Vegetarian woes

Despite all the publicity vegetarianism receives, what with international greats advocating and endorsing it, we ‘grass eaters’ – as we are ignominiously referred to – receive a raw deal. Even in this supposedly enlightened day and age, I continue to explain – with a tinge of defensiveness, though why I should feel so is quite inexplicable even to myself – that it has nothing to do with caste or religion but stems from a strong conviction against taking the life of a poor, unsuspecting creature.

And I also feel forced to explain that I stay away from fish, chicken and eggs as well. A Japanese friend of mine always introduces me as a ‘pure vegetarian’. As if there are impure vegetarians! It always proves effective.

A friend, her daughter and I went to Poland to attend the daughter’s friend’s wedding. Even though the mother of the bride had a hundred things to see to, she made time to cook vegetarian food for me and bring it to the wedding hall, neatly packed in small boxes. A touching gesture!

When I was visiting my brother in the US, he very sweetly informed me that the finger chips went into the same oil used for frying chicken nuggets. Since then, I have been put off the snack, even when it is made at home using virgin sunflower oil.

Very often, people poke fun at us. We are the butt of many a joke and generally considered a pain in the neck. Sometimes I am asked, “Are you still a vegetarian?” It is asked with the same casualness as enquiring, “Do you still live in the same house?” or “Are you still working for the same organisation?” As if I were an unreformed delinquent!
At best we are treated with an air of tolerance combined with condescension. The attitude seems to proclaim that, as a tribe, we are a difficult lot. So I exhort, “Vegetarians, come together. Let us take a united stand and make our cause a worldwide issue!”
Here is an example of the trials we vegetarians suffer. At a take away eatery in the US, I asked for a veg burger. As the person at the counter was packing it, just to ensure that he had heard me right, I asked, “Is that a veg burger?”He looked contrite. “Sorry, lady. It’s a chicken burger. Don’t worry. I’ll change it,” he said obligingly. His gloved hand then removed the chicken cutlet from between the two slices of the roll and replaced it with a veg cutlet! With deft fingers, he put it in a brown paper bag and handed it to me with a big smile. “There you are!” he said, with a slight, gallant, old-fashioned bow.