A culinary crisis in the carnivorous terrain
AS the foliage of autumn painted the jungle in hues of gold, a peculiar predicament dawned upon its inhabitants, most notably His Majestic Excellency, the tiger. The impending Navratra season — a revered celebration — brought with it an unfamiliar quandary for the jungle’s apex predator. A culinary crisis of grand proportions loomed over the once-carnivorous terrain.
Accustomed to the savoury delights of fresh venison, the tiger found himself at a perplexing juncture. The festive season, an observance steeped in tradition, demanded abstinence from flesh, requiring all creatures, no matter their nature, to lead a purely herbivorous existence. Such a decree left our regal feline in perplexity, his very instincts at odds with this temporary vegetarian mandate.
Summoned to the council, the jungle’s inhabitants discussed the matter with a fervour, none more jubilant than the deer. They discreetly prepared floral garlands, ready to adorn their striped sovereign, half in jest and half in fear. Meanwhile, the squirrel, with mischievous intent, offered acorns as a supposed substitute for the tiger’s beloved meat, while the elephant, in its wisdom, extolled the virtues of a diet rich in fibre, much to the tiger’s visible disdain.
“But what of the natural order?" thundered the tiger, his voice dripping with the weight of philosophical inquiry. “Shall I now forsake my nature, only to wither away in the agony of a protein deficiency? Am I to graze upon leaves as if I were some common beast of burden, my instincts dulled by the unworthy sustenance of a cucumber?"
The owl, ever the voice of reason, perched high upon a branch, delivered his wisdom with calm resolve. “This is the age-old cycle of dharma, my revered sovereign. For these sacred nights and days, even you, the mightiest of us all, must resist the call of instinct. To transgress would invite the displeasure of the cosmos itself, turning your snacks into sacrilege."
With the weight of tradition heavy upon him, the tiger let out a growl, low and thoughtful. “Shall I, then, graze as a mere goat? Or worse, nibble upon salad as if it were a feast fit for a king?" His disdain was palpable, but his resignation to the situation was inevitable.
As the jungle resounded with opinions — ranging from the serious to the absurd — the tiger accepted his fate. His diet, now replete with leaves and legumes, would have to suffice for the time being, though not without the occasional disgruntled swipe at an unwitting pumpkin.
And so, the tale unfolds: even the king of the jungle must yield to the celestial laws of the festive season — albeit with a gnawing hunger for a post-festival feast.
