Goat Days (7 page)

We had been acquaintances for only two days. I don’t even know if he could be called an acquaintance. A few words were all that we had exchanged. Didn’t know his name, native place, nothing. Still, it hurt a lot when I realized he had gone. I couldn’t fathom the reason for that pain. It might have originated from the anguish of intense loneliness. Suddenly my body was overpowered by weariness. Like the sensation one feels when out of the blue one hears that one’s uppah or ummah or child has died. But my arbab, the messenger of the dismal news, had no feelings. ‘He’s left.’ Yes, he has. That was all. Where, how, with whom? ‘No,’ he said, as if he didn’t want to know.

Unexpectedly, I saw a ray of hope. The arbab would react similarly if some day he heard that I had also left. If the scary figure is gone, there is Najeeb, if Najeeb is gone, there will be someone else. That’s all.

But I was not as hopeful when I saw his attitude and activities on the first day. He shot at the sky with his gun, demonstrated the range of the binoculars, observed me from the top of his vehicle whenever I went out, and drove around me when he felt that I had gone too far. I feared he would never let me escape from this hell. I had observed that fear and precaution in each action of the scary figure. I could discern that fear in each word he uttered to me: Never attempt to flee. He will kill you if you do—that unkind, brutal, ruthless arbab. But after saying all those things to me, he had escaped. Liar! He had been waiting for me to join, had handed over everything to me and scooted. He served me all those lies so that I wouldn’t try to escape. Look, how calm the arbab is. Even his usual annoyance is not to be seen. Only an air of resignation, what’s gone is gone.

When I thought about my situation, I felt happy. One, the scary figure had somehow escaped from this suffering. Two, I too can escape like this in the future. Three, and most important, I am going to appropriate the cot. I would not have to sleep on the ground again.

As I got a whiff of freedom, I became very lively. I ran to the masara with the vessel and milked some
goats. Of course, I was still an amateur, but I did much better than the day before and did not get as many kicks from the goats. I had come a long way from the previous day’s not-even-a-drop stage. But it would be some time before I was as good as the scary figure.

I gave some of the milk I got to the arbab, the rest I placed in the masara of the young ones. Then, I began the rest of the back-breaking work. I had to do the work of two people. The camels had to be fed and set free. I supplied enough grass, wheat and fodder to each masara, and filled the containers with water. Meanwhile, a water truck came, and I helped the man fill the tank; a trailer came with fodder, and I helped unload it. Although I worked hard, the jobs at hand were never-ending. Even when it was time to herd the goats (I had started guessing time from the length of the shadow), half the masaras hadn’t been supplied with grass.

Although the arbab had been watching me work, he scolded me for not taking the goats out. I retorted that without help I could only do so much. The arbab answered me with his belt. A lash across my back. I squirmed in pain. It felt as though that lash would sting and hurt my back for the next six months. As he walked away, the arbab said something. I understood
what he said—it was the work done by one person till I had joined the scary figure. At times a strange language can also communicate very well. I ran away crying and finished the remaining jobs. I didn’t get time to have breakfast, nor did the arbab invite me to have some.

I had just finished herding the goats of two masaras when the arbab called me and explained that a vehicle had come to take the goats to the market. ‘Catch the big ones and load them into the vehicle.’ It was my elder arbab who came in the vehicle. There was no one to help. I entered the goats’ enclosure. Standing outside, both the arbabs would select a goat and point at it, ‘
Aadi
.’ I would try to catch it, but like a snakefish in water, it would slither away. I would follow it, catch it (How to catch … it didn’t even have any rope around its neck?), and take it up to the vehicle. The next problem was to push it inside the vehicle. I was not strong enough to carry it in. The goat wouldn’t get in willingly. I don’t know how much energy and time I spent on somehow pushing each one into the vehicle. By the time I managed two or three, I was worn out. But the arbabs made me scurry to the masara again and again. They would point to the masara and say,
‘Aadi abiyad.
’ I wouldn’t understand
which one. Thinking that it was the goat next to me, I would try to catch it. ‘
Himar, maafi aswad, abiyad, abiyad,
’ the arbabs would holler. Realizing that it was not that one, I would try to catch a bigger one. ‘
Himar, mukh maafi inti, aadi abiyad
,’ the arbab would hit my head. Only after many mistakes did I finally realize that the arbab was asking me to catch the white he-goat.

Dragging it out, I somehow pushed it into the vehicle. Again, back to the masara. The arbab would say ‘
Aswad
,’ I would again commit some blunder before finally getting him the black goat he had pointed at. By the time I finished catching about twenty goats, I fell down, exhausted. I cursed myself and many others. The scary figure got his freedom. My reward: back-breaking labour! A lash that I would never forget! Starvation till lunch!

I was learning to face life alone, to train myself in jobs I had never performed before, to try out a new way of life, to get accustomed to an uncommon situation. It was not as if I had a choice; I was utterly helpless. Had we learned that one could get a little water only if one worked till one’s bones broke, we would work till we died, not just till our bones broke.

