Goat Days (2 page)

We got used to the ways of the prison within a short time. The commotion we had witnessed when we first came in was post-lunch activity. Prison workers were busy collecting plates. Lunch here was served immediately after
dhuhur
prayer. We missed lunch that day. However, compared to the suffering I had endured, regretting a missed meal seems ludicrous.

The prisoners chitchatted languorously into siesta. Lethargic after the meal, many slept. The block didn’t have cots, mats or mattresses. One just found a spot on the bare floor. For someone used to luxuries, the heat must have been unbearable; the purring of the three or four ACs set pretty high on the walls provided little relief.

There must have been about two hundred and fifty people in our block. The prisoners, lying down in whatever space they could manage, resembled dead bodies laid out after a natural disaster. Those who
weren’t asleep, sat in circles and talked. After noting the two new arrivals, someone from a Malayali-looking cluster looked up to say, ‘Don’t worry, most of us here are Malayalis. Join any group you like,’ and returned to the discussion.

Hameed and I found a corner and sat there on our own, not joining any group. Exhausted from the long journey and lack of sleep, we started to doze off almost immediately. But, before long, the azan for the
asar
prayer sounded. Here and there, people woke up and sluggishly headed towards a space set aside for prayer. We also joined them. Along with the others, we turned our faces towards Kaaba to pray to Allah, the merciful.

Bismillah al Rahman al Rahim
…

While in prayer I could feel my past miseries flowing out in a torrent. I wept tears of joy as I recalled the affection of merciful Allah who had protected me all through my ordeal and helped me journey through the long sandy expanse of misery!

As I got up from that prayer offering all my sorrows and happiness to Allah, the bell rang. The sleepers woke up and took their position in the queue that was taking shape at another corner of the block. Although we didn’t know what it was for, we followed the
crowd. As the queue moved forward, a big tea vessel came into sight. We could pick up a cup, fill it with tea, get two or three biscuits from the next table, and sit anywhere to have it at peace. When the tea was over, the cup had to be washed clean and returned to the table. It did not seem like being in a prison at all. It was more like a disaster-relief camp. Inside the block, one could walk and talk freely. I had desperately craved for this in the past three or four years—the chance to talk to someone. Just to exercise my newfound freedom, I kept chatting with Hameed. I didn’t give him any opportunity to speak. I talked greedily. My tongue didn’t remain still even for a second. Hameed, who knew me well by now, lent me his ear most patiently. I must have repeated the same stories to Hameed several times over. But I wasn’t satiated.

By the evening, someone from the nearby Indian block came to visit me. I don’t recall his name now. As soon as he saw me, he shook my hands and smiled. ‘Allah is compassionate,’ he said, as if to himself. He enquired if I was the one who had made it to Kunjikka’s shop. I nodded yes.

‘I know. After hearing about you, I went there to see you once. But you were asleep and I didn’t wake you up.’ Again he shook my hands and said, ‘Allah
is compassionate. I came here only two days ago—a scuffle with the sponsor. It’s all right. Kunjikka will bail me out.’ He kept talking. Every so often, he would clutch my hand and praise Allah a hundred times. I started to weep. And, I don’t know why, that stranger also wept with me. Then, praising Allah, he returned to his block.

After that, many others from that block came to visit me. No one asked me anything. They had heard my story from that stranger. They only wanted to see me, and they looked at me in amazement. Some shook my hands and consoled me. Those were in my block also heard my story from those who had visited me.

Breaking away from their groups, most of the Malayalis in the block gathered around me. Some gazed at me as at an alien, some with wonder, some with awe, some with pity and a few with suspicion. Anyhow, I learned that within a few hours I was the topic of conversation among all the Malayalis in the prison. In the days that followed, many more came to see me and made me speak at length. I didn’t offend any of them—I fed my insatiable appetite for talking. I mentally revisited every moment of my story a thousand times and my mind and feet were ablaze as if I were walking on burning sands.

That evening, as we sat for dinner after
maghreb
, all the Malayalis in the block were with me. I didn’t have anything to give them in return for their love, except some tears.

