It's These Little Things

Red. Orange. Brown-red. Pale-red. I stand over the glass case looking into what can best be described as a desolate aquarium. Though devoid of the charms of a regular aquarium- no colored pebbles or swirling artificial bubbles - the life within is unusually active. A man dressed in white walks up to me and I’m asked to choose. It seems almost like a pet-shop story, yes? It’s not. This is dinner- one among these crabs carelessly indulging in mock pincer fights. I swallow as I’m told that it’s customary for tourists to choose their platter pals. One of the locally acclaimed restaurants in the heart of Port Blair, meat eaters have since forever been lured in by the fame and come back delighted- swearing by the food.

Yet, as I stand looking at my prospective dinner, I quail at the thought of having some unlucky fella butchered at my command. I’ve been hovering for too long, strange looks from fellow diners are in order. Giving in to gnawing hunger I look away and arbitrarily pick out a mate. A good choice, I’m told. I’m feeling guilty as hell. 'Never again. Local customs be damned.'

The steaming bowl of bright orange crab curry with a gazillion garnishing would soon change my mind. In 20 minutes my table is full- curry, white rice and an elegantly arranged grilled red snapper. Ten minutes into the meal and I’ve nearly forgotten all about the guilt ridden process of food picking- the food is, if food can be, transcendental. When the waiter picks up the cash he asks, "Food okay?" "Perfect, yes"- I reply. I realize later that the crab has now become food. I’m adjusting.

On my way back I stop at a local handicraft shop. Souvenir shopping. Suddenly, a boy on the street stops to share info- "Not here. He overcharges. Try the shop three blocks down." He is chased out by the shopkeeper but the damage is done. As I excuse myself with a sly smile, a pattern forms. Live crabs on display, exposing sham- it’s not cruel. Just a brutally yet refreshingly honest world.