[The country’s Supreme Court has repeatedly upheld a ban on cockfights, but its writ does not appear to extend here. Six miles down a rural road, a rutted track leads off to the right through tracts of guava and tobacco. After two improvised checkpoints, we reach a huge pit. More than 100 cars are parked in the ochre-colored earth. From beyond the far end of the slope comes the sound of cheers and rooster calls.]
By
Joanna Slater
 |
|
A
cockfight that took place in January in Assam, India, as part of a regional
variation
on
the Makar Sankranti festival. (Anupam Nath/AP)
|
VIJAYAWADA,
India — The four-lane highway stretches across this
flat, riverine part of southern India, flanked by fields of rice and sugar
cane. My guide twists around from the passenger seat to offer some advice: Keep
a low profile and don’t take pictures. The activity we seek is “strictly
prohibited,” he explains. But he assures me his brother-in-law will know where
to go.
It is the first day of Makar Sankranti, a
major festival that takes place each January to celebrate the harvest and the
advent of longer days. People light bonfires, discarding the old and welcoming
the new. They prepare feasts and create intricate decorations made from
brightly colored powders. And they hold cockfights — many, many cockfights.
Awash in gambling and liquor, the fights are
big-money affairs. They’re also entirely illegal. The fact that they persist
points to a conundrum of modern-day India: When the rule of law takes on
tradition and political muscle, it often loses.
The country’s Supreme Court has repeatedly
upheld a ban on cockfights, but its writ does not appear to extend here. Six
miles down a rural road, a rutted track leads off to the right through tracts
of guava and tobacco. After two improvised checkpoints, we reach a huge pit.
More than 100 cars are parked in the ochre-colored earth. From beyond the far
end of the slope comes the sound of cheers and rooster calls.
This is our destination: a cockfight held
under the auspices of the local member of the state legislature.
Cockfights take place all over the globe —
including in pockets of the United States — and on a small scale across India.
But what happens in some coastal districts of the state of Andhra Pradesh
during the Sankranti festival is “completely different,” says N.G. Jayasimha,
who heads the Indian arm of Humane Society International. It is like a “huge
Super Bowl tournament.”
Birds — worth as much as $700 each — are
trained for the fights all year. One breeder described feeding his roosters a
special diet of millet, sorghum, cashews and lizard meat. Each event, involving
dozens of fights and lasting up to three days, can draw hundreds or thousands
of people.
Large amounts of money change hands, though
given the illegality of the proceedings, no one knows exactly how much. This
year, the organizers of one event used drones equipped with cameras to film the
fights and transmit the video to nearby screens, Jayasimha says.
After climbing a narrow path, we arrive at
the cockfight near the village of Koppaka in the district of West Godavari.
There are more than 1,000 people, nearly all men, concentrated around two
rings. The first is simply a head-high fence where spectators jostle for a
look. Beyond it, past gambling tables and stands offering fresh watermelon and
grilled corn, is the main arena. The crowing of roosters echoes from dozens of
birds tied to spikes in the ground.
Inside the arena, under a billowing white
tent, is Chintamaneni Prabhakar, a member of the state legislature from the
Telugu Desam Party that governs Andhra Pradesh. He takes selfies with
spectators, constantly shadowed by two bodyguards carrying snub-nosed rifles.
Before each cockfight, he strides into the earthen ring and inspects the birds
before returning to his front-row seat.
An announcement over a loudspeaker warns that
taking photographs and videos is forbidden. Short and lethal-looking blades are
strapped to the roosters’ legs. Trainers give the birds a sip of water, stroke
their heads, then tap their beaks together before retreating. The noise from
the crowd swells as the two birds rush at each other in a blur of feathers and
dust.
Less than a minute later, the trainers
separate the birds and return them to their starting points, but one is wounded
and cannot get up. It tilts unnaturally to one side. Later the loser will be
picked up by the feet and dropped in a hollow at the arena’s edge where the
ground is already stained red.
After each fight, money furiously changes
hands. Mani Chinnam, 25, a breeder outside the arena, seems surprised when
asked whether he is concerned about participating in an illegal activity. “Why
should I worry?” he responds. Chinnam has brought 25 roosters to the fights,
all with powerful chests, shiny tail feathers and alert eyes. Their training
regimen involves swimming three times a day.
No police are visible anywhere. Local law
enforcement officials say they focus on preventing the fights before they
happen — through education, legal notices and arrests — because breaking up the
actual events is neither possible nor prudent.
The crowds at cockfights can range into the
thousands, says M. Ravi Prakash, the police superintendent for West Godavari
district. “There are 4 million people [in the district] and all are supporting this,”
he says. “So how can we control it with a 2,500 [person] force?” Junior
officers are also wary of crossing powerful local politicians, he notes.
Cockfighting is “very, very culturally
ingrained,” adds Vishal Gunni, the police superintendent in the neighboring
district of East Godavari. “How do you celebrate Thanksgiving? With turkeys.
What would happen if you were to ban the cutting of turkeys?”
Animal rights activists place the blame on
elected officials who attend the fights. “When politicians organize these
events, the message is sent to the people that law and order means nothing,”
Jayasimha says. Contacted after the cockfight, Chintamaneni Prabhakar, the
local legislator present at the event in Koppaka, declined to comment and
claimed he had no knowledge of the proceedings.
After leaving the first cockfight, we drive
to the village of Telaprolu in a nearby district where another event is well
underway. It is a grittier scene: several dusty tents with a raised platform at
the center where spectators crowd and push for a view of the battling roosters.
The announcer barks at the audience, brandishing a whip and yelling at them to
move back.
Radhakrishna, 35, a local farmer who uses only
one name, has brought his three children, all under the age of 12, to the
fights. He has memories of being here as a child atop his own father’s
shoulders. Now his children, too, enjoy coming, Radhakrishna says.
The
announcers continue their thunderous shouts and trainers carefully carry
roosters to and from the ring. As we leave, the sky is starting to darken and
floodlights come on around the arena. The fights will continue uninterrupted
into the night.
Aruna Chandrasekhar contributed reporting.
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