By Yash Desai
Charles meticulously sharpened his cleaver over a water-stone and turned towards the customer. “You said you wanted a pound of freshly cut beef?” Upon the customer's nod, Charles turned toward the back of the slaughterhouse and returned with a block of the succulent meat. He wiped the sweat that creased his brow and whirred into life like a well-oiled machine. Charles sliced the meat with the proficiency and familiarity of someone well acquainted with the art of the knife as he absentmindedly hummed a low tune. His body fell into a trance-like rhythm and his hands worked ceaselessly as he stared off into the distant village square, pondering over whatever pensive thoughts butchers contemplate. It was a typical Sunday afternoon.
Charles counted the earnings from the day and made his way towards a minuscule, unassuming shack that he called his home. As he trudged through the rough, pebble-strewn path, he mentally prepared himself for his father’s usual berating. Charles’ father, James had passed down the reigns of the slaughterhouse to Charles 2 years ago. Despite Charles’s best attempts to dissociate himself from the monotonous life of the family business, his father was keen on food and shelter for the foreseeable future and would hear of no such thing. “Pa? I’m home…,” he cried out. He ducked beneath the doorframe and entered the familiar confines of his home. “Son, I have something of great importance to tell you,” said James. “In 2 weeks, the festival will be upon us. You know what that means right?” said James. “It means that several orders for healthy cows will be coming through.” “Yes Pa,” said Charles as he sighed dejectedly.
With this newfound revelation, Charles made his way to the cow shed where the docile creatures were held to perform his routine methodical tending of the creatures. Every year or so, the cows were cared for by the finicky hands of Charles, fed the most scrupulously curated feed, plumped up, and then prepared for a quick, brutal death. The festival was an exception though. People from all corners of the village bought live cows to savagely decapitate them in front of massive audiences. Personally, Charles found this ritual a tad bit barbaric, but it meant an increase in knives and cows bought, a lucrative day for a butcher.
“You deserve better don’t you,” he crooned to a nearby snow-white cow with big, brown, soulful eyes. The cow doggedly swayed its head from side to side and placed its head in Charles’ arms. “Deserve better than what?” said a voice appearing to come near Charles. Charles snapped out of his state of serenity and turned his head around aimlessly, trying to find the source of the sound. “I’m right here,” said a voice appearing to come from the cow. Charles gaped dumbfoundedly as he turned his attention to the cow that lay in his arms. “But…cows can’t speak…,” said Charles. “You’ve never bothered to listen to us,” said the snow-white cow. Charles opened his mouth to answer the cow’s previous question, but guilt consumed him as he thought of the massacre of the cows. “Nothing really,” Charles stammered. For some reason, the idea of the cows talking didn’t seem too outlandish to Charles as he continued the conversation with the snow-white cow whom he decided to name Bessie.
Over the next few days, Charles grew close to Bessie and the other cows. He talked to her about life outside the farm, his struggles with daily life, and other troublesome affairs. The cows turned out to be great listeners and with time he soon forgot the festival. He developed an affinity with them and sang them songs and told them stories and grew particularly fond of Bessie.
On the eve of the festival, it was as if Charles was jolted awake from a pleasant dream. He entered the slaughterhouse only to find Bessie being dragged away by the scruff of her neck by two men. Money was exchanged between James and the men as Bessie struggled against the firm grip of a man. Charles arrived just in time to see her look back at him, her eyes as expressive as ever, only this time they weren’t filled with their usual carefree joy. She looked at Charles with a look of betrayal and pain and implored him to stop the inhumane behavior. Charles averted his eyes as
By Yash Desai
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