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.
