Goat Days Read online

  BENYAMIN

  Goat Days

  Translated from the Malayalam by Joseph Koyippally

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  About the Author

  Prison

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Desert

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Escape

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Refuge

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Author’s Note

  Copyright Page

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  GOAT DAYS

  Benyamin has lived in Bahrain since 1992. His short story collection Euthanasia won the Abu Dhabi Malayalam Samajam Award in 2002 and in 2009 his novel Aadu Jeevitham (Goat Days) won the Kerala Sahitya Akademi Award.

  Joseph Koyippally teaches comparative literature at the Central University of Kerala. He has taught at Sherubtse College, Bhutan; Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi; and the University of Hail, Saudi Arabia.

  One

  Like two defeated men, Hameed and I stood for a while in front of the small police station at Batha. Two policemen were sitting in the sentry box near the gate. One was reading something. His posture, the way he moved his head, and his half-closed eyes, suggested that it was a religious text. The second policeman was on the telephone. His laughter and chatter audible in the street. Although the two sat close to each other, they were in different worlds. Neither worlds cared for us.

  Slightly off the sentry box, a wild lemon tree curved into the street. We squatted in its shade, hoping a guard would look up from his work and notice us. We remained like that for a long time. Meanwhile, one or two Arabs briskly went into the police station and at least three or four sauntered out. It was as if we were invisible to them. Then a police vehicle came out of the station compound. We jumped up, eagerly following it with our eyes. But, stopping only to watch for vehicles on either side of the main street, it went its way. Feeling desperate, we leaned against the tree.

  Whenever we thought the guard on the phone had ended his call, we would anxiously rise and walk up to the sentry box. It was futile though, for he would make another call without losing even a moment. The other sentry was so immersed in his reading that there was no sign he would look up any time soon.

  We even walked past the sentry box a couple of times just to draw their attention. However, they did not notice us.

  Haven’t we all heard about so many unfortunate people who, for some emergency, left their rooms without the pathaka and got arrested in the market, in public places or in front of mosques. How many days did we walk through the vegetable market, the fish market and busy streets hoping to get arrested? Many a muthawwa went past us, not one stopped us. Many a policeman came across us, none checked us. What’s more, we even loitered near mosques during prayer times without going in to pray. We tried it at several mosques and during different parts of the day. Still no one noticed us. One day, I even deliberately tripped on a policeman’s foot. Instead of questioning me, he lifted me up, apologized profusely in the name of Allah and sent me away. Why is it that even misfortune hesitates to visit us when we need it desperately?

  Finally, seeing no other way, we chose to come and stand in front of the police station; still, no use. After a while, we decided to cross the sentries and walk into the station. As soon as the suggestion came from Hameed, I got up and started walking, as if I had been waiting to hear it. I couldn’t wait any longer. As we went past the long iron crossbar, the sentry who was reading raised his eyes and called us. We went back to the sentry box and said we wanted to see the mudeer. Gesturing us to proceed, he went back to his book.

  We stepped into the police station and climbed up a long flight of steps, walking past doors bearing large inscriptions of verses from the Quran. Under a notice board in which papers were pinned like decoration, we spotted some policemen sitting and eating khubus and drinking kahwa, talking noisily. We stood quietly in front of the counter. On seeing us, one of them broke away from the conversation and raised his eyebrows while he continued to eat.

  I gestured with my hand to show that I didn’t know the language. Another policeman, with a kahwa cup in his hand, rose from his seat, came towards us and asked us for our pathakas. Yes, finally, someone asked the question! We helplessly shook our heads to say we didn’t have it. He placed the kahwa cup on the table, opened the drawer, took a tissue paper and wiped his hands and lips. Then walking inside, he signalled us to follow him.

  He took us to the room of the mudeer who looked up from the computer screen when he saw us enter. The policeman who escorted us told the mudeer something and he asked us something. We didn’t betray any signs of understanding. I did not have to pretend; I really didn’t understand most of what the policeman said or what the mudeer asked. But Hameed had to put on an act. I had heard him speaking fluent Arabic. Again, the mudeer and the policeman talked about something. Meanwhile, I scanned his room. It was a large office. On the walls were verses from the Quran, portraits of kings and a picture of the Kaaba. On the left from where the mudeer was sitting was a TV and on his right, a computer. A little further away, a sofa and a teapoy. On the teapoy was a flower vase with some plastic flowers. The wall opposite had a board with some photos pinned on it. I gazed at those photos. Bearded people with dead-fish eyes, Blacks in Arab dress. The Arabic lettering beneath each must have been their names. When I reached the third photo in the fourth row, my eyes froze like polar ice. I shook my head and looked at it again carefully. My heart began to pound and a sudden panic gripped me. Without realizing what I was doing, I began to walk towards the board on which the photo was stuck. Ibrahim Khadiri! I placed my hand on my heart.

