The fight had been well publicised. The trainers began to arrive with their roosters, and the public was flooding in a couple of hours after I got there. The number of star fighters swelled into the hundreds. The birds were tied to the trees at a safe distance from one another. Every combatant was so well-trained that the mere sight of a rival was enough to provoke it.The sport started with the arrival of two guides, who were charged with the job of conducting the whole affair. The crowd was seated in a circle and was asked to maintain silent while the show was on. The rules were strict and simple: No one other than the two guides were to be allowed inside the arena; and the losing bird would becomethe property of the winning bird's owner.

The proceedings started with a trainer handing over his bird to a guide. It was time for other trainers to assess the champion who had just been put up and to figure out how their own birds would fare against it. The decision was quickly taken. In no time, another trainer offered his bird for the fight and gave it to the other guide.

Sharp, two-inch-long knives were tied by the guides to the last claw on the birds' right legs. When a cock fights, it goes back a few paces, then launches itself at the foe, targeting its chest and head for attack with its claws and beak respectively. In each round, a bird is allowed to attack only once.

Thus armed, the combat began. One cock flew high and attacked the other. Its victim bled profusely. One of its wings seemed to have been deeply wounded. Then the next round started. The second bird was worsted again. But its assailant also received a minor cut in the sole of its left foot. But the succeeding rounds were a foregoneconclusion, with the first bird consistently exhibiting its superb training, battering its victim.

But it was luck which held the key to victory, not training or audacity. The victor's hurt foot had started swelling. It did fly up and attack its opponent when it was forced to fight, but between bouts it lay on the ground, unable to stand. Clearly, it would soon be unable to fight. And so the cock's owner, with tears rolling down his cheeks, asked the guide to hand his bird over to the opponent.

There was pin-drop silence. Even the wounded birds were quiet. I watched the bird which had just lost the battle. It held its head up even as it lay on the ground, looking -- or so I fancied -- at the crowd through blood-dimmed eyes, turning its head from side to side. I don't think it understood what was happening to it.

Had this bird been in the wild, it would have fought, of course. But there would have been no knives, no blood, and nothing but honour to be lost. My heart filled with grief for these birds,playing a `game' that was alien to their nature. Playing it till they bled. I left, unable to watch any more. As I walked away, the next pair of birds was being prepared for combat.

Going by the number of fanciers in the tamarind grove, a few hundred birds must have fallen to the sharp blades by the end of the day. The tourney was to continue the next day also. And these two days of sport will be back again next year. And in every succeeding year.

Even deep wounds and unbearable pain don't push the birds into a crying frenzy. They just lie there, mute, prepared to take life -- and death -- as it comes. It is a pity that animal rights activists don't do anything to put a stop to this cruel tradition. At the very least the knives, man's unique contribution to this inhuman sport, should be banished from the arena.