Goat Days (3 page)

I felt an intense fear creep into my heart as I spent many days like that in the prison. Those who came before me and after me had left for the homeland. My papers alone were yet to be processed. I knew those who were released had passports and other documents. It was not reasonable to expect the processing of my permit to be as fast as theirs. Still, there was only so much time one needed to get the papers in order. It was already four or five months since I entered the prison. My only solace was that Hameed was there with me to share my misfortune. His papers hadn’t been processed either.

Every week, we would have great expectations when the embassy officials arrived and we would suffer greater disillusionment when they left. I had surrendered myself to the police believing Kunjikka’s assurances that he would take care of all the rest. It will be taken care of. I must trust Kunjikka. My God
… who else will I trust in this world if I don’t trust Kunjikka? In Your mercy, forgive me for doubting him even for this half a second of despair, and for forgetting all the favours he did for me in Your name.

These are embassy matters. Everything will happen only in its turn. I have waited and endured for so long. What is another day or two? The time Allah, the merciful, has set for me has not yet come. That was the satisfactory explanation for the delay.

It was that day of the week when the Arabs came to the prison. By then, Hameed and I had become veteran inmates. Since the new arrivals worried more about the Arabs coming in, Hameed and I pacified them as we walked past them to stand at the end of the line. By now, we had become familiars to the policemen. I thought they felt some sympathy for me after hearing my story. Because of that we didn’t have to be as disciplined as the new ones. It had become our habit to talk, laugh indiscriminately and make fun of others, while we stood there.

I was saying something to Hameed when his facial expression suddenly changed. Surprised, I looked at him questioningly. For some time, he stood like
that. ‘Oh Najeeb …’ he cried in a faint voice. I don’t know how many emotions were solidified in that cry—sorrow, fear, hurt, pain. It was only then I learned that so many emotions could coalesce into a single cry. One of life’s raw moments that no artist in the world can capture.

There was no need for Hameed to say anything else. I looked towards the spot on which his eyes remained frozen. An Arab was walking towards us. Even before he reached us, Hameed began to howl. And because of that, the Arab did not have to wander searching for his prey. The one he came looking for was there, crying loudly in front of his eyes.

As soon as he saw Hameed, the Arab jumped at him like a cheetah and rained blows on him. He beat him with his hand, his belt and the
iqal
which secures the
gutra
, till his anger subsided. Like the others in the block, I could only watch and cry.

‘I wanted to go home. I could not bear to be there any longer. Let me go … leave me … leave me …’ Although Hameed screamed, the Arab dragged him to the room of the warden.

That was the last time I saw Hameed. Though I wondered what happened to him, I could not
trace him. How many lives like that end halfway, incomplete! Helpless creatures who fade away, unable to recount their stories to anyone.

The familiarity of a few days, much friendship—that was Hameed for me. He had worked in a farm from dawn till night, undergoing torture for low wages. He ran away when it became unbearable. When he reached the prison, Hameed was four times happier than I was. He strongly believed that once he had reached the safety of the government, he would not be caught by the Arab again. But how suddenly does the world turn upside down! That day, the whole block was silent. He was dear to everyone. He mingled with everyone like they were his own. Cracked great jokes. He was like an elder brother to many. Finally we had to see him being dragged away howling. I could not recall anyone in the recent past who had protested so loudly when taken back by an Arab.

It was what happened the next day that hurt even more. Hameed’s was the first name to be called out that day by the embassy officials. Oh my Lord, you had not allowed for this name to be called last week. If it had been called out, his life would have been so different and joyful. No. I am not going to contest your judgement. I firmly trust in your exactness.
If you would speak to him and convince him that the time of suffering you have ordained for him has not ended.

When Hameed left, I felt very lonely in the prison. I could not be very friendly with the newcomers. I confined myself to a corner, hardly talking to anyone. I began to eat infrequently. In fact, most days I didn’t eat. The loss of Hameed was the loss of my happiness. I would wait anxiously and briefly feel revived when the embassy people dropped in once a week. When we approached them to ask about our papers, they would narrate stories of many complicated papers being processed. They left giving us hope, every time, that everything would be ready by the next week. Thus, I waxed into hope and waned into despair in a regular cycle.

Many such days passed in prison and yet another parade day arrived. I was standing in the queue without any particular fear or anxiety. Many Arabs kept walking past us. Then, suddenly, a face appeared at the farthest end of the line. As that face came into view, thunder rumbled through me. I called Allah just like Hameed had done a few days ago!

