the invisible hands
The WHO has all sorts of damning statistics, but for the moment the one that matters
to me is that the global death rate is 100 deaths per minute.
Why am I concerned, you ask? Well, I did not have a near-death experience or something
close to that to make me pay attention to death, suddenly. It
is amazing how much we fear death. But today, I looked around me for a day and realized that the ubiquity of death is so real we are lucky to live. Try and see what I mean.
The food could choke you, a car could knock you down, or heart attack, or Osama, or something else. I was at an abattoir the other day. What I saw shocked me and for once I confirmed that indeed I have a tinge of escapism in me.
(The first time I realized this, I was out bowling with an acquaintance. Having finished his
soda, my friend-to-be turned his thirst on my soda. Unluckily for him, I bowled a little earlier than expected and when I turned…there he was, sipping my drink with ignominy all over his face. I turned my back on him and closed my eyes, instinctively. I might not be an ostrich but sure I needed some sand. Then I realized I am not the “nail” I thought I was. I digress.)I still insist I am not the type of person to close my eyes and ignore uncomfortable
situations. I do not mind staring at chicken getting their heads pulled off or lizards getting their wriggly tails stoned off. I mean, I did it, and I loved it! But last week…! I know animals have rights and all that KWS shebang, but animals also provide food for billions. So you choose food or animal rights? You answer that.
At the abattoir, the smell of animal blood is rife, albeit momentarily. To some, the
sounds are pitiable. Chicken cackling and crowing in unavoidable anxiety as they
witness their fellow birds-in- distress go from life to food in a matter of seconds. My favorite
type of death is the “sheep- death”. I was taught of “kufa kikondoo” and it was here that I realized that Swahili too has some truth in it. These beasts die as calm as Hindu cows. No
bleats no kicks, nothing. And I love it that way. Goats on the other hand are an embarrassment to death. They kick and scream and wail and I am sure one of these fine days…a goat will talk to a man. Wait and see. Maybe before goats talk to men, chicken will.
“Sasa wewe mchamaa, ni ache na kutuchincha chincha kila siku.
Nachua unapenda kuku lakini
sasa wewe hii yako ni karipu na
ugonchwa. Swine flu, bird flu,
anthrax…bado wewe unatuonea tu.” And that will mark the end of the “inhumane” deaths of chicken in the “West”. The experience was fun, until I
saw the process of cutting up
the animals into pieces. I will hold
that for a moment. Okay,
imagine an electric hacksaw
blade…moving at a speed capable of dissecting a cow’ s head in less than five seconds… remember that hacksaws are
used to cut metal…then see an image of a man sliding pieces of
beef, mutton, pork and mutton
along the machine. The
manufacturers, in all their
humanity, placed a photo of a
bleeding human hand with chopped off fingers right at the
eye-level of the machine. Talk of
idiot savants and flashes of
brilliance! I watched the cow heads slide
down the metal plate, as brains
and all the “nasties” slimed off in a disgusting manner. The
meat-smith went on, in a rather
avant-garde manner. Sliding the
meats right until the blade
where he would then part his
hands and let the blade do its job. Any slight miscalculation and
his fingers are no more. (Bear in
mind that this man works from
morning till late afternoon, eight
hours of almost sliding your
fingers along an unforgiving blade). Everyone walks in beefing
about the smell and sounds, until
they see the man at the blade.
Silence blankets the abattoir
and some leave hurriedly.
Apparently he is used to silencing all excited meat-lovers
and converts their appetite to
pity and awe. The finesse with
which he slides meats down the
rail and separate his hands just
before they are sliced off is admirable, but only for a second.
He does it skillfully, as if by
invisible hands. I watched him for a while; then
sometime during the wait, I
realize that my eyes have shut
themselves again. Escapism or
humanity, I cannot tell. Then, as
I go back home I think of the millions of people who drink dirty
water, and the people who are
in war-torn zones, and the kids
I saw on NTV living on and in a
cemetery, and the million more
who go without food, and I am hit. Whether it is the man by
the blade, or the kid by the
muddy waters, there is an
invisible hand that takes care of
all humans. There is a thin line between
truth and fiction.
