Meat momos for everyone

Unlike most days, folks in Lalung were jostling around with a sense of great urgency that morning. Life in this little village, high up in the Himalaya, is generally slow. But not today. It was hard to tell what the cause of this commotion was. I asked Sonam Chhering, my neighbor, what was going on. 

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‘The villagers are going to herd the yak from the pasture. The herd was last seen at Kibri, a large pasture at some distance from the village, by the 'yakzi', the yak herder. He came home running last evening and reported that one of the yaks had gone crazy!’, said Sonam as he rolled in laughter. People in these villages reared sheep, goat, donkeys, horses, and cows. But the most important animal was the yak, and that for several reasons. The sturdy yak is an excellent assistant in the fields, during farming. Yak wool and yak dung was a precious source of warmth in the extreme winter months. And a yak’s tail can fetch over ten thousand rupees in the local market, if it is spotless white! Takpa—another of our neighbors—had recently purchased a yak from a trader in Manali. This old yak had spent all his life posing for photographs with tourists. He was used to a life of being fed by his master; a far cry from a yak’s life in Spiti. Here, yaks are left free to wander the pastures for most of the year. This means that they roam in a herd searching for green grasses to feast on. Not used to such a hard life, this old fellow spent most days basking in the sun, even if he had to go hungry. He soon developed a nasty temper and would chase down any soul who dared cross his path. Yesterday, it was the yakzi’s turn: he literally had to make a run for his life. So, the men from the village were preparing to catch this old yak. It took the men of the village an entire day to catch the old yak. This old fellow was brought back to the village and tied inside a corral so that he doesn't play any more mischief. From that day on, I could see this old fellow from my window. He would stare back at me and grind his teeth, as if in warning. In some days I grew used to hearing that ominous sound at practically any hour of the day or night. 

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One evening, as I reached the village I found everyone beaming with joy. ‘There’s a party today. Meat momos!’, exclaimed Sonam Chhering. Momos—steamed dumplings—are the most favorite dish in Spiti and are prepared only on special occasions. That evening the entire village gathered to feast on meat momos eaten along with spicy tomato chutney. Full to our hearts’ content we walked back to our homes, that moonlit night. As we reached our respective homes, I realised something was missing. ‘Where’s the old yak?’ I asked. ‘He was the meat in our momos!’ Sonam had a wicked smile. My stomach gave a little lurch. It felt as if the old fellow was grinding his teeth inside my belly.

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