  ‘What? Do you know him?’ the policeman asked me. I felt panic-stricken. The change in my manner was obvious. Still, I shook my head in a no. The mudeer called me and when I went up to him, he jumped up and slapped me across my ear. Oh! Only I remember how pain steamed out through the other ear. ‘If you don’t know him, why did you go to look at the photo?’ the mudeer bellowed. I stood with my head bowed. He asked me something else in Arabic. I didn’t answer. Finally, after cracking another slap, he sank back into his chair. I didn’t cry. But Hameed did, so he didn’t get slapped. The mudeer gave the policeman some instructions. We were taken to another room and handed over to another policeman. He opened a cabinet, took out handcuffs and put them on us, after which he made us sit on a bench.

  Like us, the four or five others there were also in handcuffs. I doubt if any of them were as happy to be arrested as we were. In the afternoon, the cuffs were removed and we were put in a cell. Six people occupied the cell that could hardly accommodate three. I recall a Malayali named Kumar among them. He had been working in a vegetable shop and was arrested because his Arab had accused him of theft. As for the two Arabs and the Pakistani in our cell, I don’t know what crimes
they had been charged with.

  None of us could sleep that night, as we sat packed together like we were in an overcrowded train compartment. And with the Arabs spreading their legs comfortably, others had to suffer even more. Still, compared to what I had endured, that narrow cell was heaven to me.

  The next morning, after tea, we were handcuffed again and taken out in a vehicle. There were other handcuffed people in that vehicle who tried to get acquainted with one another. Even among them, Hameed and I remained silent and kept our heads bowed.

  After a long journey, the vehicle stopped inside the compound of the largest prison in the country, Sumesi. Many vehicles from different corners of the country entered the prison yard at various times; from each, hundreds of ‘criminals’ came out. Absurd as it sounds, this scene reminded me of the marriage halls back home—the prisoners resembled the groom’s tired relatives milling about the venue. Now I had become one such relative!

  Once out of the vehicle, we were taken to the warden’s office. It was very busy there. Many policemen came and went. Lawyers came and went. Muthawwas came and went. Arabs, too, came and went. At a glance, it reminded me of the porticos of our courts. There was quite a long queue in front of the warden’s office and we took our place at the end. The policemen who came with us sat down in the shade of the veranda, a short distance away from the queue. We inched ahead as each person was called inside. I knew that the line was slowly taking us into the prison, and I was anxious about what awaited me inside. But I was also quite excited, almost like someone standing in front of the polling station to cast one’s ballot for the first time. Slyly, I muttered my thoughts to Hameed.

  We crept forward, and finally I was at the head of the queue. In the three minutes of waiting that followed, I felt a disquiet I find difficult to explain. I was called, and the policeman who had come with us also rose and followed me in. The warden had a register in front of him. Based on the paper the policeman handed over and some details he supplied, something was noted in the register. Then I was made to sign in the column at the left end of the page. After that I was led to another policeman who tattooed some Arabic letters on my forearm with some kind of ink. I had been to a madrassa as a child, so I knew enough to identify it as the number 13858. Maybe the only use I ever made of the madrassa education.

  The hall I entered was an interesting place. Barbers sat in a line from one end to the other. The policeman at the door sent me to a barber who had just finished with another person. These men worked at unimaginable speed. One could only feel the movement of the trimmer on one’s head. It took them two minutes—at the most, three—to complete the job perfectly.

  As I sat in front of the barber with my head bowed, I got a peep of Hameed sitting in front of the barber next to mine. We were done almost at the same time. I looked at Hameed’s face, and he at mine. Two baldies. We laughed. A rare moment of mirth in times of great sorrow!

  We were then taken to the large prison building. It was larger than what is normally considered a large building. It was colossal, spread over two or three kilometres and separated into different blocks. Each block was so long that one couldn’t see the end of it. One block for each nationality—Arabs, Pakistanis, Sudanese, Ethiopians, Bangladeshis, Filipinos, Moroccans, Sri Lankans and then, finally, Indians. Most of the Indians were surely Malayalis. Naturally we were taken to the Indian block. It was full of bald-heads and stubble-heads. The length of the stubble varied according to the time of arrival. It was a good sight. It felt like I was a part of a Thursday fair of bald-heads. Our block was very crowded and there was too much commotion. Here, the notions of discipline, quiet and fear that the word jail evokes didn’t exist at all.

  Hameed and I felt very lost in that crowd, like two foreigners landing in a city for the first time. It took some time for the truth to sink in—that I was finally in prison. For no apparent reason, I wept for a while. It was after days of deliberation, reflection and calculation that I had resolved to come to prison. Despite its harshness, I had concluded that prison was the best option to survive my circumstances.

  Yes, I landed myself in prison because of my desire to live.

  Can you imagine how much suffering I must have endured to voluntarily choose imprisonment!

  Two

  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.

  Three

  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!