It was my own
arbab
, who I firmly believed would never come in search of me. Arbab! My arbab whom
I met for the first time at the Riyadh airport some four years ago. I was dizzy with fear. I thought I would fall down as I grabbed the hand of the person standing next to me.

The dust of discord in the Gulf region, generated by the first Iraq war, had somewhat subsided. After a brief lull, there was again an upsurge in job opportunities in the oil kingdoms. When a friend from Karuvatta casually mentioned there was a visa for sale, I felt a yearning I had never experienced before. How long have I been here, diving for a living? How about going abroad for once? Not for long. I am not that greedy. Only long enough to settle a few debts. Add a room to the house. Just the usual cravings of most Malayalis. Not just that. There was a rumour that sand mining from the river was going to be regulated. If that too is gone, what work can I get? Can one go hungry? I have, in the past. But things are different now. Now, at Ummah’s insistence, I am married. My wife is four months pregnant. Expenditure will now mount up like a mound of sand. Moreover, I have recently developed a recurring cough and cold—
perhaps from staying in the water for long stretches of time. Can one refrain from diving into the water fearing pneumonia? This must be an opportunity from the Lord Himself. I should not waste it.

‘Tell me if there is anyone who wants to go. It is through my brother-in-law. He’s here on vacation. If money is sent, the visa will arrive within two months,’ my friend said. The passport which I had applied for yielding to Sainu’s coercion came to my mind.

‘Yes. There is someone. Don’t give it to anyone else,’ I said excitedly.

‘Then come to the house tomorrow. Together we can go and see my brother-in-law. You can discuss the rest with him.’

When the friend left, there was a tension in me. Should I, or shouldn’t I?

For a long time, I wrestled with it in my mind. I told Sainu only when I could not resolve it. She was ecstatic—a likely reaction from any woman. ‘It is a God-sent opportunity,
ikka
, do not waste it. How long have I been telling my brothers about this, and nothing has happened.’

Both her brothers were in the Gulf.

‘But, Sainu, a lot has to be spent. Do we have …?’

‘If one is resolute, everything will happen, ikka. Do all the people who go have enough money to start with? You go ahead and boldly meet the man from Karuvatta.’

She is like that. Her tongue would not utter even a single word of despair. She’s very smart in creating the facade of plenty even in severe poverty. Women should be like that; she was my secret pride.

The very next day, I went and met my friend’s brother-in-law. He asked for thirty thousand, twenty to be given to him within a fortnight before he left for the Gulf. He had to give that to the Arab to process the visa. After getting the visa, the remaining ten had to be given to the agent in Bombay for the ticket and other expenses. That was not an amount that I could put together without difficulty. Still, daringly, I agreed. Yes.

The struggles I had to undergo the next one week! Every Gulf worker who had no relative in the Gulf to support him will have a similar story. I finally fixed up the total by mortgaging the house and the little gold Sainu had as jewellery, and by collecting small amounts from other sand miners and by borrowing from everyone I knew. Yes, ‘fix up’ best describes it. Suffice to say I gave my friend’s brother-in-law the
money the night before he left. (I could have asked Sainu’s brothers in Abu Dhabi, but she refused to let me. She resented them for not helping me till then.)

Two months passed, months of waiting and dreaming. Then there was another round of borrowing. I had to arrange the remaining ten for the agent. Even that was fixed up. Meanwhile, I dreamt a host of dreams. Perhaps the same stock dreams that the 1.4 million Malayalis in the Gulf had when they were in Kerala—gold watch, fridge, TV, car, AC, tape recorder, VCP, a heavy gold chain. I shared them with Sainu as we slept together at night. ‘I don’t need anything, ikka. Do return when you have enough to secure the life of our child (son or daughter?). We don’t need to accumulate wealth like my brothers. No mansion either. A life together. That’s all.’

Maybe the wife of every man who is about to leave for the Gulf tells him the same thing. Even so, they end up spending twenty or thirty years of their lives there. And for what reason?

