Appeasing the Gods.

As I mentioned, I wrote a story in my literary memoir class this semester about my experience at the Kali Temple in Kolkata. I want to share it with you because I'm pretty proud of it but also because it accurately describes that temple and sacrifice experience. That being said, I'm not sure if it as vividly describes the horror as my friend Simon did in his post, so if you're feeling particularly bloodthirsty, go check out what he had to say about Eid al-Adha here.

Now, I present my micro-memoir (a piece of creative nonfiction in 500 words or less), "Appeasing the Gods".

Warm sunlight drips down on me like melted butter, tinting everything yellow-gold, making my skin sticky and glistening, yet the air is cool playing with a gentle breeze. The morning is still fresh at the Kali Temple in Kolkata, the Indian air not quite as oppressive in December as it will become August. Though early, the temple is far from peaceful. In fact, this temple is the least peaceful of any I’ve been in over the past four months. Yelling men peddle flower garlands for offerings, bells clang from towers, and prayers I can’t comprehend are shouted in Bengali. All around me, the cacophony of lost souls pierces my morning.

I stand with a cluster of other foreigners waiting for our companions to make their way through the temple’s halls. Tiny, feral puppies roam the cobbled stones searching for food scraps and affection that I can’t provide. I hate animals, but they are so precious it hurts not to tangle my fingers in their mangy fur.

We’ve been warned that each day a live kid is sacrificed here. We were told on entry that the time had already passed, but suddenly the clanging gets louder, the shouting more fervent, and we are informed that the slaughter has just now taken place. Some of my companions hurry off to witness this strange ritual. I am rooted, unwilling to observe the brutality. I wait. The courtyard settles back to its previous level of chaos.

Someone abruptly warns us not to look and my eyes are instantly drawn over her shoulder, where I don’t see the man as much as I see what his hands are holding: the left, a pair of hooves by the ankle; the right, a scruff of hair from which dangles a head complete to just under the jaw. He walks in lurching, laden steps, the rump of the kid dragging, smearing the blood that drips from its neck, its hind legs standing straight up until another man steps in behind him and lifts them so the rump doesn’t drag, leaving a spotted trail behind them as they round the next corner.

After this parade has finished its procession, the puppies tumble in to lick up the bright jewels left behind just as the birds ate the crumbs Hansel and Gretel dropped. Kali is satiated now, appeased by the blood of an innocent animal, licked clean by the tongues of simple creatures. As we leave the temple, someone tells me its cries sounded human, sounded like his own young sons crying, as they brought it to the altar. I am left thinking about the cries of God. The cries of Jesus as he walked himself to the altar. My tongue licking up the drips of blood he left behind that day, finding nourishment and love in this world where nobody else makes contact.