In the jail, meals were served after different prayers. After the early morning
subahi
prayer, a glass of milk for everyone. At nine o’clock tea was ready and could be had any time until breakfast which was khubus and daal curry. Around noon, after the dhuhur prayer, lunch was served. It was always some kind of Arab biryani called
majbus
or
kabsa
. It was brought in large plates, one for at least ten people. We would sit around the plates in Arab style and eat. The meat in the biryani was different every day: chicken, mutton, camel. When it was mutton, I wouldn’t eat that meal.

‘What is past is past. Forget it and try to eat something.’ ‘There is no place to improve health like the prison. We must return at least as we landed here. Don’t make your wife lament on seeing you when you return. Only we need to suffer what we have endured.’ Hameed tried to console me with such words. Despite
all the kind words, I couldn’t be consoled. Even the word mutton made my eyes moist.

In the beginning, I would realize that it was mutton in the biryani only after touching the food on the plate. I would then just shake it off my hand, get up and go away. Later, I began enquiring in advance. On the mutton days, I wouldn’t even sit for the meal; I would restrict myself to the tea and biscuits served after asar. It was the same at night. When khubus and meat were served in the meal between the maghreb and
isha
prayers, I would back off if there was mutton on the plate. If I was very hungry, I would dip the khubus in water and eat. I had no difficulty in eating khubus without a curry. That had been my diet for many years!

Sumesi jail did not have any of the oft-heard characteristics of a prison. We led a very free life within the block. Maybe we had such freedom because those sentenced for serious offences were housed in another prison or in a different block. In our block we had lawbreakers who were without visas, those whose visas had expired, or those who did not have pathakas, and Muslims who had been out on the streets during prayer time or prepared food during Ramadan, those who smoked in public places, engaged in black magic
and had minor scuffles with Arabs and the like. Those with petty or minor sentences and those condemned to be exiled.

I don’t recall such carefree days ever in my life. We had food at fixed times, prayed, slept enough and more, reflected pointlessly, talked as much as we liked, and dreamt about our future. The world didn’t know us. We didn’t know the world either. That was prison.

Hameed only complained about the lack of a facility to bathe. I laughed when I heard him mumble to himself, after a week in prison, about the clammy air and increasing body odour. Then, I calculated with my fingers. Three years, four months, nine days. I laughed aloud again when I thought about it. Maybe even Hameed wouldn’t have understood the meaning of my laughter.

Everyone who ended up in the jail had a story like mine to tell—of pain, sorrow, suffering, tears, innocence, helplessness. Perhaps you have heard similar stories elsewhere. I don’t want to belittle the pain of others. For each, the path he travelled was harsh. The losses were such that no one could ever compensate for them. I even felt that the sorrows in my life were small compared to the sufferings of
some others. In fact, some of these agonizing accounts helped me to come out of my own grief and made it possible for me to continue living to tell you this story. Otherwise, under the weight of my sorrow, I would have committed suicide. A way to come out of our sorrow is to listen to the stories of those who endure situations worse than ours.

Every week there was an identification parade in the prison. It was the day for the Arabs to identify the absconding workers—a tear-filled day in prison. On that day, after breakfast, all of us were made to stand in a line outside the block. Arabs would walk in front of us looking at each face carefully, like eyewitnesses trying to identify the accused. There would be a few unfortunate ones among us each week. The first reaction of the Arab who recognized his worker was to land a slap that could pop an eardrum. Some even unbuckled their belts to whip the prisoners till their anger subsided. The policemen would keep an eye on the scene from a distance, and might not even pay attention. Knowing this, some prisoners who spotted their sponsors from a distance, lost all courage and cried loudly. It was only then that one realized how
a man becomes a coward when he feels completely helpless. For him, the jail must have provided relief from the suffering he had been enduring. For many, it was inconceivable to return to the Arabs who had been torturing them. They must have endured so many beatings before they reached the jail.

But the Arabs didn’t have any compassion or consideration. They would immediately take the prisoners away shouting accusations: he ran away after stealing my money; he tried to rape my daughter; he tried to kill me. The prisoner’s face would reflect the abjection of a goat being led to slaughter. His loud cries protesting his innocence would soar above the jail walls; it would be a cry in the wilderness. The Arabs could execute the law as they pleased.

