The Accidental Activist - Being a vegetable By Venita Coelho
At a recent dinner, the host's old aunt leaned close to me and said in broken English 'they tell me you're a vegetable?' I was about to indignantly repudiate the charge when I realised what she meant. Yes, I confessed, I was a vegetable and had been one for quite some time now. 'Good!' she said 'we made very good fish for you.' I had to confess that I couldn't have it. I was a complete vegetable. I had to content myself with some hastily done french fries while everyone else feasted on Shakuti, Balichao and Fish reichad. I thought gloomily about the times before I became vegetarian. I was brought up as a good Catholic - that meant that no meal was complete without a non-veg dish on the table. Luckily mum had learnt cooking from her Punjabi neighbours and so there was always a tasty subzi as well. I looked askance at vegetarians as wierdos who had no taste. When the family got together they swapped tales of eating Neelgai and having deer sausages. Dad claimed he had eaten snake and it tasted just like chicken. So why did I turn vegetarian? Okay, promise you won't laugh at this one- it was thanks to my dog. The first time was when my dog fell ill. I promised that I'd give up non-veg for a while if she got okay. After that it just seemed schizophrenic to love dogs madly and eat other animals at random. However, the vegetarianism was still sporadic and succumbed to divine smells in restaurants from time to time. Then I spent some time in Malaysia. It happened to be at the same time that forest fires were blanketing the area in fog. Day swam around in a murky depressing grey. We never saw the sun or the sky for two months. People suffered all kinds of allergic reactions. I promptly began swelling up like a water balloon the minute any non-veg passed my lips. I took it from a sign from heaven that it was time I became vegetarian. If god covers the sun for two months, and sends a blight upon an entire land - then you better get the message! And so began my trials and travails. In the Far East no one understands what vegetarian means. In Singapore you have to go patiently through a long list. 'Vegetable' they will assure you, 'vegetable'. If there's lots of vegetables in it, it's vegetarian, never mind what meat is in it as well. So you go through the list 'Chicken? . does it have chicken? .fish? .crab? .shellfish .lobster? ..pork? .mutton?.prawns?' You sit down to eat only to discover a baleful eye regarding you from your soup and discover that you forgot to ask 'squid?' In Malaysia the list gets longer and more exotic 'Deer?.rabbit?.eel?.jelly fish?' Guess where you always end up eating - at an Indian restaurant. In Goa, announce you're vegetarian and the average Goan looks at you like you're crazy. Especially when they hear your surname - 'What? You are a Coelho and you don't eat meat?!' Many have taken it as a personal affront. I have to stop myself from automatically apologizing for daring to be Goan and vegetarian at the same time. The poor vegetarian has a tough time in Goa - he or she is invariably reduced to French fries. In one restaurant there were 47 dishes on the menu (I counted). And what choice did the poor vegetarians have? Dal fry, steamed rice, and (you guessed it) french fries. Goan's don't seem very fond of vegetables. If they do eat them, they try to disguise them with lots of coconut. On the other hand, they can discuss for hours various means to slaughter a pig so that he stays tasty. I sat through about fifteen minutes of one such discussion and had to leave the room because I was feeling sick at the sheer cruelty of the methods being graphically outlined. And now I shall confess the real reason why I became a vegetarian. I couldn't bear to walk through the meat stalls and see the heads of goats hanging from hooks. I can't bear the sight of all the miserable chickens suffocating together in filthy cages. I hate the sound of the agonized shrieking of the pig that the neighbours are killing for a feast. In Mumbai I once lived through a traumatic day, as muslim neighbours slaughtered their goats for Id right in the courtyard where the children normally played. We could hear the goats screaming all day long. In the evening I stepped out into three inches of blood. It took days for the smell to go. That was really when I decided I had had enough. I could no longer feast off the misery and agony of others. I became a vegetable. It's a choice I am far more at peace with than my fellow Goans. Yesterday for the umpteenth time I accepted a dinner invitation and hesitantly said 'er - you know that I am vegetarian?' 'Vegetarian?!! - and your surname is Coelho?!' I think it's going to be French fries again. (ENDS) =========================================================================== The above article appeared in the August 30, 2009 edition of the Herald, Goa
