Outside the Village called Pratidana

 Outside the Village Called Pratidāna


The funny thing was how the situation seemed perfectly unnatural, so much so that it hardly reached the boy who stood before the row of stones that sat in the dirt of the road. The sun was almost at its zenith over the deserts of Rajasthan, the shadows already fleeing to the cool damp places, and the carcasses heaped along the road contorted awkwardly like broken puppets. The sun was strong. It cooked them. The boy thought it smelled like barbecue, except there was the smell of decay and released bowels too.

On tip toes, the boy’s father spotted his son. He shouldered his way into the crowd, wading through the sea of button downs and colorful T-shirts- all of which could be bargained for 50 rupees a piece in any store from Delhi to Agra and 25 rupees a piece anywhere else. Soon, he too was standing at the edge of the row of stones.

“Wow,” said the boy’s father. “How many you think there are, Nick?” He looked at his son.

Nick began counting. One, two, three, four... Crushed as they were, some of them didn’t look like goats at all. They were simply piles of fur, organs, and snapped white sticks. Nick counted the larger piles as two, assuming that the animals had somehow been crushed together.

“Twenty-five or twenty-six”, said Nick.

“Wow.”

Nick’s father then remembered the camera dangling on his neck. He flipped the on switch and eclipsed his face against it as he clicked away. Having no camera, Nick just stared. After a while, he sensed motion from behind him, turned and saw the guide pushing against the crowd; his head swiveling from side to side. Nick waved and the guide saw him and smiled. When the guide reached them and saw that the road was blocked off with stones, villagers, and dead goats, his smile flattened and he began to rub his thin mustache with a thumb and forefinger. He reached out and lightly patted Nick’s father’s shoulder twice.

“Excuse me Mr. James, sir?” the guide said.

His accent was understandable, but he rushed his sentences in that way peculiar to some Indians.

“I am very very sorry for the delay, Mr. James, sir. If you wish it, I can call to see if we can go visit another temple.”

Nick’s father let his camera hang on its strap.

“Is there another way around?”

“I am afraid that this is no good, sir. The only acceptable road leading through this part of Rajasthan is this road. I am very sorry, sir, but that is why the tour busses have stopped.”

Nick’s father looked back towards the row of tour buses. The black Mercedes the hotel had given them for the day was parked somewhere behind the buses. He turned back to the road full of dead goats, and then looked back at the guide.

“Can you find out what this is about?” he asked.

A ripple twitched across the guide’s dark forehead; it disappeared just as quickly. “Why yes, I will look into it, Mr. James. I will go ask the village.”

Nick watched as the guide skirted the crowd until the wall of tourists became too thick. The man then stepped over the line of stones and hop-skipped the rest of the way as if the soles of his feet were on fire; slowing only after he reached the side of the road where the villagers were gathering. Nick couldn’t help noticing how different the villagers looked. They did not gossip. They did not take pictures. They did not do much of anything, except stare quietly at the dead goats, their unyielding expressions set on worn leather faces. Nick thought the guide looked graceful when he crossed the invisible line that divided the two gathering crowds, his darkly tanned face and khaki button down somehow belonging him to both sides and neither.

A few minutes and many pictures later, the guide returned.

“Very curious indeed. See that truck, sir? Just there.” He pointed to a dark green truck on the opposite side of the circle of stones that looked like it had once been an army vehicle. It was turned at an angle, taking up a portion of the road; its driver's side door still open.

Nick and his father nodded.

"Well, a youth - he was from the village you see - he was driving after quite a lot of alcohol and he hit one or two goats. He was very upset. The law against drunk drivers is very severe here, sir, all over India it is severe. We do not like the alcoholic drivers." He paused, as if expecting that his tourists needed a moment to digest this information.

"But you said he only hit two?” Nick asked.

"Yes, in the start, but he was very upset. It is a large crime in India, so he kept going. Too many goats though, the truck broke and that is why it is there. He ran into the mountains."

"He must have been going at some speed to do that to twenty-five goats." Nick's father said.

"Oh, no sir, according to the villagers, he was driving not very fast at all."

Nick tried to imagine the truck slowly driving over twenty-five goats. It was not a pleasant image and he stopped trying.

A ripple began to form in the villager's crowd and the people towards the center stepped away. The guide looked up and his eyes became lit with the same curious spark that could be seen in the eyes of the tourists.

"Ah, that must be the owner of the goats, sirs. He will not be pleased to see this."

The man separated himself from the crowd. The first thing about him that Nick noticed was his clothes. Most of the villagers wore traditional garments, patterned and brightly colored in typical Hindi style. He wore what looked like - at least to Nick - a very large and dirty white pillow case. It extended over his entire torso, giving the impression that he was mostly made of just arms and legs. They were not impressive limbs to begin with. Long, spindly, and thin. Unbelievably thin.

