a popular foot-tapping hit filmed on the comedian Johnny Walker and his muse, riding on a tonga (horse carriage) on Mumbai’s Marine Drive. It is sung to the tune of O my darling, O my darling, O my darling Clementine, but with more zip.

Aye dil hai mushkil, jeena yahan
jara hat ke jara bach ke, yeh hai bambai meri jaan

(O my love its difficult to live here;
mind your step, be alert, this is Bambai my dear)

Kahin building, kahin tramein, kahin motor, kahin mill
milta hai yahan sab kuchh, ek milta nahi dil
insaan ka nahi, kahin namo nishan
jara hat ke jara bach ke, yeh hai bombay meri jaan
ae dil hai mushkil – -

(Somewhere Buildings, somewhere trams, somewhere motor cars, somewhere factories,
here you get everything, one thing you don’t get is a heart
there is no sign of a human being anywhere
Mind your step, be alert, this is Bambai my love…)

kahin satta kahin patta, kahin chori kahin race
kahin daaka khain faaqa, kahin thokar kahin thes
bekaaro ke hain, kai kaam yahan
jara hat ke jara bach ke, yeh hai bombay meri jaan
ae dil hai mushkil – - -

(somewhere speculation, somewhere cards, somewhere theivery,  somewhere races
somewhere dacoity, somewhere bluster, somewhere you trip, somewhere you fall
worthless people have lots of work here
Mind your step, be alert, this is Bambai my love… )

Beghar ko aawara, yahan kahate hans hans
khud kaate gale sab ke, kahein is ko bizness
ek cheez ke hain, kai naam yahan
jara hat ke jara bach ke, yeh hai bombay meri jaan
ae dil hai mushkil – - -

(People) Here derisively call the homeless as tramps
They cut the throats of everybody and call it business
The same thing has lots of names here
Mind your step, be alert, this is Bambai my love…

and so on…

Bombay, or Bambai, or Mumbai, was even then, 5 decades ago,  the city of opportunity, where people were sure to be rewarded for their hard work and enterprise, but it would not be easy, life would be difficult.

The heroine replies to Johnny Walker in the closing stanza of the song thus:

Bura duniya ko hai kahata, aisa bhola to na ban
jo hai karta woh hai bharta, hai yahan ka yeh chalan
yeh hai bombay yeh hai bombai, yeh hai bombai meri jaan

((You are ) calling the world as bad, don’t be so naive
“As you sow, so shall you reap” is the ethos of this place
This is Bambai, this is Bombay, this is Bombay my dear)

Beneath the new acquired trappings  of modern living, it is still the same, isn’t it?

As a popular ’70′s Bob Seger number goes ”Still the same, still the same, everything is still the same”.

Visuals from many a famous river scenes set in the Bengal milieu, like Saratchandra’s Khushboo, and Bimal Roy’s Bandini, are like frozen frames in memory. I recalled images of Uttam Kumar standing at the bow of a motor launch, pondering over his fate in the film Amanush, and here I was, standing on the bow of a boat on the Brahmaputra, staring at the expansive river at Majuli, world’s largest river island, near Jorhat in Assam state of India.

That I have also been to the source of this awesome river made this day on the river special for me. That was in 1984, in the first year that China allowed Indians to visit Mansarovar Lake and Mount Kailash in Tibet by trekking route through Kumaon and the Lipu Lekh pass. The Brahmaputra trickles as a stream from Mansarovar lake at 4,500m altitude.

The Brahmaputra is very severe and also very bountiful. On one hand, it lords over the Assam plains often causing havoc, death and destruction. On the other, it rejuvenates the region with enormous tonnes of fresh soil every year.

Beethoven or Hemant Kumar?

I had captured the scene in a video. To this I added

1.  Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata Opening Movement to create a 3-minute audio-visual film that will fill you with the magic of Johann Strauss’ Blue Danube.  Turn on your speakers, and click http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FVkSF8MVeHI.

2. Hemant Kumar’s “O Nodi Re” to create another video that will bring you the river culture and whiff of rural Bengal. Turn on your speakers, and click http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=77X1C2N7qXE.

Listen to both videos at a quiet, peaceful time. In both versions, you will feel the serenity, the spirituality and the becalming effect of the moment. Vote for the version which gave you more pleasure by participating in the poll below.

May the tranquility be with you.

