Day before yesterday I saw an awesome picture of a burly bull in the newspapers! Not an unusual sight in Spain. The bulls and news about the bulls always occupy spacious space in the Spanish newspapers. The bull that appeared in the picture was no ordinary bull. Brownish-black, the bull was excessively huge and massive. Its enormous horns looked no less than two meters in curvature. The media managers in Spain beamed the picture all over the world.
I am in Madrid these days on a sponsored vacation. A few hours after the newspapers were distributed in Madrid, I received an Email from my employers in Karachi. It said, ‘They have condemned a bull that killed a matador in a bullfight last week. The bull is to die with a bullet they intend to pump in its head. Before they execute the beast, hasten to interview the bull’.
I showed the Email to my host in Madrid. Surprised, he asked, “How can you interview a bull! The bulls do not talk.”
“All creatures talk.” I said, “But, unfortunately, they do not comprehend each other’s language.”
My host thought for a while, and then asked, “How come you understand bulls’ language?”
“I am related to the bulls.” I asked, “Is it possible you arrange for my meeting with the condemned bull?”
“No problem.” He said, “Ours is a democratic country. You can even talk to the dead in their graves.”
Strange are the ways of the world! When a matador kills a bull, it doesn’t make alarming news. But, when a bull kills a matador, it makes sensational news. My host promptly arranged for my meeting with the massive bull. Next day, I was taken to the bulls’ death row.
The condemned bull was kept in an isolated cell. After brief introduction and salutations, I asked, “Brother, what prompted you to kill the matador?”
Without remorse, the bull replied, “Had I not killed the matador, the matador would have certainly killed me. They always kill the bulls.”
I praised the brave bull, and said, “Seemingly you have preserved bulls’ ancestral wisdom called the bull-sense.”
The burly bull said, “I have inherited bull-sense from my talented cousin who in his own right was a great bull. He was a very wise bull. Once he had told me, ‘The matadors are clever people. They provoke you with a red rag, and kill you. Take my advice. In the game of life and death, never go after the red rag. Go after the matador’. I followed his advice religiously.”
“Did your talented cousin practice what he preached?” I asked.
“Like humans, my talented cousin did not practice what he had preached all his life.” The huge bull said, “On a fateful day, when the arena was full to the brim with spectators, my talented cousin was successfully provoked by the red rag held contemptuously by a lean matador who had a sinister smile on his face. My talented cousin thundered, and emitted hell from his nostrils. Earth shook under his hooves as he charged at the red rag, and missed it. The matador promptly lowered a sword in his hump. Angrily he turned around, and again went for the red rag, and missed it. The matador pierced a sword in his neck. My talented cousin became mad with rage. He kept charging at the red rag only to be slashed each time with a sword. Dazed, exhausted, and bleeding profusely, my cousin stood motionless in the arena. The matador responded to the slogans of the savage spectators for a kill. He pulled out his sword, and raised it to the heavens. And then, displaying histrionics, he moved closer to my talented cousin, and sank the sword in his throat. The great bull collapsed and died in the dust.”
It was a pathetic story. I have not been able to ascribe a meaning to the behaviour of the bulls getting mad at a red rag. Why aren’t they lured by a green, or a blue rag! I think, in the life of every man and woman there always is a bull and a red rag. They go after it in frenzy, and are skillfully killed by a matador.
The burly bull said, “I did not go after the red rag. I went straight to the matador. I halted by his side, and asked, why are you after my blood? What have I done to you and to your forefathers?”
“What did he reply?” I asked.
“He pulled out his sword.” The burly bull said, “Before he could pierce his sword through my body and soul, I raised him on my horns, and tossed him several times in the air, and killed him.”
I remained dumbfounded.
“In the game of life and death I was unarmed. The matador was armed to the teeth. But, the humans have their own way of dispensing with justice.” The bull said, “They have decided to put me in front of a firing squad.”
Having dispatched this piece to my employers in Karachi, I feel that even by not going after the red rag, the bulls are preordained to die at the hands of the disguised matadors.
