We Have Sacrificed Enough Animals

I met two goats last month. And they taught me, forcefully and vividly, why I just can't eat meat anymore.

The first goat was in a town called Snake Mother in Himachal Pradesh in India. As our driver was bouncing us, hurtling us, down the road--you don't drive in India, you hurtle--I glimpsed a sign: a black snake outlined in white. I asked about it. That's the cobra temple, the driver, Vijai, said.

I asked if we could stop, and he agreed.

I got out, and we walked along a dirt path away from the road. I thought: cobra temple. We're going to see a big snake in a basket, a guy with a long flute. When we got to the temple, there was no cobra. The whole point of the temple was that there is no cobra. The temple is working very well, thank you, keeping the cobra happy, keeping cobras far away. In fact, offering sugar, salt, rice, dye, and dhoop (incense) will keep you from being bit by a cobra. Seems to be working fine.

Make an offering--rupees in a jar--light some incense, receive some rice crackle, bow, and get a handful of water to drink and throw over your head. Incense is burning, you ring a big bell if you make an offering, and a lady comes up and marks your forehead with dye. I get a red streak followed by an orange dot, a nice exclamation point. All very nice, all very sweet.

But my friend David, standing to one side, crooks his finger. I walk over and he points to a metal bucket. Inside the bucket is the head of a goat.

No religion without sacrifice, I think. It's spring, season of young goats. As if on cue, stage left, under the Coke sign, a man in a moustache holding a red flag leads a procession. He's followed by kids (the human kind), and he's got a goat. A white goat with a splash of red paint on his face. Next up.

I notice near the temple a pile of red flags. Many flags. Many goats to follow.

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