Benyamin: Goat Days

Ibrahim Khadiri. My saviour. My liberator in the desert. My Prophet Moses. Where might he have disappeared after bringing me to the gate of safety? Like you, I don’t know.

It was while I was getting better that Hameed sought refuge in Kunjikka’s room. He had been working as a labourer in an Arab’s farm. He had to work hard till night and undergo much abuse for too little compensation. He absconded when it became intolerable. Having him for company was a relief. Otherwise I felt dreadfully lonely in the apartment once Kunjikka and his friends left to work in the restaurant. His presence made my life pleasant.

Then, after several days of planning, and following the advice and directions of many, we decided to give ourselves up to the police without delay and somehow land in prison.

Looking intently at each face, the arbab walked past the line. With his every step, my heart pounded loudly. I couldn’t imagine a return to the masara. Allah, again? I just can’t. Show me some mercy. My heart burnt and wept. But I didn’t wail like Hameed. I stood there audaciously. That wait seemed to last forever. Finally, the arbab came and stood before me. He stared at me. I could see the sand dunes moving in waves in his eyes. Their fierceness frightened me. But I didn’t budge. I stood there waiting for the moment when I would be dragged out of the line. After standing there for a long time, the arbab tapped me on my shoulder once. Then, as if he didn’t recognize me, he moved on to the next one. I don’t know what made the arbab who had come to catch me change his heart. It was a miracle, a great miracle. How else can I explain it? But the arbab left after throwing in a shovel of burning coals of doubt in my mind.

After the parade was over, I told a friendly policeman that my arbab had been present among the Arabs who had come that day and it was only by the grace of Allah that he left without taking me along. The policeman replied that the arbab had gone back saying, ‘It’s just that he is not under my visa, otherwise I would have dragged him back to the masara!’ I was shocked. Either the arbab had lied to mask the pity he had shown his prey or he had revealed a horrible truth. Wasn’t he my sponsor then? Had he illegally held me captive? On that day at the airport, had he kidnapped me? Was I brought on someone else’s visa? Then Allah … did you make me suffer someone else’s fate?

Karuvatta’s brother-in-law later swore that he had not arranged for a shepherd’s visa for me. It was the visa of a helper in a construction company. Lord only knew who spoke the truth. I am not going to lose my sleep thinking about it. It was my destiny to walk into that life. I overcame it. I am not going to think any deeper about it. If I did, I would surely become crazy.

Three more weeks passed. I spent all those days fearing the arbab would come back with forged documents. But he didn’t. He must have got someone else. May Allah’s mercy be with that hapless one.

As usual, the embassy officials came the day after an Arab parade. We all stood in line. They called out the names one after another. I was standing there as usual without any hope. Suddenly I thought I heard my name. I hesitated for a second. Was it my name they had called? Or was it my imagination? But they called it out again. ‘Najeeb Muhammad.’ This time I heard it clearly. My name, indeed! I moved forward with a racing heart. Hearing my name, all those who were there with me shed tears of joy. Among them, I had the most seniority in prison.

That day eighty of us got a ‘free out pass’ to India. It was part of a government project to deport unauthorized residents to the countries of their origin. So Kunjikka didn’t have to raise any money for my ticket. I am sure he would have done so had it been necessary. Kunjikka was that kind of person.

As the embassy people prepared the release papers, I said goodbye to all those who were with me. I consoled everyone. I met the policemen and bade them goodbye.

In the warden’s office, we were made to sign some papers. Then we were handcuffed. Later, we were made to stand in a line in a corner. Then, by noon, a bus came. That bus went straight to the airport. We were led inside through a special door. I couldn’t even ring up Kunjikka to tell him I was free. He must have learned about it from someone. I still regret that I had to leave before I could say a good word to him. If you happen to read this from some corner of the earth, I hope that you will forgive me for the lapse.

Our return flight was at night. The embassy officials distributed the boarding passes. Together, we were made to walk towards the plane. I could not help thinking how the sight was so similar to herding a flock of goats back into a masara! I was one of the goats. Mine was a goat’s life.

One day, my friend Sunil told me a story about a person called Najeeb. I thought it to be one of the typical sob-stories from the Gulf. I didn’t take it seriously. But Sunil compelled me to go and meet Najeeb. He insisted that I should talk to him. Hear him out. And, if possible, write about him. Sunil said that Najeeb’s story would be a moral for those who give up and collapse on facing the slightest obstacle. So I went and met Najeeb, a very simple man.

Najeeb was at first reluctant to talk about his experience. ‘Those things happened long ago. I have already forgotten about them,’ he said. But then, when I urged him to tell me his story, bit by bit he began to narrate the story of that period of his life. One by one, the incidents that he seemed to have forgotten became vivid in front of his eyes. His forceful narrative really surprised me.

After that I met Najeeb many more times and we talked for hours. I questioned him and learned about the minute details of his life in the Gulf. I realized how most of the previous accounts I had heard of that life were vague, superficial and far from reality.

When I went to meet Najeeb for the first time, I had no intention of creating a novel out of his story. I was only curious to know a man who had been through so much in life. But as I learned more about his experience, I couldn’t fight the urge to write about it. How many millions of Malayalis live in the Gulf? How many millions have lived and returned to the homeland! But how many of them have really experienced the severity of the desert? I didn’t sugarcoat Najeeb’s story or fluff it up to please the reader. Even without that, Najeeb’s story deserves to be read. This is not just Najeeb’s story, it is real life. A goat’s life.