Goat Days (5 page)

Shaking slightly, I walked towards that scary figure. He had matted hair like that of a savage who had been living in a forest for years. His beard touched his belly. He had on the dirtiest of Arab clothes. Also that horrible stink that can drive anyone away! Although he saw me coming, the figure didn’t move. For a moment, I was confused. Was it a statue or a human being? Then quite unexpectedly, he chuckled. It became a long rattling laughter. I couldn’t fathom its meaning or relevance. After laughing for some time, he said something in Hindi. Because my schooling ended after fifth class, and because I never had any occasion to pick up Hindi, I didn’t understand what he said. Arabic might have been more intelligible to me than that Hindi.

There was pity in those words, and also sadness, resentment, scorn. Today I understand: he was lamenting my fate and wailing. Compassion doesn’t require any language.

Then the figure fell down like a log and went to sleep. After some time, I could hear snoring.

By then, I was somewhat aware of the situation I had ended up in, and about the nature of my job. I shuddered for a second thinking about becoming another scary figure. I should escape before that happens. Where to? Anywhere. How? However. Now, this very moment. The arbab must be asleep in his tent. The scary figure is a dead wood here. Nobody will see me. If I run … how long will I run? Which way …? In which direction? To which place? I don’t know anything. When I thought about the hours we had travelled from the city, a fear was kindled in me about the place I had reached. I was chained to that place by that very thought.

The night had advanced. The night breeze of the desert had the chill of the month of Makaram back home. The gruelling fatigue of travel hit me, to say nothing of hunger and thirst. Sleeping at nine after dinner had been my habit back home. In that open expanse, I became numb without a place to sleep or sit. Then, as my legs began to ache, I placed my bag near the scary figure’s cot and sat on it. Gone were the thoughts of the pickles packed by my ummah and my Sainu.

As I sat there, feeling utterly consumed by hunger, thirst and exhaustion, I could make out a large tank near the fence and, near its base, two or three valves. Grasping one in the dark, I turned its head. Ah! Cold water began to gush out. Greedily I gulped the water, till I was satiated, till I was full, till I had had enough for the next day and the day after, as if I was afraid I wouldn’t get any more. Oh my Lord, how can I explain the relief I felt? For a while I sat there before the tank, exhausted. Then I got up and went back to the scary figure’s cot. When weariness overtook me, I laid down on the sand, using my bag for a pillow. My back ached. I smiled at the emptiness. What dreams I had had! An AC car, an AC room, a soft mattress with a TV in front of it! I laughed. What else could I do in my present condition? No one else could have realized how far my dreams were from the reality of my situation. My first night in the Gulf was such a fiasco.

It was the commotion of the bleating of hundreds of goats that woke me up in the morning. The day was already very bright though the sun was yet to rise. I got up slowly. My body ached terribly from sleeping
on the sand. I had a vague recollection of fishing out a sheet from my bag and covering myself with it. It was there in the sand, crumpled. The fearsome figure on the cot was not to be seen. I thought maybe it had been a nightmare.

I sat on the cot and looked around. There were many more goats than I had expected. The fence encircled a large area that was divided into many segments, and in each segment there were hundreds of goats. Beyond the fence, the desert stretched out as far as the eye could see, touching the horizon. There was not even the shadow of a tree to block that sight. On one side was a fairly large hill. Everywhere else there were only sand dunes rising to the height of two to three men. They made the otherwise flat surface uneven.

After some time, as if to prove I had not dreamt him up, the scary figure came out from among the goats. It was only then that I could clearly and closely see how terrifying he was. Dust had transmuted into scales on his body and dirt matted his beard and hair. His dirty fingernails had grown crooked and looked hideous. It must have been five years at least since his last bath, and a century since his clothes had been washed. A century!

He came to me with an aluminium bowl full of milk. After he poured out some milk from it he gave it to me and told me something in Hindi. It was hot like it had been on a stove. I wondered if a goat’s udder was so warm. Thinking that he was asking me to drink the hot milk, I gulped it down. I felt the pinch of hunger from the previous day and emptied it completely. The scary figure pulled my ears and mumbled something. Tried to ask me something. Tried to sound angry. When his words shattered against the barrier of language, helplessly he gave me another bowl of milk and gesturing with his hands he told me to give it to the arbab.

