Cattle have long been banned from wandering about the city and befouling its streets. So for the annual Ponggal festival, the organisers had to rope in milkmaidens from godforsaken parts of the island where food comes in the form of ambling legs and soil-stained leaves. A backdrop of paddy fields serves as a painted reminder of the festival's rustic origins, but by-and-large, the mood was one of urban intoxication with subwoofer beats and bazaar rhythms. As is the practice during major pujas, a team of temple volunteers dug into large vats of rice and lentil curry to serve a patient line of devotees. One smart fellow pre-empted a fowl intrusion into the queue by shoving a samosa and ladoo into my hands, forcing my duck to drop everything and finger his food.
A couple of small enclosures away from the stage housed four cows and three goats, which were dressed for the occasion with garlands and powder. Through the gaps, children who had never been bitten by an ungulate lavished the beasts with patty attention and plastic tidbits. My duck managed to wriggle into the goat pen, where he disturbed the two kids and sole billy by poking short bits of himself at their muzzles. Not surprisingly, the billy took the opportunity to butt my duck in the backside with his lacquered horns. Forced to retreat, my duck edged towards the cowshed, where a heifer on her haunches decided that since cows do eat chicken, it'd be nice to try some duck...
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