Since I had helped out the scary figure for a couple of days, I was confident that the routine jobs would not be difficult and that I could master them. Only the milking and herding of goats needed a little training; the rest even a blind man could do, all one needed was a bit of health and strength. At least that was my understanding. But, as the days passed, I had to learn many new things on my own—the ways of goats, how to rear them, the habits of camels. Circumstances can make a man capable of learning to do anything.

One day I was taking the goats out as usual—it must have been one week after my arrival—when I noticed that one of the goats looked sluggish and weary. It was pregnancy fatigue—like Sainu’s. When I’d asked the arbab if I should take it out, he had nodded his head in permission. After we were halfway from the masara, the goat moved away from the herd and lay down. Puzzled, I stood near it. After a while, it began to moan and squirm. Only then did I understand that it was going through labour pains. Although I tried to make it go back to the masara, it fell down after three or four steps. Meanwhile, the other goats were already scattered in the desert. As long as they moved in a herd, the goats acted fine. However, if the line got disrupted, if the herd scattered, it was all over. Then their instincts took over. Goats are the only domesticated animals that, despite living with man for about six thousand years, slip back into their wild nature whenever possible. That was why the scary figure had instructed me on my very first day to keep them in line and within the herd.

Before I could do anything, fifty goats had gone in fifty ways. I was in a dilemma: should I leave the one in labour and go after the rest or take care of it
leaving the others to wander around? Finally, recalling the shepherd who goes in search of the lost one, leaving the forty-nine, I decided to attend to the goat in labour.

Forget goats, I had never seen any animal giving birth. I didn’t know what kind of help an animal in labour needed. I had never had any pets myself, nor had I cared for any of the animals that had lived in my neighbourhood. Therefore, my participation was limited to standing there, watching passively. After a while, I saw a head emerging and, with some horror, I continued to watch. Then involuntarily I ran forward to support the baby as it slowly began to come out, ingesting all the flames of pain. But because of the sliminess of its body, I couldn’t hold on to it. It fell off my hand, to the ground.

From somewhere, suddenly some old knowledge flashed inside me: the placenta should be removed! I cleaned its face and body with my hand. Its mother was even more conscious of her responsibility towards the kid than me. Within seconds, she licked the baby clean. Soon after its birth the baby began to try to stand up, and succeeded. It slowly tottered to its mother’s udders. I saw that it was a he-goat.

At that instant, my mind shook free of all its shackles and everything I had been trying to forget hit home. My Sainu is pregnant. When I left her, she was near delivery and I’ve had no news of her since. Maybe this was a good omen Allah wanted to show me. My Sainu, my wife—she has given birth. A baby boy, as I had longed for. In that belief, I named that newborn goat Nabeel. The name I had thought of for my son.

My hand and my dress were all wet with the water that broke and the blood from the placenta. Where could I wash? That the arbab would rebuke me if I returned to the masara without the goats was a certainty. I cleaned my hands on my robe and then I lifted that unsteady and beautiful little kid and kissed it. You are the present Allah gave me. Be well, my darling.

I took Nabeel to his mother’s breasts. Out of the blue, a swift blow flung me some distance away. Only when I regained consciousness after a few stunned moments did I realize that it was the arbab who had kicked me. He was looking at me with burning eyes and pointing at something as he hollered. The rest of the goats were scattered all over the desert. I mumbled
a few words like goat, delivery, baby, placenta, etc. But the arbab was in no mood to listen. Angrily, he came forward and pulled my Nabeel away from his mother’s teats. Then, brutally disregarding my helpless pleadings and the mother goat’s heartbreaking look, he went back to the masara carrying Nabeel on his shoulders.

Leaving the mother goat there, I ran after the other goats. It was only after a great effort that I could somehow gather them. As I walked back with them to the masara, the mother goat followed us helplessly.

More punishment awaited me when I got back. I was severely beaten and reproached. The arbab accused me on four counts in that day’s charge sheet: one, I had tried to take some water to clean the placenta and blood off my hands and dress; two, I was late to return with the goats; three, I had wasted time by looking at a goat giving birth—goats know how to give birth and don’t need any human assistance; and, four, that was the most severe crime, I’d tried to make the newborn drink its mother’s milk.

I knew that the young ones were given milk in a pail. But I didn’t know that even a newborn was not allowed to have breast milk.

My reward for trying to help a goat deliver her baby was severe words, a kick, enough spit, two or three belt whippings and starvation at noon.

Even then, I didn’t feel bad or sorrowful. I was sure that Allah would bestow my real reward back home on Sainu and my son. Or so I told myself. I needed to hold on to something to survive.

I gave more care and affection to Nabeel than to any other goat in the masara. Maybe, he didn’t have any need for it and he would have been fine living with the other goats. But I couldn’t let him go. He was the one who was born into my hands, the gift that Allah had given me in place of my son. Unseen by the arbab, I would often make him drink from his mother’s breasts—a good fortune no other goat in the masara ever enjoyed. What better gift could I give him than making it possible for him to drink from his own mother’s breast? While the rest were fed from the common pail of milk, I made him drink separately. I fed him tender leaves of grass, making him walk by my side when the goats were taken out. Like a naughty boy, he would break away and spring ahead, and turn his head to look at me. I would run to catch him and he would shoot into the herd and hide. And when I caught him, I would kiss him. For
me, Nabeel was not one of the many goats in the masara. He was my own son.