I went into the tent of the arbab with that vessel of milk. Lying on a cot, he was not much different from the scary figure: dirty, wearing stinking clothes. No sign of the benefit of taking baths. He woke up and yawned. Then, taking the bowl from me, he finished it in one go. The vessel must have contained at least five litres of milk!

Handing back the bowl, the arbab asked me something. As usual, I didn’t understand a thing. He tried his best to communicate in Arabic. Not even a word of it entered my head. Furiously, he stamped his feet on the ground. All of a sudden, all the grief I had
been restraining gushed forth as tears. I howled loudly in front of the arbab. Maybe it was the overflow of the sorrow, anger and hunger that filled me. I was wailing ‘I have to go’, ‘I cannot be here’, ‘I did not come for this work’. Although I knew that the arbab didn’t understand a thing, I felt that it was my duty to say what I had to say. I hoped that he would take pity on me, seeing me cry. Instead, he irately pushed me out of the tent. Weeping, I went and sat on the scary figure’s cot. The scary figure was busy with some work. I did not care. My eyes and mind were filled with tears.

Whenever he came out and went back among the herds of goats, the scary figure kept telling me something, while continuing to work. I could make out that he was trying to explain the situation to me. Maybe he was consoling me, sympathizing with me. But I was astounded by the absolute indifference that seemed to have permeated his voice and his facial expressions.

The day became brighter. Even the morning sun was quite harsh. The scary figure opened the gate of the fence, let the goats loose and followed them. I was left alone.

Then, my own arbab, who had dropped me here the previous night, came in a pick-up. It was similar
to the previous day’s vehicle, but better looking, a big vehicle that would fit a joint family. It was only then I noticed that the previous day’s vehicle was parked at some distance. Last night, the arbab must have returned in his own vehicle.

I was somewhat relieved when I saw my own arbab. I ran towards him. There were no traces of the previous day’s anger on his face. But, without acknowledging me, he took out something from the boot and walked towards the tent. Like a dog wagging its tail, I followed him. The two arbabs embraced and greeted each other for almost five minutes after which they began to talk. While doing so, they glanced at me from time to time. I guessed that their conversation was about me. Finally, the arbab who had spent the night in the tent gathered some things, put them in the boot of the car and left, after a final salaam.

I was still waiting outside the tent, crying. My own arbab came towards me, patted my back and said something to console me. Although it did not console me, it mitigated my wailing. He went back into the tent, opened a packet and gave me something that looked like a chapatti. ‘Khubus,’ I heard him saying clearly. This, then, is khubus. I had heard this word in the riverside bragging of many Gulf-returnees. Khubus.

The arbab signalled to me that I should eat. I had not even brushed my teeth in the morning, nor followed any of my morning rituals. I hadn’t taken a bath. Had it been at home, I wouldn’t even drink coffee without first ducking into the river—even when it rained. But that day, for the first time, I violated all my hygiene rules. I had drunk milk without brushing my teeth. Hunger for one and a half days forced me to ignore my habits. I sat outside the tent and greedily ate the new dish called khubus, even though I had
nothing to dip it in or to smear it with. I didn’t feel the need for it either. It had the warmth and sweetness of freshly baked bread. Every time I took a bite, my mind kept repeating ‘Khubus! Khubus!’ After devouring four, the name engraved itself in my mind and in my stomach—khubus.

When I had finished, the arbab brought me a glass of water. I guzzled it down. Then he offered me another khubus. I declined. My stomach was full and I was fully satisfied. I was touched by the arbab’s affection.

By then, the scary figure had returned with the goats. He drove them inside the fence. Then he came and sat in front of the tent. The arbab gave him five or six pieces of khubus. Dipping them in water, he gulped them down, drank a jug of water, and went away without saying a word. I had observed the scary figure’s face as he sat eating. I saw a life hardened by sorrow and pain. He continued with his work, ceaselessly, without a moment’s rest.

The arbab went inside and brought me a
thobe—
the dress of the typical Saudi Arab man, a long, white, shirt-like garment, loose fitting, long sleeved and extending to the ankle, usually made out of cotton—and a pair of boots. I unfolded the thobe and almost
vomited from its musty reek. It was unspeakably dirty. The arbab touched my pants and shirt and said, ‘
Sheelaadi … sheelaadi.
’ When he repeated it many times, I understood that he was asking me to remove my clothes. I undressed and reluctantly wore that stinking garment. I removed the brand new leather shoes I had brought from home and stepped into the stinking boots. It was my initiation to the stench, the first step to becoming another scary figure. Although I could foresee my dark future, I obeyed the directions of the arbab, so grateful was I for the khubus he had given me a while ago.

