Becoming a Vegetarian

One summer day when I was four years old, my younger sister, my mother and I were resting after lunch. An afternoon siesta was a custom in India in those days, because the sun would be so blazing hot that no one dared to go outside. 

Ours was one of the few houses in our neighborhood that had a ceiling fan in the living room as well as a table fan that we moved from room to room as needed. Such fans were a luxury, and there was no such thing as air conditioning.

As usual, we were lying on the floor because that was the coolest place in the house. My mother was fast asleep, and I was lying quietly on my back, perhaps playing with some toy. 

I looked up and thought I saw something on the white ceiling right above my head. It was just an image, not something concrete. I knew it was not real, and yet there it was. My eyes were riveted to it. It was the image of a baby goat—a kid. The figure was light gray, not black like every baby goat I had seen before. Then it spoke to me, and said, “How would you feel if someone killed your parents and ate them?” 

I knew the image was not really speaking, but the thought was so profound that it did not matter. I closed my eyes as hard as I could and buried my face in my pillow. I did not want to open my eyes and face the baby goat. I did not want to answer the question. When I did finally open my eyes, the figure was no longer there. 

I laid there awake for a long time, my little mind thinking, wondering, and refusing to accept the possibility that the goat had posed to me. The prospect was horrifying. I could not bear to imagine what would happen if my parents were killed. And the very thought of someone eating them was sickening. I glanced over at my mother several times, just to reassure myself that she was alive and well. 

That is all I remember of the event, because I must have fallen asleep eventually. I never told anyone about that experience. It was too horrifying a thought for me to even consider speaking about it. But, that evening I told my mother that I was never going to eat meat again.

Several years later, my mother told me that everyone thought it merely a childish whim of a 4-year-old, and that it would last only a day or two. After all, my father had a restaurant famous for its meat cuisine, and I had acquired quite a taste for meat. I even remember some of the tantrums I threw when meat was not included in meals. It was a problem whenever we were invited for a meal by friends or relatives, because we lived in a vegetarian-dominant society.

But when my parents found out that I was serious and determined about not eating meat, they started to get concerned, especially since I also stopped eating eggs. I refused to eat anything I suspected contained eggs, such as cakes, pastries, and even chewing gum. I would not even touch meat or eggs.

The adults around me tried to convince me that I should eat meat. My cousins started to tease me by putting goodies containing meat or eggs in front of my face. But none of it worked. All the temptations and attempts at persuasion never bothered me.