I've been thinking about this story ever since the man from Dadri got killed because he was suspected to have eaten beef. I've been thinking of sharing what happened 20 years ago, because all around me, I see people acting in a strange manner, their own coping strategies to the news that our dinner plate is now food for politics.
Like my friend MQ who put this out as his Facebook status - "I don't eat beef and nor do I store it in my fridge. With this declaration I hope not to be dragged out of my house and killed. Inshallah I bought myself a few extra days to live, until the crazy freaks find another reason to kill.'' I love MQ and to show my support, to tell him he's not alone in his fears, I wanted to like that post, or just add a comment to it, but it all seemed too inadequate to convey what we were all feeling. What I do have is the story of when I accidentally served beef to my God-fearing-vegetarian-on-Saturdays-temple-going-parents.
It happened when we'd first moved to London for my Dad's tenure there for three years. It was one of the first weekends when we were still exploring the city and we landed in a fast food restaurant. I remember my father giving me his wallet, as was his habit, and asking me to get something for all of us. My younger brother went along with me, just to tell me what he wanted, and I remember ordering burgers and fries all around. It was all good till the trays arrived and we were back at the table.
I remember that moment very clearly. I was grappling with how to get a bite of the burger without breaking it - when I noticed a small but clear print on the wrapping of my burger. It said "Made with 100% beef. Horrified, I looked towards my parents - and my worst fears had come true - they'd had their first bite and now were on their second. How was this happening? Didn't I order cheeseburgers? It didn't say beef anywhere on the menu, so how could this happen? It's the classic nightmare story that those who had moved abroad before us had told us, and I had made it true for my parents.
I could barely eat while watching my parents ingest what they believed to be sin. I wanted to stop them so they could wash their mouth with some
ganga jal when they went home but I was frozen at the thought of my father, sitting there with the sacred thread around his torso, chomping on the holy cow. These were Hindus who went by the book, they never left home before doing
puja and always turned the lights on with the evening
puja. As a young teenager, I couldn't deal with the potential fury the fine print of their burger would unleash and so I swallowed my need to come clean, letting it eat into my conscience beef by beef.
As the years went by with safer eating out ventures, and my teenage awkwardness receded, I shared everything with my parents, but this secret shame I couldn't reveal. The truth was I didn't forgive myself for letting them continue with eating those burgers - as if the sin mounted bite after bite. Every time my parents would mention some story about avoiding beef at diplomatic dinners, I'd turn a little purple with fear.
The guilt remained till my brother grew up and expressed the freedom of his own tastes. He ate beef, pork, especially the ones made by his friends' families from the North East. And once his friend's mum sent some specially made roast beef for my brother to eat. He relished it and then left the leftovers in the fridge. And what changed things for me was my mother's mild reaction, saying something like - "Oh ho, what all does he eat", knowing fully well what was inside that box and that it was right next to her
dal. This was the woman who wouldn't even eat garlic on Saturdays, assigned vegetarian days, and who, along with my father, is still sticking to rituals like no non-vegetarian food for 15 days even if a fifth cousin dies!
It was at that precise moment when I thought it's quite cool to be a Hindu - your God seemed an understanding person who'd understand your need to try new things, who understood that sometimes you made mistakes, who was flexible with things. For instance, my brother never had his sacred thread ceremony when he reached puberty, but no problem, there was some make-up
puja for it when he got married! My parents, born of parents who wouldn't eat chicken eggs because hens were unclean but ate duck eggs, never forced us to go to temples but practiced their faith in a way that my brother and I followed.
And so it was in this way that I came to terms with the day I fed my parents beef. I finally confessed to my father before writing this piece and his reaction was as anti-climactic as my mother's had been to my brother's portion of beef in the fridge. If you asked my parents if they considered themselves proud Hindus, they'd say yes without hesitation. So would I, probably. I know that many others wouldn't. I don't care though - that's between me and my God.
(Sunetra Choudhury is Editor, National Affairs, NDTV 24x7)Disclaimer: The opinions expressed within this article are the personal opinions of the author. The facts and opinions appearing in the article do not reflect the views of NDTV and NDTV does not assume any responsibility or liability for the same.