Pointing at the scary figure, the arbab said something in Arabic. I could only catch the word
masara
. Guessing that masara meant water, I dutifully took a pail and followed the scary figure. I filled the bucket with water from the tank, went inside, walked through the goats, and poured it out into a large container there. It was a cement tub, about three metres long, a metre wide and a quarter metre in height.

There were about twenty to twenty-five sections within the fenced area housing about fifty to a hundred goats each. In every section there were tubs for water,
raw wheat, grass and hay. The goats could eat and drink whenever they wanted.

When the tub in the first section was filled, the scary figure opened the gate of the second section and released the goats. Leaping and bounding, they surged out. As he followed them, the scary figure pointed at a tub and said something in Hindi or in Arabic. The only word I could make out was
mayin
.

Mayin? I wondered what it was. Water or bucket? If it was water, then what was the masara that the arbab had mentioned? Who knew? Whatever it was, my job was to fill those tubs with water. So I did just that. Before he came back with the goats, I had filled the tub in that section.

Similarly, I filled water in the third and fourth sections. It was not easy. My back began to ache from carrying the bucket filled with water. Besides, as the noon sun blazed, the heat became oppressive and I grew thirsty.

When he was about to take the goats out from the next section, the arbab came out of the tent and told the scary figure something in Arabic. He concurred, nodding his head. Then the arbab came over and handed me a long stick. I received it with both my
hands. It felt as though I was going through my initiation ceremony as a shepherd.

Together we herded the goats towards the wilderness. After we had walked for some distance, the arbab clapped his hands to call me. I walked back to the tent where the arbab placed something in my hand. I looked at it—as far as I could make out, it was a pair of binoculars. I had no clue as to why he had given it to me. Thinking that it was meant to find runaway goats, I prepared to go back with it to the desert. ‘
Shuf … shuf
…’ the arbab prompted me to look through it. I was curious. I was holding a pair of binoculars for the first time in my life. I looked through its twin lenses. Oh, how clear everything looks! I marvelled. Objects that were kilometres away appeared so near, so clear. Even the marks on the goats were plainly visible. I looked all around. I was happy. ‘Shuf?’ the arbab asked. I nodded in agreement. He grabbed it from me and took it inside the tent.

Then he lifted up the pillow and drew out a double-barrelled gun. He walked out and aimed at the sky. A bird was flying high up. He aimed at it and fired a shot. Bingo. The bullet hit the bird and it fell. The arbab smirked at me. I was petrified.

‘Shuf,’ the arbab repeated.

I nodded.

‘Yella, roh …’
the arbab pushed me after the goats.

That moment, I realized that my life had become inescapably bound to those goats.

Casting off the previous night’s thoughts of escape, I walked into the desert. I remember: it was only sheer emptiness that filled me then.

The scary figure was far ahead of me by that time. I looked at the desert stretching out before me. This place was quite different from deserts I had heard about or seen in pictures. The word evokes in us waves of sand. But it was nothing like that. It was all hard soil and boulders. I had seen a similar landscape when I had been to the eastern parts of Kerala. There was only one difference. And a big one. Unlike in our place, where vines spread through the rocks and sand, there was not a speck of green here. It was a sterile wasteland. I could not help but wonder why these goats were taken out. Though the goats were instinctively sniffing for grass on the ground, they got nothing.

After a while, I caught up with the scary figure. Leaving the goats to roam, the scary figure sat on a
boulder. I sat on another—I didn’t have anything to do, and I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to ask him about so many things. But how? The only language that I had was that of signs, and he was not even looking at me. What was he gazing at? Neither at the heavens nor at the earth, merely into emptiness, I thought. After some time, he got up and herded the goats together. It was a somewhat difficult task. There were about a hundred goats. When one ran this way, the other headed in the opposite direction. By the time they were somehow beaten back to the fold, yet another would have run away. After gathering every goat with some effort, the scary figure began to walk back towards the fence. As I didn’t know anything, I merely watched.

