As a child, befriending the khashi that we would eventually slaughter, by feeding it leaves (oh, how blissfully they bit into it, and chewed on it like an old man chewing on tobacco) and petting its soft peppered fur, was, for me at least, not that big a deal.
Some of us now abhor the Eid-ul-Azha blood and waste, the filth clogging up the arteries of the cities. Splattered streets and thick drains filling the air with odorous stench.
But, before that, I didn’t think much of it. It seemed only natural, ingrained into the Eid festivals.
Of course, it’s the Eid of sacrifice. It only makes sense, for that is how it’s always been done: Treat an animal like it’s your own and then kill it.
Later on, I was told that was the whole point. Kill something you love. Otherwise, there’s no sacrifice.
This was before all the liberalism and animal rights and the self-awareness set in. Before we realised that food on the table was once life with a beating heart. Before we wondered if non-humans had feelings, dreams, perceptions, pain.
Whether or not this is a good thing, I have yet to figure out. Do I miss some of those blood-splattered streets? Perhaps. Staring in awe at the spectacle of an angry cow as it wrestles before being eventually tipped over and ripped out roughly on the concrete, while other animals watch in silent surrender at what their future might look like.
It may not have been humane, but it felt like Eid to me at the time.
Nowadays, the animals are not there anymore. Occasionally, I see cattle being herded along the streets, while yells of “koto, bhai?” come from all sides (a piece of information I’ve never found any interest in) and, from the top of high-rise luxury apartments, one occasionally sees a head or two of a horned cow or goat mooing or bleating its apparent ignorance of the upcoming slaughter.
The Bakr Eid is a perfect microcosm for a country that finds itself being pulled in two directions, one of tradition and one of modernisation. Which traditions do we hold on to, which do we sacrifice?
But that’s about it. They have been replaced by slaughterhouses and designated public spaces. Or so they say. I haven’t been to one personally, but people tell me these are laudable initiatives. After all, who wants to see the death and blood and nari-bhuri? Not us, of acquired taste and lofty ambitions.
Even then, though, the size and price of the cattle determined status. Now, you hand out a few thousand Gs or a lakh (do the wealthy even think in thousands anymore; we livin’ in the lakhs now, baby), and your manservant herds a humongous cow to your door, which you can then cut up into pieces and give a portion to the needy and feel good about yourself and your religious sensibilities.
Not to pine for old times, but the idea of ritual sacrifice seemed full of meaning through a young boy’s eyes, a boy who knew little of the plethora of deep-rooted tradition and egotistical narcissism behind dishing out huge chunks of cash for multiple cows, portions of which were dedicated to dead members of the family when live ones ran out.
But let bygones be bygones. Now, it’s easier. Now, perhaps, some of us understand that ritualistic sacrifice, the idea of taking a life, cannot be as easy, or as brutal, as what we once used to witness.
New generation, upper-middlers may understand this, but the rest of the country, perhaps not.
Perhaps “understand” isn’t exactly the right word; it’s perspective.
The Bakr Eid is a perfect microcosm for a country that finds itself being pulled in two directions, one of tradition and one of modernisation. Which traditions do we hold on to, which do we sacrifice?
Is it possible to see the beauty in watching a young child feed leaves of grass to a goat while abhorring the eventual killing of the goat?
Is it possible to understand the importance of sacrificing an animal so that we, our neighbours, and the poor have something to eat in celebration while simultaneously empathising with the plight of the animals? Is it possible to understand those who go so inherently against what we ourselves believe in?
Yes, no, maybe. Some of us will ignore the government designated areas and enjoy the sight of dead animals in our driveways and lawns, wake up the next day and crinkle our noses at the disgusting smell of the gutters, blink judgementally at the distatefully blood-splattered streets, and comment on how the government doesn’t do enough to keep Dhaka clean.
We will shake our heads with the tupis on in disappointment and go to the mosque and then sit around a dining table gorging on excess.
We will look down at our plates and see the meat, and not realise that, when the animals left, they took our humanity with them.
