Bullfight, Indian ishtyle

It's a full moon night. And two bulls are fighting in the middle of the arterial village street. They have locked horns and are staggering up and down the street like two burly drunks. A man shouts at me to get out of the way. Others wave to passing motorcyclists and scooterists. A group of foreign tourists gathers.

When they're angry, one of the local women tells me, they can be dangerous. We wait to see if the crazed bulls will bang into a passing scooter or motorcycle, tossing the driver into the open gutters at the side.

But they nimbly sidestep all traffic and continue their raging dance down the street, conjoined still at the head like Siamese twins. It isn't exactly like the bullfights described in Hemingway's novels. No rockets explode to signal the beginning of the fight. There's no horse to calm or tire the bulls. No dashing matador to direct the bull to his senseless death with his red cape. No cheering fiesta crowd, drunk on wine and bloodlust.

It's just a desi bullfight. In the end there is no blood or gore. The bulls go staggering down the street, still keeping their horns obstinately locked, and disappear into a fallow field behind some trees.

Show over.

And to think that they were probably fighting over a cow!