Coffee - Ooty, Tamil Nadu, India

Blood splattered across the room, narrowly missing my cup of coffee. By my feet I could hear the 'thump, thump, thump' of death. Smiling men surrounded me; Richard, the immensely proud owner, and two men – one with a rusty knife, the other with blood on his hands.

The room was filled with glorious pictures of Mecca - a place I will never be allowed to step foot in. They didn’t seem to understand, but instead, one of the men proudly gave me a trading card, a pocket Mecca if you will.

The thumping stopped. Death was upon us.

 
They picked it up by his feet, showing the carcass to Richard and I. It was skinned with surprising efficiency and whilst in the process I heard a noise. It’s last living breath squeezed out of him. I expected more, but that was it.

It was laid on a tree stump, a tree stump with pools of blood collecting in the cracks. It had clearly been used many times before. The man with the rusty knife hacked it to pieces, sawing off the tough bits.

 
And that was that.

 
We left the Halal chicken coup/stall afterwards. My coffee was finished, the sun was setting, and Richard and I were hungry. We went out for dinner. I had a chicken dish.

It was delicious.