So the Eid-ul-Azha has come and gone. This time on, it was a little different from the previous years -- in that there were fewer animal haats, both within and beyond the city limits. Therefore, less dirt and deposits of the animals were seen. Additionally, the spots where the animals could be slaughtered were predetermined by the municipal corporations and, though this was not followed religiously, the city was suitably cleaned soon after Eid.
Therefore, the city did not suffer the stench that follows this festival. But of course, there were altercations and occasional fights for the meat given to the poor from the prosperous households. All these were there, but there were things different from the run-of-the-mill that also happened. I understand that cows this year were limited in supply and, therefore, the prices were high.
Indeed, very high for some of the middle-class Bangladeshis, enough to shy away from the age-old custom. As a result, fewer cows were slaughtered. Also, strange though it may seem, people started questioning the intent with which animals are slaughtered. To some, at least in some cases, the whole exercise seemed ostentatious and unnecessary.
But what made my day is a banner I came across in one area of Old Dhaka. Adapted from Bangla, it’d read: “Do not kill the animals of the wild. Kill the animal within you.”
Witnessed by me several years ago, the slogan reappeared this year at least somewhere. Isn’t this fascinating? I think this is the most profound appeal I have come across in a long time. Kill the animal within you. I think this most extraordinary slogan alone, if adhered to, could make life so much more meaningful and blissful for all of us.
What is more, it gives me a tremendous sense of hope about the future of Bangladesh. A Bangladesh where we have become used to talking about all the negative things in our daily conversation, where despondency is our everyday companion, where we do not find any reason to come back to our country if we can barely make a living abroad.
Earlier in the morning and before I saw the banner, I had met an aunt who lives on the ground floor of a respectable residential apartment complex. This year, the occupants of the apartments had decided to slaughter the animals within the compound and in the car park of the complex. And by chance, the place they selected for this was next to my aunt’s bedroom window.
She was very disturbed by the sight of animal after animal being slaughtered, skinned, cut, and chopped. What disturbed her most was that a band of very young boys were sitting and watching all these from the adjacent wall. Felling of each animal resulted in a gleeful outburst. My old aunt commented: “I could literally see a band of young thugs being inducted into the trade of indulging in the violence that has become endemic to our society of late.” Her comment made me appreciate the banner even more.
But the question remains, and it may well be asked by devout Muslims, should we abstain from practising gestures of sacrifice during the celebration of Eid-ul-Azha? I would hazard an answer to this question through a counter question. Let us put our hands on our hearts and ask how many of us sacrifice animals with the true spirit of the tradition.
Don’t we indulge in a competition of buying the most expensive animal with an attitude of exhibitionism and obtrusiveness? Don’t our eyes light up at the prospect of savouring the taste of the choice cuts of the animals we have so eagerly brought home from the haat to sacrifice in the name of God? Does that animal ever become our most loved and most prized possession, the sacrifice of which should meet the spirit of Qurbani? Do we genuinely care about the fate of the teeming millions of the destitute that comprise the majority of our population and can’t even afford one square meal a day?
In fact, in our present day Bangladesh, beasts are not nearly as beastly as the human beings. Isn’t it the beast within most of us that should be sacrificed first on such occasions?
