Goat Days by Benyamin Read Free Book Online Page A

in the tent gathered some things, put them in the boot of the car and left, after a final salaam.

Ten
    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 hadnothing 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 almostvomited 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