Sunset on the Brahmaputra on one side of boat

Full moon rise on other side of boat

The Father of the Bride is a funny movie in which Steve Martin plays the title role to perfection. He finds himself on the fringes of the wedding preparation, generally ignored by the bride-to-be daughter, the wife and the various vendors in their enthusiasm and frenzy of activity. He watches the to-do from the sidelines. He is left out of the planning, feels lonely, waits for the time when the family will have the time, and keeps paying  the bills. In one tender scene, on the night before the wedding, father and daughter shoot some baskets in their courtyard as the girl wishes to relive one of the precious moments of her childhood home and freeze it in memory.

An acute bout of melancholia inflicts itself after a daughter’s wedding. A Gujarati poet who wrote under the pseudo name of “Daad”, in his poem named “કાળજા કેરો કટકો ગાંઠ થી છૂટી ગ્યો”  (“kaaljaa kero katko, gaanth thi chhoti gyo” – Part of my heart snatched from of my soul), says, “લૂંટાઈ ગ્યો મારો લાઙ ખજાનો, અને ‘દાદ’ હુ જોતો રહ્યો” (“lootai gyo maaro laad khajano, aney Daad hu joto hryo” – I was robbed of my dear treasure, and Daad, I could just watch). In a line from the poem, he says that when the bride crosses the doorstep of her house, she finds “ઙૂંગ્રા જેવો ઉંબરો” (“doongra jevo oombro” – crossing the doorstep is like climbing a mountain). The poem ends with the father surveying the wedding shamiana, which was bursting with people and activity, now empty, calls it “હું તો સૂનો માંઙવઙો“  (“hu to soono maandavdo” – I am like this lonely wedding mandap). http://tahuko.com/?p=587

There are 3 defining moments and enduring images from the wedding that are permanently etched in the mind can be replayed all through life:

• The first, when the girl steps out of the parents house (which the poet Daad calls the mountain-like doorstep);
• The second, when the bride enters the mandap, looking like a fairy, shimmering as she walks towards her waiting father and the groom, perhaps the longest journey of her life;
• The third, when the bride and groom, now husband and wife, walk off from the mandap, while all along the aisle, family, relatives and friends bid a tearful farewell.

Back in the house after the wedding, the guests have gone back to their homes; the decorations cheer for no one, like a guest at an event where no one has turned up; the shelves and drawers that the girl has emptied stare accusingly; the decorative lights are off, tomorrow they will be brought down; hired staff will be retired, and family will resume professional and routine activity.

Isn’t it remarkable that preparations leading to a much-awaited event take 3 months, while it takes just 3 days after the event to relegate it to history?

I go to my piano and play “… bring back, oh bring back, oh bring back my bonnie to me”.

Eventually, she did step into my car, and we embarked on a journey together, which has not stopped for 30 years this day.

She came crying into my home and into my family, she put her trust in me and her destiny, and today she is in charge of my heart, my home, my family and all the keys!

It would belittle her to say that I love her – the phrase sounds so hollow, so juvenile - for that would mean she is someone else, external to me, while actually she is part of me; she is me, what is known in the English world as the better half, or in India as ardh-aang-ini.

The daily headlines on Egypt remind me of the time when I, as a vagabond on the way home after a couple of years in USA, was in Egypt. I had been on the road for 90 days, having traversed from the snow fields of the Arctic Circle to the desert sands of Egypt. I found myself at a dead-end in Cairo, surveying my assets: one suit case, US$40 and a stand-by ticket to Mumbai.

$40 could not last me much, even in inexpensive Egypt. I was accosted frequently by foreign currency touts and I finally decided to answer one of them, thinking that I might make enough profit to let me stay a couple of days more. The tout took me through a labyrinth of alleys in a Cairo slum and in the end, presented me to a regal looking person seated in a chair with 3-4 people standing around him: he was a local don. The tout told him, “This young man would like to exchange some dollars”.

The don asked me “How much?”

By now I had realised my stupidity. I replied, sheepishly, “Er… ten dollars?”

The don stared at me for a couple of minutes. The silence was palpable. Finally, possibly concluding that I was a simple kid, he told the lout to see me to the main road, and dismissed me with a wave of his hand.

* * * *

So now, I had to head home. I had a stand by TWA ticket that I could use on any airline. On a standby ticket, I would have to wait till the last passenger had checked in and then try my luck. So I left the youth hostel in the evening and reached the airport. I found that there were no flights between Cairo and Bombay as there was a dispute between Air India and Egypt Air. I remember going over to an Arabic airliner which was going to Jeddah, hoping to get a connecting flight, but was turned away by the airline.

That night, I checked my bag in the cloak room, and slept on the floor of the Cairo airport.

