When you step under the open sky, the acrid smell of the blood is pungent on the senses; the
smell of sacrifice and something more. You turn the corner and children run past you, shielding
the alive from the pain and soulless eyes of the dead and somehow, they smile as they splash
their feet in the blood tainted water.
At the end of that street, long knives are being sharpened on the stones and the dead meat hangs
upside down; waiting to be skinned. The crowd of people gathered on the corner passed by in a
blur; hungry eyes shouldered by the cunning smiles as one goes about to get meat in his body
and the other to get money in his pockets.
And when shadows engulf the sky and lights light in each long street, the smell of rotting
intestines slowly spreads all around; making it hard to breathe and live. It moves around each
corner and settles in the quiet and familiar ones, reminding every passerby the harsh reality;
everything rots away with time.
And if you think you passed all of them unscathed, you would find droplets of blood on your
dāman as you’ll stand in your room to take off your clothes.