For the love of a child and the life of a bird

Having turned vegetarian a long time ago, I never learnt to cook non-vegetarian food. But when I got married, I realised that my husband was fond of non-vegetarian delicacies, particularly chicken. Occasionally, he would bring chicken takeaways from a restaurant for his dinner.

One day, I suggested that he bring raw chicken from the market and I would try to cook it. While going to buy it, he took our four-year-old daughter along. When she asked where were they headed to, he, thinking that she would not understand what chicken was, told her that they were going to buy a hen.

At the poultry shop, her attention was captivated by the hens. But she did not understand why they were caged. Before she could ask questions, it was time to go. The shopkeeper gave them raw chicken in a black, opaque carry bag. She smiled her thanks.

Reaching home, she sat on her play mat in the veranda. With open arms and boundless joy, she said, “Mamma, please leave the hen here. Let’s play with it.” I gasped.

That moment it dawned upon me what she had comprehended while going to the market. Looking at her innocence, I blankly looked at my husband, who was still holding the bag containing the chicken. I turned into stone. How was I going to tell her where her hen was? How could the hen, which had turned into chicken, play with her? How could I tell her that we had brought home a dead bird?

I took my daughter up in my arms, hugged her, and calmly told her that her father had brought home chicken and not a hen. At this she became silent and quiet. She had been so cheerful just a moment ago. I wondered what her innocent mind must have comprehended at that time. Maybe she had sensed something unpleasant. She remembered seeing the caged hens and the knife drenched in red. She looked at the carry bag. She wondered if the black hid the red. Tears rolled down her cheeks. I soothed her.

How could I have cooked the hen with which my daughter wanted to play. I went into the kitchen in a pensive mood. Somehow, that day, my husband helped me cook the dish.

I prepared the gravy, while he handled the chicken. Hence, literally that day we cooked a hen.

Needless to say, we never brought home chicken again. The innocence and purity of heart of a four-year-old turned a non-vegetarian father into a vegetarian one.

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