This is that line.
to me is that the global death rate is 100 deaths per minute.
Why am I concerned, you ask? Well, I did not have a near-death experience or something
close to that to make me pay attention to death, suddenly. It
is amazing how much we fear death. But today, I looked around me for a day and realized that the ubiquity of death is so real we are lucky to live. Try and see what I mean.
The food could choke you, a car could knock you down, or heart attack, or Osama, or something else. I was at an abattoir the other day. What I saw shocked me and for once I confirmed that indeed I have a tinge of escapism in me.
(The first time I realized this, I was out bowling with an acquaintance. Having finished his
soda, my friend-to-be turned his thirst on my soda. Unluckily for him, I bowled a little earlier than expected and when I turned…there he was, sipping my drink with ignominy all over his face. I turned my back on him and closed my eyes, instinctively. I might not be an ostrich but sure I needed some sand. Then I realized I am not the “nail” I thought I was. I digress.)I still insist I am not the type of person to close my eyes and ignore uncomfortable
situations. I do not mind staring at chicken getting their heads pulled off or lizards getting their wriggly tails stoned off. I mean, I did it, and I loved it! But last week…! I know animals have rights and all that KWS shebang, but animals also provide food for billions. So you choose food or animal rights? You answer that.
At the abattoir, the smell of animal blood is rife, albeit momentarily. To some, the
sounds are pitiable. Chicken cackling and crowing in unavoidable anxiety as they
witness their fellow birds-in- distress go from life to food in a matter of seconds. My favorite
type of death is the “sheep- death”. I was taught of “kufa kikondoo” and it was here that I realized that Swahili too has some truth in it. These beasts die as calm as Hindu cows. No
bleats no kicks, nothing. And I love it that way. Goats on the other hand are an embarrassment to death. They kick and scream and wail and I am sure one of these fine days…a goat will talk to a man. Wait and see. Maybe before goats talk to men, chicken will.
“Sasa wewe mchamaa, ni ache na kutuchincha chincha kila siku.
Nachua unapenda kuku lakini
sasa wewe hii yako ni karipu na
ugonchwa. Swine flu, bird flu,
anthrax…bado wewe unatuonea tu.” And that will mark the end of the “inhumane” deaths of chicken in the “West”. The experience was fun, until I
saw the process of cutting up
the animals into pieces. I will hold
that for a moment. Okay,
imagine an electric hacksaw
blade…moving at a speed capable of dissecting a cow’ s head in less than five seconds… remember that hacksaws are
used to cut metal…then see an image of a man sliding pieces of
beef, mutton, pork and mutton
along the machine. The
manufacturers, in all their
humanity, placed a photo of a
bleeding human hand with chopped off fingers right at the
eye-level of the machine. Talk of
idiot savants and flashes of
brilliance! I watched the cow heads slide
down the metal plate, as brains
and all the “nasties” slimed off in a disgusting manner. The
meat-smith went on, in a rather
avant-garde manner. Sliding the
meats right until the blade
where he would then part his
hands and let the blade do its job. Any slight miscalculation and
his fingers are no more. (Bear in
mind that this man works from
morning till late afternoon, eight
hours of almost sliding your
fingers along an unforgiving blade). Everyone walks in beefing
about the smell and sounds, until
they see the man at the blade.
Silence blankets the abattoir
and some leave hurriedly.
Apparently he is used to silencing all excited meat-lovers
and converts their appetite to
pity and awe. The finesse with
which he slides meats down the
rail and separate his hands just
before they are sliced off is admirable, but only for a second.
He does it skillfully, as if by
invisible hands. I watched him for a while; then
sometime during the wait, I
realize that my eyes have shut
themselves again. Escapism or
humanity, I cannot tell. Then, as
I go back home I think of the millions of people who drink dirty
water, and the people who are
in war-torn zones, and the kids
I saw on NTV living on and in a
cemetery, and the million more
who go without food, and I am hit. Whether it is the man by
the blade, or the kid by the
muddy waters, there is an
invisible hand that takes care of
all humans. There is a thin line between
truth and fiction.
This is that line.
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