The pigs wait. Fat pink hides slap against one another as they jostle in the heated shadow of their pen. There is no sound outside but death stagnates the air in their nostrils. And when the door opens, panic aids their capture.
Out front, a woman wrinkles her nose at a smell no one but she picks up. The unbearable stench pulls bile into the back of her throat. The Ashram owner welcomes her to his home of tranquility and tells her there will be pork for lunch.
She runs out to vomit as another throat is slit.
And the Ashram sits, bathed in a constant cooling breeze, pretending to be at peace.