By the horn

It's surprising how easily my eyes get used to flying dust. How soon I forget the unsteadiness of the wobbly wooden gallery (goda) that is supposed to keep me 'safe' 30 odd feet up in the air. How stupidly I actually think I can leave half way through this.
The first thing I'm told at Alanganallur is that once I'm there for the jallikattu, there's no leaving. I look in horror at a chap sharpening his bull's horn with obvious relish. Seeing my face, Hari (local reporter who can find his way out of vast fields and bridges suddenly breaking halfway on rivers) reassures me that all the exit restrictions are so a clueless stroller doesn't get in the way of a bull running wild in the village. "There are no rules in this game, you see. The bull can be anywhere, and it can think anyone is the bull-tamer."
So that's what it is about: A thousand mad bulls; more than 10000 people packed in the backyard of a small village temple; and no rules. One by one, the bulls are let loose into an arena full of unarmed bullfighters who go right for the horn.
The lady-with-the-stick who let us on the third floor of her goda says it used to be a one-man-to-one-bull game. Even now, the loudspeaker announcer keeps yelling that only one man can tame each animal, and the others are to please peel off the bull and let it go. The crackly voice keeps saying, in earsplitting volume, that the prize (could be anything: pressure cooker, non-stick pan, pot, pan, ladle, goat, hen, cot, almirah, dish antenna (really), TV, steel plates) is only for the guy who hangs on to the hump for 50 metres in the crowd as the bull bucks and twists to throw him off.

But no one's listening.

In all that boozed blind bravery, the bulls don't have it easy. Their tails are bitten, eyes poked, their stomachs prodded with sticks. But after watching for a while, I realize that the bulls are the ones that are managing tons better than the hundreds that lie in the hospital for weeks after this day.

I've heard of dark tourism, but can't put my finger on what it is about jallikattu that locks people into a spell... I caught myself watching wide-eyed, my hand in my mouth, my feet ice-cold. I found myself pointing frantically to whoever was nearby. Look, just look at that bleeding man. We talk of numbers immediately... how many injured last year, this year, today. How many already dying of blood loss. Then another bull comes charging into the crowd, and my hand goes to my mouth again. Our behaviour is only short of cheering.
A toothless old man with a thigh full of proud scars tells me it all started when small pox affected Alanganallur (Madurai district) ages ago. People prayed for a cure, and decided on this "blood sacrifice". So if even a year goes by without a drop of blood smearing the village earth, he says the local goddess will make sure an epidemic hits the village. "Of course, these days, there's no small pox," he adds, "So maybe cholera will come."
They can believe anything they want, and have any sort of game. But what happens on the back of the arena can't be called belief. Pouring arrack down the bull's throat, stuffing gaanja in their fodder, tying heavy stones to their balls... These bulls are trained all their lives for jallikattu, kept in isolation in a dark shed, seeing just the tender. Then once a year, it is let out into a ground full of mad men clawing at it. The animal loses it in a second. A wild game is one thing, but do they really have to mete out planned torture?

Hari tells me it's all in the business of bull trading. If a bull is tamed, it's sold cheap. If it escapes untamed, it goes for a super price. But the highest bidding is for bulls that steal the show (I'm told usually Trichy bulls)... ones that give the audience something to watch... some poking, butting, stamping, bleeding.
When I feel sick about a man getting gored, I am angry at the freakin bull because it isn't as defenseless as the men. The next moment, I see 20 guys poking the bull, pulling at its legs, and sticking needles up its hooves. I'm immediately on the animal's side. Till it waves its horns at a man in its way, and his white shirt is suddenly soaked red. On, and on, my mind played games.
For the audience, that's probably what jallikattu is. A 24-hour test of conscience.