Goat Days Read Free

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. Despiteall 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!
    Sumesi jail did not have any of the oft-heard characteristics of a prison. We led a very free life within the block. Maybe we had such freedom because those sentenced for serious offences were housed in another prison or in a different block. In our block we had lawbreakers who were without visas, those whose visas had expired, or those who did not have pathakas, and Muslims who had been out on the streets during prayer time or prepared food during Ramadan, those who smoked in public places, engaged in black magicand had minor scuffles with Arabs and the like. Those with petty or minor sentences and those condemned to be exiled.
    I don’t recall such carefree days ever in my life. We had food at fixed times, prayed, slept enough and more, reflected pointlessly, talked as much as we liked, and dreamt about our future. The world didn’t know us. We didn’t know the world either. That was prison.
    Hameed only complained about the lack of a facility to bathe. I laughed when I heard him mumble to himself, after a week in prison, about the clammy air and increasing body odour. Then, I calculated with my fingers. Three years, four months, nine days. I laughed aloud again when I thought about it. Maybe even Hameed wouldn’t have understood the meaning of my laughter.
    Everyone who ended up in the jail had a story like mine to tell—of pain, sorrow, suffering, tears, innocence, helplessness. Perhaps you have heard similar stories elsewhere. I don’t want to belittle the pain of others. For each, the path he travelled was harsh. The losses were such that no one could ever compensate for them. I even felt that the sorrows in my life were small compared to the sufferings ofsome others. In fact, some of these agonizing accounts helped me to come out of my own grief and made it possible for me to continue living to tell you this story. Otherwise, under the weight of my sorrow, I would have committed suicide. A way to come out of our sorrow is to listen to the stories of those who endure situations worse than ours.

    Every week there was an identification parade in the prison. It was the day for the Arabs to identify the absconding workers—a tear-filled day in prison. On that day, after breakfast, all of us were made to stand in a line outside the block. Arabs would walk in front of us looking at each face carefully, like eyewitnesses trying to identify the accused. There would be a few unfortunate ones among us each week. The