Chicken Soup For The Spiritual

Religious towns have a great sanctity about them, and naturally, also sensitive codes of social conduct. While casual visitors to such towns may not even notice it, residents sometimes chafe at the restrictions this imposes on their lifestyles. Particularly since the tourism trade in these towns is bringing in migrants who resent the imposition of the town's religious beliefs on their eating habits. Haridwar and Rishikesh are a case in point.

While alcohol per se _ though frowned upon _ is not strictly disallowed in these two towns on the banks of the Ganga, the availability of non-vegetarian food is another matter altogether. Though not illegal, there is an unwritten code of conduct that has not normally been contravened about its consumption in city limits. Now, the Pahari nature being what it is, most young men from the hills who live and work in these towns, are often overcome by their desire for mutton or chicken. It is not unknown, therefore, for them to step across the border to visit the butcheries and smuggle in their quota of flesh for the table. These journeys are rarely without their share of ordeal for they are bound to be confronted by some or the other familiar face at the butcher's. The standard conversation, I am informed, while in my hotel in Narendar Nagar, feasting on a particularly succulent fish imported from Dehra Dun, is that there are outstation guests at home, and what is a person to do when they demand a non-vegetarian meal?

 

This is communicated without much humour. My host, a resident of Rishikesh, clearly suffers withdrawal symptoms too, particulalry since he is determined to have meat on the table at every meal. This creates a sticky situation. "But I've invested in a large ice-box," he tells me somewhat plaintively, "and every so often, I find it worth a trip to Dehra Dun or Delhi to stock up the freezer." Doesn't he suffer any pangs, though? "No," he says, "I don't make the part-time maid do the cooking, and I don't throw the bones into the dustbin."

In fact, it is the disposal of the bones which is sometimes the more difficult task. If you travel by bus, you can't, quite obviously, without letting other passengers know, throw a packet out of the window. In fact, a private vehicle comes in handy for such underground tasks. "I make sure I feed the bones to stray dogs on the highway," says my new-found friend. "That way, there's no evidence left."

The next morning, I notice that Narendra Nagar, for the size of its small community, seems to have a somewhat inordinately large number of butcheries and dhabas. "You won't believe the large number of people from Rishikesh who come here for a meal," says my friend. The view, I agree, is spectacular, but is there something particularly special about the cuisine to draw them a half-hour's journey uphill? "Of course," laughs my host, "where else do you think they'll get non-vegetarian food in the vicinity?"

I am somewhat sceptical, but a few days later, a colleague, an editor on this paper, is reminiscing about his trip to Rishikesh with his parents several decades ago. "After we had spent some days there," he muses, "I could not bear the thought of one more vegetarian meal, and so we were asked to go up to Narendra Nagar." His eyes turn misty with old memories. "The view of the Ganga with its many turns," he says, "I'll never forget that." But what about his quest for a non-vegetarian meal? "My sister kept pointing at the hair on the mutton and complaining," he grins, "but that lunch was even better than the view."