* * * *

I went to Tahrir Square  - yes the famous Tahrir square which these days is host to  a million (!) protesters – to the office of Pakistan International Airlines (PIA). It was afternoon, and I was clueless, hungry and sleepy. The middle-aged Pakistani lady was very kind. Those were the days when the airline office would send a “telex” to the head office and wait for confirmation. While sitting at the counter waiting for the return telex, I actually slept face down on the counter and the lady let me. When I opened my eyes, she greeted me with the news that my ticket was confirmed from Cairo to Bombay with a stopover at Karachi in Pakistan. I thanked her, but wondered at the irony of travelling by the carrier of an enemy country, and the prospect of stopping over in that hostile country.

* * * *

Pravin Gandhi and Abdullah at the Giza Pyramid

There were (at that time) several youth who would hang around Tahrir Square, mostly the educated unemployed. I met one such young man at one of the innumerable cafe’s where people spend hours drinking thick, strong, black tea and playing backgammon. Abdullah, his name was, I think, and I would be right 5 times out of 10. He accompanied me all day while I walked around the Sphinx and the pyramids. I could not shake him off, but he was a very helpful guide too. And he was not doing it for money. Actually he was a nice young man, educated, intelligent. When we parted, he gave me a kiss on both cheeks! I put it to the Arabic custom.

* * *

I travelled to Luxor, more famous now for Bollywood songs shot there rather than its heritage. I am sure Indian tourists would not marvel at the the grand temples and treasures and the Nile river, but would be more excited that Akshay Kumar and Katrina sang “Ji Karda” here. It was an overnight journey from Cairo railway station. The unreserved coach was full and I sat on the floor along with several other locals, who were very warm and loquacious. Everybody chatted through the night, and I didn’t sleep a wink.

Pravin Gandhi and Belgian fellow vagabond at Luxor, Egypt

On the return journey, I took a first class ticket, using up a few dollars. The first class coach had a few cabins. I got a coupe, which is a unit of 2 bunks, and I had the upper bunk. For a while, I was seated at the window, chatting with the other passenger in a dark brown suit. After a while, he took out a bottle of wine, and poured a glass for me. After a few polite refusals, and not willing to pass off any freebie that came my way, I accepted. When we were done, he suddenly grabbed me! I pushed him away and said something to him, after which he became very quiet. I went up to my bunk. I didn’t find him in the coach in the morning when the train rolled into Cairo.

* * *

Pravin Gandhi at the Suez Canal

I was in Port Said, at the mouth of the famed Suez Canal. It was a smuggler’s paradise. I bought some cologne  (Lancombe or something) for my elder brother, who wanted a perfume called “Worth”. My brother would quietly take it but would be disappointed, so fond was he of that brand, but it cost several dollars. I felt sorry about it. Then, I watched the Suez Canal, and the ships passing through it, marvelling at this ingenious piece of engineering and the-then British political + economic wisdom which cut tens of thousands of miles of sea route. Those were the days, when nothing required any security, and I could stand right there, walk along the canal, undisturbed.

Post Said is about a 3 hour drive from Cairo. I took a share-a-cab Peogeot taxi with 3 other locals, who were – you guessed it – chatterboxes. I remember expressing that I wanted to see an oasis in the desert, and voila, we did stop at a palm-fringed Oasis and ate some dates.

* * *

Looking back, I might have been living dangerously and travelled with brigands. I could have been robbed, mugged, or worse,  abused. But I hadn’t felt unsafe at all and found the people extremely friendly. In fact, I feel enriched, as I always do, when I mingle with the local scene in my travels.

* * *

I went to the main post office and booked a call to home. When I was connected, someone from my family at the other end gasped, “Where are you, we are so anxious!!!” I said quietly, “I am coming home” and gave him the flight details.

The prodigal son was returning home.

* * * But that little journey was also eventful. But that is another subject, for another day.

(regret that translation is impossible: there is more feeling than words in the above lines)

If there is anything that can bring a tear to a father, it is this.

When father’s little girl shows the picture and profile of a young man and informs her desire to make him her life partner, a wide spectrum of emotions sweeps over him. A moment-by-moment account:

That first magical moment:  taken by surprise which transforms to elation like a bud blooming into a flower in fast-forward; numbness at the sudden and abrupt full-stop to a process of searching for a suitable groom. Giggling siblings secretly film this moment.

Next moment, when realisation dawns that indeed, she has made an appropriate, mature choice, actually an excellent choice, one feels admiration, pride, a mental admission that she has done better than her parents could have; a grudging admission that daddy’s little girl has become a woman.

In the next moments, it is how, when, where, with much laughter and rolling of the eyes over the wooing and the marriage proposal.

