BullFight

I was watching the Rodeo festival on TV the other day and before
long, I drifted into nostalgia. Whenever I see the Texan Rodeo, I
feel a chill down my spine, thinking about the good times I had in
the wild wild east. I spent a significant portion of my childhood in
a remote village located in southern tip of India. The village, duly
named Naaraikinaru, for its rustic charm, had all the trappings: lush
paddy fields, never-ending meadowlands, sugarcane and turmeric fields
with coconut, neem and palm trees adorning the borders, hardworking
peasants, village belles draped in colorful sarees, temples reaching
out to the sun.

The farm workers who maintain these fields are among the hardest
working people I have ever seen. It is not an easy task to command
respect from the farm workers and I had a tough time doing the same.
My pop owned a farm and I had serious trouble to get the villagers to
work on our farm.
For they were very diligent, and as it goes with all the merry men,
they partied hard. One of the games they play, that caught my
attention, is the spine-tingling JALLI KATTU (BULL FIGHT) that was
held after harvest festival every year. The important thing about
this bullfight is that the bulls come out unscathed after every fight
and only the bullfighters suffer the wounds. I have watched it for
years, tried but in vain to participate in it.
The day of bullfight is the day of deliverance for the farm workers,
the day they look forward to, after a yearlong toil. My childhood
dream was to raise a bull that would be indefatigable and a nightmare
to all the gladiators who seek the thrill of jumping into the
bullfight arena. I did realize my dream when I bought a red bull in
1985. With long horns, reddish skin dotted with golden spots, he was
not just a bull. Sevalakalai, his name, reflecting the redskin, was
majestic and sinewy would participate in the bullfight to bring me
the honor of winning.

In 1988, my bull participated in the fight and I remember the days of
preparation very well. The harvest day was coming close and the
pressure was building up. It is a matter of honor to win the
bullfight. I fed him concentrates and roughages, sharpened his horns
like a dagger, padded his hooves, and trained him to fight in the
fields to loose his innocence and learn the lessons. On the day of
the fight, the bulls were adorned with garlands, glittering jewels,
and expensive ornaments to lure the fighters. The bull carries its
head and horns high, walks with arrogance, threatening every human on
its road towards the arena. The gladiators who jump in the arena
against the bull have to stop the bull, untie the intricate knots of
towel tied around their horns and take away the riches hidden inside
the towel. If they cannot stop the bull and take off the towel before
the bull crosses the circular arena's perimeter, the bull is the
winner. The towel may contain expensive golden lockets and chains. My
bull carried a gold chain on his horns as the reward for his
conqueror. We had about five long ropes to lead him to the
armageddon.

Wild music, thronging crowds, loud war cries, menacing bulls, coy
women, enthusiastic children, victuals bar, chafing men- all added to
the frenzy. Every bull would get a specific time slot and separate
area on the arena. A brief introduction will be given about each bull
and the intro contains some serious info about the bull's previous
year record. Only the bravest will face the bulls with an unfaltering
record. My bull was very sensitive to the noise and tried to takeoff
at every chance he got. So when the ropes were let go, he started
racing with the wind. Wounds and gore abound, fighters vied for the
prize and honor. The bullfighters who were brave enough to stand on
his way, some with the help of alcohol, were thrown away. There was
some blood spill, to say the least, but no serious harm to lives.

Sevalakalai steamed through the fighters like a hurtling loco. He was
hard to control, gallant men trying to grapple his horns, some for
the gold and others for the honor. Past the finish line, he ran,
through the paddy farms, mango trees and farmhouses. I was beaming
with pride and a bit of fear for my bull. But I found him waiting for
me in the yard where I had trained him, snorting and stamping, trying
to convey me that he is, after all, the strongest. The villagers were
looking at me, the city boy, with a newfound respect. The next day,
strolling on the road, I could not help but gloat in pride when the
villagers greeted me respectfully and I owe that to my dear friend,
the red bull.