On a neck that looked like a vulture's, slumped a tired, confused face with deep set lines and grey stubble. A wisp of white hair sprouted from the center of his skull, bending softly in the wind. The quiet enveloped everyone now, a subtle shift in the atmosphere. Everyone could feel it, especially Nick.

The owner crossed the circle of stones, and it was as if he had crossed into another world. He froze there for a moment, and when he took his first step it was a stumble. He righted himself, and walked with stiff dignity. Around the center of the road, he looked down at one of his goats. He kneeled, and with long slender fingers lifted the goats head and gently placed it in his lap. He began to weep then, hard, cradling the goats head and rocking back and forth. It was as if Nick had never seen anyone cry before.

Without looking away Nick asked, "Would he go to jail if they caught him? The driver I mean?"

The guide shook his head and laughed, once. It rang out loud and hollow.

"No, no, that would not happen. If the villagers catch the driver they will kill him."

Nick looked at the crowd and at the man and found himself believing the guide.

"But why is he this sad?" Nick asked.

"It is India. Here, life is very sacred. But in these villages the herds are the bank. All of a man's wealth is in the goats.Goats for dowry, for the daughters. Goats for inheritance, for the sons. See there, that is his family. Three daughters, how very unfortunate." He pointed out four forms dressed in black from head to toe, with only slits of skin around their eyes showing. They swayed together and Nick realized they were all crying as they swayed.

Nick looked away. His eyes fell on the goat nearest to him. Its back was bent into a ninety degree angle. Stretched out three feet behind it were its entrails; they were the color of milky silver. He watched flies settle on its flank. There was a ripple of skin as the goat twitched. Nick's heart began to beat faster and there didn’t seem to be enough oxygen in the air. He looked at one of the goat's eyes. Seconds passed and then he saw it. The goat blinked.

For the first time in years, Nick wanted to hold his father's hand, but his father was still taking pictures and Nick was no longer a child.

"Dad?" he said instead, "can we go?"

"Why wha-" He looked at his son. "Uh. Yeah. Sure bud. I was thinkin' that too. Let's go to the car." He squeezed the boy's shoulder as they walked back. The guide followed them, pausing only a moment to look back at the owner of the goats.

The driver of the hotel car was leaning against the hood, cupping his hat in his hands. Nick thought it was a very silly hat. It was red and looked like a cup of instant noodles turned upside down with a little blue tassel put on top. It reminded Nick of when his family had gone to Morocco a few summers back. Nick had seen a monkey wearing that kind of hat. The owner of the monkey had taught it to smoke, and as people watched, it would puff away on a cigarette, the filter grasped tightly in the tiny ball of its hand. Nick had wondered then if monkeys could get lung cancer. He had also wondered if the monkey had wanted to smoke. He had asked the trainer that.

The trainer had stuck a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and responded in choppy English, "Of course monkey wants to smoke! Monkey see, monkey do, yes?" His cigarette bobbed comically as he talked. "He loves do what I say."

While he was saying this, the monkey strayed too far from them. The trainer gave a sudden jerk to a thread thin chain and the monkey stumbled sharply backwards. Simpering, it had walked bow legged towards them, its arms hanging limply in front of it. When it reached the trainer, it held out a hand, small fingers stretched wide. The trainer took the cigarette from his mouth and placed it in its hand. Nick remembered how he'd laughed and the other tourists clapped when the monkey clenched a fist over the filter and inhaled the toxic smoke.

The driver of the hotel car was not smoking, but he seemed hot in the sun, especially in his blue long-sleeved uniform. The guide barked something harsh in Hindi towards him. With a start, the driver stood up and began to hurriedly fumble his silly hat back on. He secured the elastic cord under his chin just in time to open the back door for Nick and his father.

Inside, the car was cool and damp. Nick's mother folded the ear of the page she was reading and set her book down.

"Did you find out what's happened?" she asked.

"Honey, it was amazing," Nick's father said. "The entire road is just littered with these goats that a local drunk ran over. There must have been- Nick, tell your mother how many there were."

"Twenty-five," Nick said quietly.

"Twenty-five," Nick's father said, "all over the road."

"Oh, that's really too awful. Poor things," said Nick's mother. "Should I get out of the car?"

Nick's father considered this. "No, no I don't think so. You'd be more comfortable in the AC in here. This Indian sun is harsher than the one at home." 