Next moment: Relief! 1 down. A mountain lifted from the shoulders. A warm feeling of relaxation fills the body like a sip of neat brandy. The tiredness drains from the body like water when the lid is lifted from the sink.

Next: One starts to visualise the to-do over the next few months: there will be new relationships to be made, much giving and receiving, making bookings, shopping; the house will be full of family and friends,singing and laughing, decorating and arranging, informing and inviting. One thinks of Madhuri Dixit and recalls scenes from Hum Aap ke Hai Kaun. One also recalls the father Steve Martin in the film Father of the Bride. There would be long-awaited celebrations.

Next moment, however, in mock sternness, the father tells the girl, “Well, he will have to talk to me first”.

Work-life balance

At least the man has a choice!

There are some who do not have the luxury of choosing: emburdened by expectation and responsibility at any stage of life.

Some make a mental note to pursue their favourite, latent wish “some day”, and drive on.

(I remember the popular song, in which a fetching Zeenat Aman, in a wet, clinging sari, dancing in a garden in the rain, inviting a Manoj Kumar who is standing under a shelter on his way to a work interview, to join her. The words are

Hai Hai Ye Majboori                                 Woe to your helpnessness
Ye mausam aur ye doori                         (Why) This distance in such an ambiance
Mujhe pal pal hai tadpaaye                     Every moment I wonder
Teri do takiyaa di naukri                         Your two bits worth of job
Mera Laakho kaa saawan jaaye            While my millions worth of romance fritters away

You can see the song sequence at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a6T2mVXFPT8 The sequence might look a bit corny by today’s standards, but Zeenat Aman of 70′s vintage still sizzles without being daring compared to today’s sirens).

****

There are some firmly entrenched in one of the two worlds, seemingly not caring for the other. They have already made the choice.

And then there are some who have the best of both worlds, who do not need to make a choice.

Once when I was a kid, my father took me to his office in central Mumbai to keep me from pesking my mother during the summer holidays. There, to keep me from pesking him and his staff , he asked his peon to buy tickets for a film in the cinema house nearby, which was showing ”Professor”, a Shammi Kapoor hit. When I returned to his office, I boasted that during the movie I stood up and sang all the songs when they came on the screen, and viewers around me applauded me and egged me to sing louder! Leading to much amusement in my father’s office, lol!

Shammi is still my favourite, along with Dev Anand – the two were competitors in the same light romantic genre – I have seen all his movies from the rebellious 50’s to the swinging 60’s to the colour movies of the 70’s.

My house in Mumbai is just a two minute walk from where the famous Kapoor clan of Indian cinema lived. For 11 years I walked past their street 2 times every day on the way to and from school.

The famous trio of Kapoor brothers studied in my school. Once, Shashi Kapoor was the chief guest at the Republic Day parade and assembly, and I heard him disinterestedly, squatting on the school grounds with all the other students. Just the other day, forty five years later, I saw Shashi Kapoor, sitting quietly alone, at the Prithvi theatre. I went up to him, meaning to talk to him about the neighbourhood that we shared. I shouted, “How are you, sir!” He replied testily, “I can still hear very well”. I beat a hasty retreat.

I never saw any of the 3 famous brothers while I was in school. I did once see their father, the grand Prithviraj driving a jalopy out of his street. However, my father-in-law, who also grew up in this neighbourhood, speaks of the time when they used to play cricket, with a grand tree for stumps. If Raj or Shammi walked by, they would ask to bat for some time, with an eye on the tram route. The moment they saw a tram leave a station, they would fling the bat and run to catch it at the next stop. Film stars were common folk and did not have airs in those days.

In the sixties, during the 10-day Ganesh festival, housing societies would show movies in the building compounds. The films of that time were clean, fun, family films with great songs, most of them Dev Anand or Shammi Kapoor films. At around 9 pm, entire families would come out of their flats with mats and chairs, and squat. The film was screened on a dhoti, and those sitting on the other side of the dhoti would see a mirror image. When one reel ended, there would be a wait for the next reel to be brought by a person on a bicycle from another venue. Ganesh festivals were the days when I watched all Dev Anand films, Jab Pyaar Kisi Se Hota Hai, Tere Ghar ke Saamne, Nau Do Gyara, Hum Dono, Asli Naqli, Munimji, etc.; and Shammi Kapoor films like Dil Deke Dekho, Bluff Master, Tum Sa Nahi Dekha, China Town; and assorted films like Gumnaam and Ashok Kumar’s Howrah Bridge. All Black and White films. The comedian would be Rajendra Kumar and the villain would be a Pran or K.N. Singh. Funny, I’ve watched so many movies on a dhoti, lol!

