I learned at last that Kolcata is 10 hours ahead of Philadelphia. Today began as follows, but I could not take photographs because the scene was entirely too intimate:
Goat and Dog
This morning I walked in the gray, muffled heat of early
India street life and came upon a butcher who was skinning a goat. I stood, stunned but mesmerized as he tidily
stretched and pulled off the skin, little by little, washing the raw, naked
goat down with water and making little cuts to ease off the black, hairy
skin. The goat was hung by his two back
legs, the tips of which were still black and hairy. Its bloody head was prominently displayed on
the wooden table, its ears lying bedraggled and listless beside it on the
table.
The man finally slithered the whole skin off the goat as it
dangled, slippery and shiny, from its two black hoofs. He balled up the skin and tossed it under the
wooden table. Then, he went back to work
eviscerating the goat with a slit down its belly. A bloated stomach slithered out, along with
other bulbous innards encased in their thin membranes; the man began slowly,
slowly pulling on a long stringy intestine that seemed to go on forever. He gathered together the jiggling life forces
and tossed them casually over the wall into the rubble behind it. He cut off a leg and some ribs for an
awaiting customer and chopped it into small pieces, placing gently each piece
onto the scale. Just then I heard the
bleat of a little goat.
I walked down the street where a local stray dog was sitting
on his haunches looking up at a woman at her window. He sat in the dead middle of the street. I looked at his longing eyes, his obeisant
stance, and then I looked up at the woman and smiled at her, nodding my head in
encouragement. She looked up and down
the street and then threw out to the dog a big piece of bread. I made clapping gestures up at the woman, we
smiled at each other, and the dog bound into the road to gather up his
breakfast.
I hoped the woman was not going to be eating goat for dinner
this evening.
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