Together, we reached the enclosure. When he told me something, I guessed he meant ‘You proceed to the masara with the goats, I’ll follow.’ Ah, then masara means the enclosure for goats. So, mayin must be water. At least let me learn the words like that.

I brought the goats to the enclosure. He came with the grass. Together, he and I brought water and hay to the masara. Did I say masara? Look how quickly I switch to Arabic.

We went to the next masara and took its goats to the desert. It was only after we had taken the goats
of two or three masaras that I became conscious of the purpose of these excursions—these goats were not taken out to be grazed, but merely to give them some exercise. A limb-stretching morning exercise to cure the lethargy of their daily existence.

The sun began to blaze furiously. All the goats had been brought back from the daily jaunt. Every one of them had been supplied water and feed. Then, an awful thing happened. The call of nature became severe. I hadn’t performed the early morning bodily needs. The last time I had managed it was before boarding the plane in Bombay. It hadn’t been necessary the previous day as I hadn’t had anything to eat. But the four or five khubus I had consumed in the morning began to have an effect. But where could I do it? I didn’t need the screen of four walls. At home, the riverside or a bush cover was good enough. One could also wash in the river. But, here, there was not even that minimum privacy. It was wide open all around. It is true that everyone did it and everyone knew that everyone did it; still, as humans we expect some privacy for certain actions of ours, don’t we? I was apprehensive about sharing this with you. Then I decided I must, merely to explain how apparently trifling issues agitate and distress us. If such private
dilemmas are not laid out in the open what is the use of telling a story?

I tried to calm myself. But this was not something that I could suppress. With every second, the discomfort increased in my stomach. Slowly, I walked to the other side of the masara. There was now at least a screen of goats between me and the arbab, and between me and the scary figure. That was more than enough. Closing my eyes, I did it.

Relief. The utmost relief that one could get in the world.

I rose up after throwing some sand and stones on it, like a cat. I needed to clean up. That was not difficult. There was plenty of water in the tank. I could carry some in a bucket and clean myself behind the grass or hay bales. I collected water in a bucket and walked behind the bales.

Before the first drop of water fell on my backside, I felt a lash on my back. I cringed at the impact of that sudden smack. I turned around in shock. It was the arbab, his eyes burning with rage. I didn’t understand. What was my mistake? Any slip-up in my work? Did I commit some blunder?

The arbab snatched the bucket of water from me and then he scolded me loudly. Lashed at me with the
belt. When I tried to defend myself, he hit me more ferociously. I fell down. The arbab took the bucket and went inside the tent.

This was what I gathered from the arbab’s angry words in between lashings. ‘This water is not for washing your backside. It is meant for my goats. You don’t know how precious water is. Never touch water for such unnecessary matters. If you do, I’ll kill you!’ Thus I learnt my first lesson. It was wrong to wash one’s backside after taking a dump.

I got up, feeling very uneasy. I had never faced such a predicament in my life. It was almost as if I lived in a river. Without water, nothing happened in my life. Cleanliness had been my ideology. I would get annoyed when Sainu didn’t bathe twice a day. And I was always in water! But the breaking of all my habits began that day, didn’t it? The harshest for me was this ban on sanitation.

I came back and sat on the sand, below the cot. The scary figure was sitting on his bed, eating khubus. He handed two or three to me. I couldn’t imagine eating anything without cleaning myself. I refused to touch the food. Then I saw a sight at a distance. A herd of camels, about fifty, marching in a line. It was a grand sight. The first time I saw a camel. The largest
in front, and the smaller ones forming the tail. There was no one to lead them or herd them. They chose their own path.

As they came near us, I looked at them in amazement. It seemed that their heavy eyebrows signified all the severity of the desert. Nostrils opening and closing like the gills of fish. Broad open mouth, strong neck, coarse hair like in a horse’s mane, ears erect and horn-like. I was most attracted to and most frightened by their detached look. I looked into the eyes of one of the camels for a brief second. I retracted my gaze as if I were looking at the sun. It felt as though the depth and the breadth, and the severity and the wildness of life in the desert were crystallized in those eyes. It must be the impossibility of its situation that lies congealed behind the camel’s impassive countenance. I would like to describe the camel as the personification of detachment. Those camels went past me and walked inside the fence on their own. It was their own masara.