'What, then, do you offer to your gods?' asked the demon.
We give them goats, of which we have plenty.'
Kolomayi was silent for a space. The raft journey followed by the long entombment in the mud was not a pleasant memory.
'You may substitute goats for children when you offer sacrifice to me,' said Kolomayi. ' And I will bless your lands with double crops, but the goats must be as black as your own children without a single spot of white.'
So she was allowed to remain in her temple, and every March a feast is held in her honour. A pujari is supposed to be filled with the afflatus or divine essence of the goddess who feels, speaks, and manifests herself through him.
Kolomayi's pujari stands upon a raised platform, so that he may be seen by all while the sacrifice of blood is made. It is a disgusting orgy, with revolting ceremonies, mingled with the amusements of a country fair. Hundreds of black goats are driven in from the villages round Trichinopoly. I used to hear the flocks bleating as they passed my house in the night under charge of a goat-herd. The animals are led up to the pujari singly. Water is sprinkled on the head, and as the creature shakes itself to throw off the drops, an attendant swings round a heavy sword and decapitates it with one blow. The bleeding head is caught up and presented to the pujari, who seizes it eagerly. Placing his lips to the artery he presents all the appearance of drinking the blood. It is impossible to say whether he does so or not. If he does not, he must have some secret method of staunching the blood, for the bleeding ceases when he throws the head aside.
All day long he continues his ghastly feast. His clothes as well as his body become saturated with the crimson stream, and the crowd shudders as it beholds the
