HERE, THERE & ELSEWHERE. Meaty treat

Barely have we walked in the door of my little apartment, but there’s a full-blown crisis in progress. Jiggs, the vegetarian Indian guy who moved in with my next-door neighbour Ding-Dong, is in floods of tears. “She says I must learn to eat meat!” he wails, “or I can go!”

“There, there,” I say soothingly, “rents are low in this area. You’ll find another place easily.” He is not amused. “No, you are not understanding. She is the love of my life. Even more than my mother. I cannot leave her. So I must eat the meat.” He is innocent of double-meanings. “You must help me,” he says, then looks over at Bins. “Or Binnie must help me. Someone must help me!” More tears.

Bins is bursting with sympathy. “Don’t worry, my friend,” he says. “We’ll start you off slowly. We’ll feed you with dead animals before progressing to live ones.” Jiggs gapes at him in horror. “As you know, in Pondicherry, the little Gaulish village in India where I was born, we go hunting with our bare teeth!” says Bins, poker-faced. Jiggs scowls. “You are making the fun,” he says. “But it is the serious problem. How can I solve it?”

We decide the only way is for us to create a kofta-curry, with koftas made from different ingredients, including some form of meat. “We won’t tell you which ones are meat and which ones are veggies until two days have passed.” Jiggs shakes his head vehemently. “No! My nose will know the truth! And I will vomit!” Nevertheless we put the plan into action and two days later Jiggs is at our table, with a steaming bowl in front of him. He clamps his hands over his mouth, eyes bulging. “I can’t!” he cries, in strangled tones. “I can smell the flesh.” Bins says, “But supposing it is mushroom?” “I don’t care,” says Jiggs, “it smells dead.”

“What do you care about more,” I ask him. “Your girlfriend? Or your religion?” “Both,” says Jiggs, looking miserable. With trembling fingers, he reaches for one of the fragrant balls of unnamed protein in his bowl and pauses, gulping while holding it in front of his mouth. His forehead is wet and I realise for the first time what a gigantic step it represents for him. His entire identity has been built upon an idea of moral purity based in part on dietary choices. For me, such ideas are illogical. But for Jiggs they have been the foundation of his belief-system. For him to eat meat is like a deer morphing into a crocodile in the course of a single meal.

Finally he pops the kofta into his mouth. Bins and I stare anxiously at him as he chews. Tears stream down his cheeks and when he swallows, it is with his eyes tight shut. Finally he opens his eyes and glances around, his mouth turned down like a frowny-face. “What’s the matter?” exclaims Bins, “are you going to be sick?” Jiggs clicks his tongue dismissively. “Arré, not enough salt,” he says, as he reaches for his next kofta.

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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