Rotten Meat and the Delusions of Modernity
The recent rotten meat scandal in Kashmir has done far more than sicken stomachs—it has shaken trust, bruised pride, and carved a deep scar into the psyche and imagination of the people of Kashmir. It is not merely about one incident of contaminated food; it is about the slow erosion of values, traditions, and systems that once safeguarded our health and dignity. Those who have recently dined in restaurants or roadside stalls now find themselves haunted, not only by nausea and queasiness, but by anger, betrayal, and a profound sense of loss.
Three decades ago, such a scandal would have been unthinkable—not because there were no unscrupulous traders back then, but because most people were far less dependent on faceless supply chains. In those days, particularly in the countryside, nearly every household had a cowshed with cows, sheep, along with other livestock, for fresh, unadulterated milk and meat. Inside, two or three cows would stand quietly, providing fresh milk each morning—milk whose origin was not in doubt, whose purity was not left to chance. Many families also reared sheep and goats, maintaining a local supply of fresh meat for nearby communities. Food was not just fresher then; it was anchored in trust, because you knew the hand that fed the animal, the pasture where it grazed, and the care it received. This not only ensured safe food for personal consumption but also brought in a little extra income to support the rural economy.
In those times, having a small coop for hens, ducks, or swans was common in rural and semi-urban homes. Poultry keeping was as ordinary as cooking rice for dinner. Hens clucked in the yard, ducks splashed in village ponds, and swans glided in the quiet backwaters. Fresh eggs were not an item purchased in a paper tray from a shop, but a small daily gift from the birds you raised. They were shared generously with neighbors and relatives, especially during illness, childbirth, or celebrations. Livestock rearing was not just a private pursuit; it was a communal bond, a way of ensuring that even in times of scarcity, the community could feed itself. I vividly remember, my grandmother kept a brood of one or two dozen hens and would invariably gift eggs to neighbors and even to passing villagers. The taste of homemade butter and ghee in our school lunchboxes still fills me with nostalgia. Like all our neighbors, we children would enjoy fresh gurus (buttermilk) on a daily basis.
I recall a well-known figure, a former minister in G. M Sadiq Sahib’s government, a man from a “Zaildar family” who lived in a posh colony of Srinagar. Despite his stature, he kept a Jersey cow for fresh milk and some additional income. This was not seen as eccentric or embarrassing. On the contrary, it reflected both practical wisdom and pride in self-sufficiency. That cow gave him fresh milk, supported education of his three children, and it also stood as a quiet statement that no matter how high one rises in life, the connection to the land and its creatures is worth preserving.
That wisdom is fast slipping away. Sadly, the new generation is increasingly trapped in the delusions of modernity— a mirage of progress built on consumerism, vanity, and borrowed status. Today, many families are more inclined to keep dogs and cats as status symbols, markers of elitism, while viewing bird rearing and animal farming as signs of backwardness and social stigma. Even in rural areas, concrete jungles are rising at a volcanic speed, and people have given up growing vegetables in their own orchards. We are made to think and believe by market forces that branded, high-end, luxury, finance-based cars make life richer than basic investments in food quality, food safety and food security.
Today, the pride in love for labor is fading. No one wants to work and toil hard for the betterment of our condition. We are losing our food sovereignty, agriculture land and old traditions, trading it for the hollow glamour of a “modern” lifestyle. Keeping a cow or hens is mocked as backwardness, while spending fortunes on imported pets is hailed as sophistication. We call it progress, but it is a dangerous delusion. By abandoning our agricultural traditions and domestic livestock rearing, we have not only made ourselves dependent on external suppliers; we have surrendered control over the most basic necessity of life: what we eat.
The result is exactly what we see in the rotten meat scandal—a web of corrupt systems, faceless traders, and profit-driven shortcuts that leave us vulnerable. When we no longer know or care where our food comes from, we become easy prey. And when scandals erupt, we discover too late that our safety nets have long been dismantled.
If we are serious about protecting ourselves from adulterated food, from scams that poison both body and trust, we must go beyond outrage and return to action. The solution is neither exotic nor impossible—it is a return, in spirit and practice, to our old traditions. Every household that has space and means should consider keeping a few birds or animals, not only for personal consumption, but as an act of self-reliance and quiet defiance against the systems that exploit our dependence. Efforts in animal rearing and food production are acts of compassion and self-reliance—a reclamation of dignity and a safeguard against the corrupt systems that feed us poison under the guise of convenience. They are shields against both physical harm and the deeper harm of helplessness. They are also, in a very real sense, acts of cultural preservation. The barn, the cowshed, the chicken coop—these are not relics of a bygone era; they are living links to a way of life that valued quality, trust, and community over showy appearances. Even in the most developed countries, people never abandon basic, life-supporting and life-enriching farming practices, taking pride in self-sufficiency and self-reliance in meeting these fundamental needs.
The rotten meat scandal is not just a story of bad traders or lax enforcement. It is, at its heart, a story about us—about the choices we have made, the values we have abandoned, and the illusions we have embraced. We traded our cowsheds and coops for the glittering restaurants, market places, and the delusion of “progress.” We cultivated the false belief that regulation alone could protect us. Our elders ate what they grew and reared; their trust in food was grounded in their own hands. We have traded that for convenience, only to discover that convenience has a hidden cost.
The truth is plain: if we want safe food, we must once again value the labour and skills that produce it. This does not mean turning back the clock or rejecting modern life entirely. It means blending the best of modern tools with the wisdom of tradition. It means teaching our children that tending a cow is not shameful, that collecting fresh eggs is not “village work” to be sneered at, but a proud act of self-care.
A dozen hens, one or two cows, or a few sheep—these modest resources can make a household not only richer in food, but richer in security, in taste, in independence. They offer a small but meaningful resistance to the industrial food system that has brought us to this point. They reconnect us to the cycles of nature, the seasons of the land, and the knowledge that the best things we can eat are the ones we have nurtured ourselves.
If we want safe food and dignity, we must return to the soil, to the barn, to the flock—before modernity feeds us rot again. The path back is not easy, but it is clear. It begins with a hen in the yard, a cow in the shed, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing that what is on our plate is honest, safe, and truly ours.
By: Prof (Dr.) Altaf Hussain Pandith
