My favourite mutton shop is in the hodgepodge of a lane in the underbellies of Powai. It's a family run establishment where everyone puts in their bit, led from the front by a slender, unbeautiful, fiftyish lady with kind eyes and quick smiles. "Where were you last Sunday?" she asks in a genuine voice, skillfully wielding her meat cleaver without looking or daintily slicing through the dark chocolate goat liver.
She is the only female butcher I have met. Her family rallies around. The husband, two sons and the grandsons, toddlers still, lend a hand. It's definitely the most cheerful slaughter shop you would hope to find anywhere. The family banter and warmth dilutes and lightens the unpleasent sight of hanging diemboweled goats and severed heads with sightless eyes arranged in a row on the chopping platform.
Indelible in my mind are two kafkaesque scenes. The first one, from about an year back. Granny chopping ribs on the wooden block. Hanging on one meat hook is the carcass of a goat. From the other two, hung a swing made out of a sari where the grandson slept.
The second from this Sunday. A small cage has been kept on the opposite footpath with three 'kids' cuddling inside. Two adorable young goats, one playful toddler.
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