The Arab enjoyed more freedom inside a prison in his country than we did outside in a foreign land. On these parade days, any Arab could freely move around the Sumesi prison if he carried a paper showing that he had registered a complaint in a police station. If he managed to find his absconding slave, he could drag him out and present him before the jail warden and submit his petition to him. The nature of the case would change. The man who was in prison for a petty case would be turned into a criminal offender. It was
then either the shariah or the law of the court. The Arab could even demand that he be allowed to take away the prisoner, or that the prisoner be expelled from the country. Here, expulsion was salvation. If the prisoner was ordered to return to the Arab, his fate was sealed.

Remembering my own experience, I shuddered to think what the Arab would do to the absconder. One could only pray to Allah to strengthen those unfortunate ones so that they are able to survive even that ordeal.

On parade day, the block would be eerily quiet. We would grieve for the loss of friends who had been with us in the block till then, sharing food, talking, smiling and playing, dreaming of homeland. Our ears would be ringing with their long howls from the main hall and beyond. No one would be in the mood to eat, drink, talk or sleep. By the time that pain faded, it was parade day again. That day would be the lot of other innocents. Prison wasn’t entirely pleasant a memory after all!

Hundreds of Arabs would cross our parade line in those two hours till lunch. During the first few parade days Hameed and I were terrified. Two hours of agonizing fear, not knowing when misfortune
would come in search of us. Even the shadow of a likeness resulted in incredible tension. The fear would only go when we became sure that it wasn’t anyone familiar.

Although we had to wade through the tears of many unlucky ones, we felt great relief when that two-hour ordeal ended. Forgive me for my selfishness, but I felt glad that no one had come looking for me. Maybe it was the routine nature of its occurrence that the tension slowly began to fade on parade days. Maybe it was the confidence that the reasonable time frame for anyone to come looking for me was over.

Anyone absconding from his sponsor was likely to end up in the police net within a fortnight, or, at the most, within a month; otherwise, he was thought to have found a safe haven. It was considered impossible for any Arab to find him then. There were many who stayed on without any documents. As they were aware of this, the Arabs would give up their search within a month or two. A complaint would remain registered with the police. If he was found after all that, then the Arab was lucky—that’s all.

As we crossed that period, Hameed and I were relieved. Nobody was ever going to come searching for us. And being in the line became an amusement
and a diversion. Casually talking and cracking jokes, we idled those two hours away. This was our way of dealing with our situation—we had arrived at a compromise with the fear that had once overwhelmed us. This was true for all those who had spent four or five months in the jail.

Our block was like a railway station where people arrived and departed. There were no permanent residents. All the prisoners didn’t come at the same time; they came separately, from different police stations from various corners of the country, on different days, at different times. We sometimes didn’t even discern the slow inward flow. But some departures were like the emptying of a platform when a train arrived.

The day after the inspection by the Arabs was the day of the embassy visit. Embassy officials of different countries came to the prison with release papers for the prisoners of their respective countries. If the previous day was one of tears, the next was one of joy. On that day too, all the prisoners would be taken out in a line. Embassy officials would read out the names of those whose papers—exit passes—had been processed, and they would step forward. It was a rather impatient wait. It amused me to compare it to
the anxiety of beauties waiting for the announcement of the Miss Universe contest results. A joy similar to that which lights up the face of the winner when her name is announced must have erupted in the heart of each one whose name was called out. That roll call marked the final release from a long agony. But nobody expressed it openly. There were many more for whom the waiting—wracked with anxiety and hope—continued. There was despair when one recognized that one’s name wasn’t among those that were called out. Some, who had been waiting for months, would just burst into tears.

The five-minute period after this announcement, when the officials went into the prison office to take care of the paperwork, was for us the time of goodbyes. It was the time to recall with tenderness our life together, the many days spent with each other sharing each other’s griefs. Still, it was with great jubilation that those left behind bid farewell to those who departed. It wasn’t possible to say goodbye to too many. Because, by then, the policeman’s whistle, like that of the moving train, would go off. All those called would run towards the exit. Who would like a policeman’s belt smack his back as he leaves prison?