' Mondays With Meaning'

 Mondays With Meaning 

Oh, it’s Monday.

Tilak on forehead, mantra on tongue,

you walk barefoot to temples,

chanting names of the one called Pashupati Nath, Lord of all creatures, right?

All creatures… except the one on your plate, of course.

Tomorrow the same lips that whispered prayers

will now sip gravy made of screams.

The same hands that folded before a deity

will scroll through menus with roasted bones.

Devotion on weekends. Dissection on weekdays.

What a divine balance.

You fast during Shravan,

skip meat for a month

like it buys you a lifetime of innocence.

But what happens when the calendar flips?

Is your compassion date-bound?

No, no, don’t worry.

You don’t kill them yourself.

You only fund the massacre

while someone else becomes your butcher proxy.

You didn’t hold the knife,

but the blood still clings to your hunger.

Oh, you call it “just food”?

Strange… I call it a funeral.

And let me guess, you love animals too. 

Shares reels of puppies,

you cry when a street dog limps,

but your empathy skips species like a bad connection.

Taste buds over tenderness.

Protein over pain.

Convenience over conscience.

You say it’s a “personal choice.”

Funny how personal it is for you.

Not so much for the life gasping beneath the blade.

Not so much for the chick who never learned to fly.

But it’s your right, right? To choose.

Except choices have consequences

and choosing what’s wrong, knowingly,

isn't a choice anymore. It’s a confession.

So tell me,

how do you kneel before gods

yet step over the fallen?

How do you connect to the divine

but disconnect from the dying?

What part of your prayer

includes a permission slip to kill?

"Dear devotee,"

next time you fold your hands,

look down at your own shadow.

If it looks like a halo,

check if it’s just hiding the blood beneath your feet.