Nobody writes, at least until now, that ‘red meat is harmful to health’ as ​​they do with other products. But for the last few years, doctors have been doing it their way: telling patients or people in general to avoid too much red meat, or cut it out altogether, which they say is not good for your health, particularly for heart health. Many people, including us common mortals, do follow the advice, some very religiously do away with it altogether. We didn’t completely abandon it, but our red meat consumption became sparse and very occasion-specific. For most of us in India, red meat means ‘mutton’, goat, sheep or lamp meat, while others have switched to pork; although the latest variety hadn’t gotten any ‘eat’ certificates from doctors that I know of, but of course the latest variety is much cheaper than lamb. I prefer not to talk about beef because of the danger of becoming politically incorrect.

In our childhood days, however, things weren’t so health-oriented, and doctors at the time didn’t preach as much about what to eat or not to eat. So normally we used to have lamb for lunch on Sundays, and that was the day we children longed for. Of course, sometimes cold rainy or winter nights were delightful exceptions. Some people ate it more frequently as far as they could afford, because the price of lamb was higher than all others of its kind at that time as well. And it was a general belief, even now most people believe, that no other beef or chicken curry could match that deliciously cooked lamb curry.

As we mentioned, with the rise of the new generation of doctors, our consumption of lamb had become rare, and we were mostly consuming chicken and river fish as usual. This is not to say that we will ever forget the universally recognized fact that lamb curry was the tastiest of all, and the older generation of housewives, including our grandmothers and mothers, used to cook it exceptionally well, from which we could never erase our minds.

That particular Sunday morning we decided to have lamb meat, as I reasoned with my wife that we had almost forgotten the last time we tasted that, and she agreed. Therefore, I went out to the local market with a jovial heart. The meat and fish market was housed in a dilapidated concrete building; I went up the broken steps and approached the store where I mainly shopped. She greeted me with a wide smile without forgetting to remind me that we had not seen each other for a long time. I nodded smiling and busied myself selecting the pieces he cut from the dangling fleshy bodies. You have to be very careful in this job, because butchers are very adept at mixing old cut pieces in the blink of an eye.

He followed my instructions and packed the carefully cut pieces of meat in a black polythene bag. I paid and was surprised to learn that the price went up again. Even now I don’t know how higher prices can be sustained without enough demand in the market. Or maybe a lot of people are still eating lamb and butchers are slaughtering a limited number of animals to meet the demand for that one piece only so they can keep prices higher, because casual eaters like me show up regularly too.

As he walked down the steps of the building and reached the narrow concrete passageway that led to the road, something strange happened.

I felt a kind of tug on the right hand that was carrying the polythene bag, and suddenly the bag became much lighter. I looked at my bag and jumped, almost at my wits end. I saw a dog behind me growling and fully baring its teeth, yanking and ripping off the expensive bag. Within seconds I saw all the carefully cut pieces of meat scattered on the concrete floor, and the dog busy with two or three pieces of it. So fierce was the bite that not a single piece was left in the bag.

Before I could realize the enormity of the tragedy and know how to react, act or scream, I watched helplessly as a street beggar greedily picked up the other pieces and stuffed them into his sturdy cloth bag. When I came to my senses, I first thought of going back to the butcher and complaining. But I saw the futility of that, because I would definitely wonder why I didn’t do anything to try to get the pieces back peacefully or by force. I sadly deposited the empty polythene in a trash can and started walking back home, depressed and also afraid, because I was sure that my wife would definitely blame me for my carelessness.

I came home ringing the doorbell. My wife noticed my empty hands and she looked at me questioningly. I went in and sat heavily on the sofa. In an air of suffocating suspense, I recounted what happened to me, or rather to the meat. She was so shocked at the peculiarity of the incident that she forgot to scold me or do anything like that. After a few scary moments, for me, she burst out laughing. Immensely relieved, I joined her too in this joy of tragic proportions. However, in the back of my mind I decided not to visit that damn store for a long time and asked my wife if she would rather go for chicken now. She said no, still laughing, and she added that a curried egg would do for lunch.

The story circulated very quickly among our friends and relatives, and everyone was shocked beyond measure and yet loved hearing it over and over again. History is not forgotten even now, after the long years that had passed in the meantime.