Finally the telegram from the agent in Bombay arrived: ‘Visa ready. Come with the balance amount.’ The joy that I experienced then! It was greater than the joy of the tens of thousands of Malayalis who had reached the Gulf before me, I am sure. Nobody
would have embraced his wife like I held Sainu that night. But one sorrow remained. My son? Daughter? I would not be there for the birth. I wouldn’t be able to massage Sainu during her big pain. As if to make up for that, I kissed Sainu’s growing belly. My Nabeel, my Safia—names I had chosen to call my child; my
kunji
, my
chakki
—pet names I had for them. Oh my son … my daughter … Your
uppah
will not be near to see you come into this earth with wide eyes. But, whenever I return, I will bring enough presents for you, okay?

When I recall those moments, I feel nauseated as though from the stench of a fourth-rate film scene. Some situations in our lives are even more absurd than a film scene. Isn’t that so?

It was when I went to convey the news of the arrival of the visa to my Karuvatta friend that I learned that another boy from Dhanuvachapuram had also got a visa along with me, through the same brother-in-law, to work in the same company. Neither of us knew much about the outside world. It was decided that we would go together.

I met my fellow traveller as we boarded the
Jayanti Janata
from Kayamkulam to Bombay. A tall and thin lad who had not yet sprouted a moustache.
‘Son, Hakeem has never been outside. You are going with him. Please look after him,’ Hakeem’s mother wept at the window of the train. I did not heed the tears of Sainu and Ummah. I was reluctant to sob in public.

I was more tense than excited. The journey was fraught with all the worries that creep up when one thinks about the difficulties along the way: worry about the money in the bag, worry about the city that one is going to, worry about the stories of fraudulent agencies, worry if my friend Sasi would be at the railway station to receive us. For three days, I feasted on my worries, not wasting any. I even devoured Hakeem’s worries. He was only a boy. He was all laughter and play during the journey.

Once I reached Bombay, all the worries vanished. For anything that I needed, Sasi was there, as though he was my own. One has to acknowledge the camaraderie of Bombay Malayalis—Sasi even gave up two days of work for me. We stayed with Sasi and eight others in a room. They had no difficulty in accommodating us. The occupants would not have complained even if there had been two more people. Such magnanimity was only possible among Bombay Malayalis.

It was only after they showed me my visa that I gave the money to the agency. We had been in Bombay for two weeks. A long fortnight. A fortnight when time refused to move. A fortnight when I was made to feel that every second was a century and every day, an age.

Once Sasi and his friends were off to work, Hakeem and I would wander about. We just walked, not knowing the locations or the destinations, and without a language in which we could speak with the citizens of Bombay. That was some bravado. We walked through the shanties of Dharavi. Passing narrow and long
galli
s, one day we reached Andheri railway station. Two weeks of watching the commotion of commuters, eating
paav bhaji
, drinking sherbet, drinking beer—for Hakeem, soft drinks—with Sasi, visiting dance bars and returning late at night.

Finally that day arrived. I did not have much luggage. Some lemon pickle and some
upperi
that my pregnant Sainu had fried with love. Some
chammanthipodi
which Ummah had pounded, disregarding her exhaustion. Pickle of freshwater fish. Two or three sets of clothes (‘Why, ikka, you are going to a land where everything is available in plenty’), a bath towel, two bars of soap, a small tube
of toothpaste, a toothbrush, my passport, the ticket and some Indian currency. That was all. But Hakeem had a bagful. I often thought that the bag contained enough for a family to eat for a century. Sasi and I often poked fun at him about it, but we teased him merely to see his discomfort.

Sasi and another man from the room came with us to the airport. Like all Gulf Malayalis who leave the homeland, we also promised our friends we would arrange visas for them as soon as we landed there and met our Arab. They laughed as if they had heard it many times. Still, a sprig of hope probably sprouted in their hearts. Isn’t it on some such hope that the Bombay Malayali pushes his miserable life along?

As a reward for looking after us for a week, I removed my watch—Sainu’s brother had given it to me when he returned from the Gulf for the first time—and gave it to Sasi. Then, from a phone booth at the airport, I tried to call home. There was a phone in a Moplah house in the neighbourhood. When the connection finally went through, I told them to give my message to my family.

Everything went off well at that airport. It was only at immigration that some questions were asked. As I did not speak Hindi and the officer did not speak
Malayalam and as a hundred-rupee note was handed over inside the passport, that hurdle was dealt with quickly. It was an Air India flight. Bombay to Riyadh. A four and a half hour journey. So, at 4.30 p.m. local time on 4 April 1992, I landed in Riyadh.

City of my dreams, I have arrived. Kindly receive me.
Ahlan wa sahlan!