He was very naughty from the beginning. It was his habit to fight with he-goats bigger than him. Some goats would accommodate his friskiness, but some would strike him with their horns. How many times he came to me bleeding! Unseen by the arbab, I would take water from the tank and clean his wounds and apply on them the medicine the arbab had. Nabeel recognized and returned the special treatment and affection I gave him.

One day, after eating khubus, I was about to take the goats for a walk when the arbab called me. No outing today. Today there is some other work to be done.’

After some time, the arbab came out of the tent with a long sharp knife. Inside me, something burned. My Lord, did he plan to kill some of these goats and eat them later?

You couldn’t ask the arbab anything. You could only just listen to whatever he says. You must obey whether you understand his words or not. That is what I had been doing so far. Therefore, I was afraid to ask the arbab anything. I quietly followed him.

The arbab went near the masara where the little he-goats were kept. Looking at one of the he-goats, he directed me to catch it. To kill it, I was sure. Murderer! But I was not brave enough to oppose him. Unwillingly I entered the masara and brought the he-goat he wanted outside. He asked me to turn it to face me, place its body between my thighs and to raise its hind legs. I didn’t have a clue as to why I had to do that.

The goat was soon standing on its forelegs, its body between my thighs and its hind legs in my hands. The arbab, who was right in front of me, could see the underside of the goat clearly. The goat was trembling with fright. I was even more scared. I remember that the arbab made sure of the sharpness of the knife. Then there was a wild cry like I’ve never heard before and I saw blood squirting, as if from a spout. In my hands, the lamb wriggled with all its strength. For a second I feared I would lose my grip. ‘Don’t let go,’ the arbab yelled. Fearing the arbab’s wrath, my strength defeated the goat’s. In the next second, the arbab took out the spray from his pocket and aimed it at the wound. Even then the goat continued to cry with all its life. But the bleeding, as if by magic, stopped abruptly. After a while, the goat’s writhing
body relaxed. The arbab indicated that I should return it to the masara. When I released it at the gate of the masara, it bolted into the herd like a wild boar that had had a shot fired at it.

Pity! A he-goat had lost its maleness. A maleness that was to the arbab a small piece of meat and a little blood. I had noticed that not all male goats were allowed to live with their virility. Only a select few were lucky. After a certain age, they were made to live among she-goats. They could mate as they pleased and enjoy all the male pleasures. The rest of the he-goats were castrated and made into eunuchs. They were meant for slaughterhouses. I’d observed that the castrated male goats grew faster, but I had not realized that castration was so brutal.

The arbab pointed at another goat and commanded me to fetch it. I entered the masara and caught it. The arbab knew the age of each one and also when to destroy their maleness—some in the first month, some when they were two months old. By measuring its male endowment, the arbab was able to discern whether a goat would be able to produce active and healthy offspring that grow up to give plenty of milk. That was the basis on which the decision to allow it to retain manhood or to castrate it was made.

I kept on fetching the goats he pointed at. Casually, like paring one’s nails, the arbab kept slicing off their manliness. My heart was shaken when he pointed at one of them after finishing with five or six. That hand pointed towards my Nabeel! I was shocked! My Nabeel? You, who I hoped would grow up in joy! My son? No, I cannot abandon you to his knife. I could not. I pushed him among the goats and caught another one as if the arbab had pointed out at that one. But the arbab’s eyes were like a vulture’s—although he lay idly inside the tent, he knew each of his goats like the lines on his palm. ‘Not that, the other one,’ the arbab’s hand stretched out towards Nabeel. I could not catch him. I could not do him such harm. Again I caught the legs of another one nearby.

‘Himar!’ the arbab yelled. That was the very end of the arbab’s patience. Next would be the heavy kick on my back, I knew. Still, I caught another one the third time. The arbab leapt at me and kicked me on my back. I was thrown aside. Angrily, the arbab caught Nabeel’s legs and dragged him out. I rose and touched the arbab’s feet. Oh arbab, please let him grow to become a he-goat. I need him. I would not like to send him to the slaughterhouse. Let him live
here with me. I begged him in all the languages that I knew.

‘Himar!’ The arbab struck my head. ‘I can recognize the ideal he-goats. Only the kids they breed will be strong. Only they grow fast. What do you know? He has to go to the slaughterhouse soon.’ Without any mercy, the arbab dragged Nabeel out and commanded me to raise his hind legs. Then, in the blink of an eye, my Nabeel’s manhood also fell on the ground, soaked in blood like that of many other goats.

The cry that came from Nabeel when he was cut! Even now it echoes in my heart. It felt like my heart was being lacerated with a piece of flint. I only remember Nabeel whining and running into the masara. Then, when I woke up, I was lying on top of a bundle of hay. It was already afternoon. The arbab gave me some water to drink and then sent me to do my routine chores. The day Nabeel lost his manliness, I too lost mine. I haven’t yet figured out that mystery—of how my virility vanished with that of a goat’s!