Shammi Kapoor styled himself on Elvis Presley in action and singing. Watch this video of a Dil Deke Dekho song: a better-than-original adaptation of a Paul Anka number: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xvfzi_J6FNw. Songs of Shammi films were usually merry songs. O.P. Nayyar, Mohammed Rafi and Asha Bhosle belted number after number of hits for him, with great lyrics too.

An iconic Shammi Kapoor scene is the classic “Govinda Aala Re” number from Bluff Master, shot on Janmashtami day with real crowds and amidst the chawls of Dadar. Shammi actually climbed the human pyramid to break the handi, and gave a genuine shot in the genuine ambience of the festival. To-date it remains the authentic video of a Govinda song.

To conclude, Yun to hamne laakh hasin dekhe hai, Tumsa (Shammi jaisa) nahi dekha

This is neither a post on religion, nor an argument for vegetarianism. This is an ethical issue, an issue of cruelty, a passionate cry against sacrifice of animals in the name of religion, or faith, be it Hindus sacrificing goats and chicken for Devi, or Muslims slaughtering an animal on the occasion of Eid, or Christians killing millions of turkey on Thanksgiving day.

While passing through Guwahati my relative expressed desire to visit the famous Kamakshi temple. I warned her but she still wanted to go. There, she was shocked to know that animals – goats, chicken, and pidgeons – are regularly brought by devotees for slaughter inside the temple and offered to the goddess. Fortunately we did not see any slaughter taking place. I got into an argument with a pandaa on the subject of a government ban on animal sacrifice. He shouted at me “Let the government dare to ban the slaughter! There will be riots! Devi/Shakti will lose her power if denied the sacrifice”. I left the place, appalled: I hadn’t intended to go there anyway, and I stay clear of Kalighat when in Kolkata.

Sacrificial Goat

The whole belief and ritual is so ridiculous and cruel. It is not only the poor, rural illiterate who believe in this practice, many of our ministers are known to sacrifice goats in appeasement of the goddess in the expectation of jinxing an opponent or winning an election. An Indian cricket team captain has reportedly offered a goat as “thanks” and praying for continued success.

Likewise, the slaughter of animals on Eid, a symbolism for the sacrifice of a mythological  son in a medieval time, is equally cruel. Hundreds of millions of animals – goats, camels, cattle – are slaughtered on that day as substitute for a son in the belief that it will be considered as passing a trial as tough as that of the original. Educated people and celebrities proudly announce the astronomical sums they paid for a sacrificial goat. To add to this is the cruel practice of halal, letting (and watching) the animal die struggling and thrashing for life, bleeding to death, while the faithful prays.  It is not merely that millions of animals are slaughtered on Bakri-Eid, it is the torture to death of millions of animals that is appalling. Compare this practice with the animal world, no animal is cruel to its prey.

Christians celebrate Thanksgiving Day by eating turkey. Millions of turkey are killed to “thank” God! This feast is supposedly to commemorate the survival of European settlers through their first winter due to the abundance of buzzards and fowl in the region. It is also to commemorate the supposed friendship with native Indians who taught them what to eat and how to hunt. It is another matter that the day after the original Thanksgiving (October 19-21, 1621), the Pilgrims reportedly killed all the native Indians who had anything to do with the original Thanksgiving. It is also claimed that 25 November was celebrated annually by Christian Spaniards  - “thankful” to God for the surrender in 1491 by the Arab moors who had been ruling Spain since 711 AD – by gory and bawdy acts of cannibalism on black slaves called “Turks”.

A particular faith may advise killing animals for food, but not celebrating in an orgy of carnivorous bloodbath. These are all human interpretations and therefore fallible and subject to individual scrutiny and questioning, calling for the exercise of one’s own rational discretion and thinking.

If symbolism is what one wants, then one could take the example of the Hindu practice to break a coconut, or offer coconuts in yagna kund (I think I am sure that the coconut is a substitute for an animal in a ritual of sacrifice). This shows that an emancipated view, re-interpretation and adaptation of an ancient belief is indeed possible.

All faiths preach compassion. Compassion extends even to the animals killed for food. But it is only humans who are cruel to their prey, no animal is cruel to its prey.

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References:
Eid al-Azha, the Festival of Sacrifice (http://islam.about.com/od/hajj/a/adha.htm)
Jive Turkey (http://www.dherbs.com/articles/turkey-10.html)
People for Ethical Treatment of Animals ( www.peta.org, www.petaindia.org)