They waited in the car, cooling off. Nick's mother picked her book up again, his father began scanning through his pictures, and Nick opened a large bag of bubblegum they had bought at the airport. He unwrapped a piece and popped the pink cylinder into his mouth; the sweet juices giving him a temporary reprieve from the rotten taste that had settled there. Through the tinted windows he watched the guide and the driver outside. The guide was talking loudly and making expressive gestures towards the road and the car.

Such a ridiculous hat. As if hearing his thoughts, the guide rudely gestured to the driver’s hat. For the first time, it occurred to Nick that the hotel probably required the driver to wear it. He grabbed another piece of gum and looked away.

"We should do something," Nick said.

His parents looked up at the same time.

"I feel like we should do something about the goats."

Nick's father nodded slowly. "Yeah, I was thinking that too. What do you think, should we try to give him some money or something?"

Two of the three tour buses drove by, evidently giving up on passing the blockade of stones in the road. Nick watched them pass the car window.

"We could ask them too." Nick said, pointing towards the remaining tour bus. "Maybe we can all give some."

"We could try asking" said Nick's father.

They ended up using Nick's gum bag to hold the money, after Nick had emptied out his remaining gum into his backpack. From a thick black wallet, Nick's father pulled out two red 1000 rupee notes and stuck them in the bag.

Nick and his father left the car, and Nick's mother, after making sure she wasn't needed, stayed and continued reading her book. The driver stayed with the car and the guide went with Nick and his father. When they arrived back at the road they saw that there were no more tourists outside. A group of villagers were standing in the middle of the road, presumably around the owner. Though he could not see the owner of the goats anymore, Nick could still hear him.

They walked to the side of the last remaining tour bus. On the last row, a window was open. Nick called up, "Hello?" and a burnt red face popped out of the window and looked down at them.

"Hi," said Nick, somewhat taken aback by the sudden appearance of the head.

"Evening" said the man.

Nick could tell by his accent that he was British.

"W-we," Nick looked at his father, who nodded at him. "We wanted to know if you wanted to give some cash for the goats. I mean, the man with the goats. He lost his goats 'cause of a drunk that-"

"Yes, yes", said the man, "we know of all that. We already decided. As a bus we decided we won't be giving any money."

"But-"

"We decided."

The British man stared down at Nick and Nick felt small. They walked away from the window towards the front of the bus.

"We should ask the bus guide," Nick's father said.

"Why?" Nick asked, "Why should we?" His face was flushed and he kept his eyes on the ground.

"Let's just ask the bus guide, then we'll see.”

Nick’s father knocked on the bus’s sliding door. It opened, and a young clean-shaven Indian man walked down a few steps to meet them.

“Can I help you?” he said. He spoke English flawlessly.

“My son and I were thinking about collecting some money to give to the goat herder. We wanted to ask if anyone on your bus wanted to donate something.”

"Oh, yes, I see." The man looked troubled for a brief second. "Yes we can do this. Where are you from?"

"Uh, America, I'm James and this is Nick."

"America? Great. Great. James? Nick?" He shook their hands with gusto. "I'm Adil. I'll be right back."

Adil hopped up the stairs, pulled out a microphone from somewhere, and began to address the bus through a crackling loud speaker.

"Ladies and gentlemen, there is a young man from America here who has something to ask you."

Adil held out the microphone towards them. Nick paled. He hadn't expected that. He looked back at his father, but there was no escape. He ascended the steps and his hands were shaking when he took the microphone from a smiling Adil. Nick stared out at the British tourists. They were all red, but not as red as the man in the back seat, and they all looked sweaty. It was not a very nice bus, and Nick wondered if the air conditioner worked at all.

"Hi. I was just, um, I mean we were just wondering if anyone wanted to give some cash to the goat herder." Nick spotted the man in the back. The man's face was a mask of disapproval.

"Um, you see, for the people here the goats are like money and he just lost all of his, so I thought we could give him something. Any amount is okay, if you want to give."

The man in the back stood up. He had sweat spots around his armpits that made made the fabric dark and partially transparent.

"Yes, we all thought of that," the man said, "and we all discussed it as a bus, and we decided that we just couldn't be sure it would get to the owner. How do we even know who he is? We could be giving it to anyone."

Never in all of Nick's life had he heard something more absurd than this. His response was immediate. His voice was low, but his eyes were wide and clear and sure. 

"He's the one that’s crying by his goats."

There was a pause as everyone's expression changed at once. The man sat down. To Nick, the silence felt like forever. It was eventually broken by the sound of two dozen people rummaging through their purses and wallets. He walked down the aisle and watched as the bag was crammed full of blue and green bills. As he walked, the people on the bus commended him.

"Such a thoughtful young man."
"So big of you."
"Wonderful."
"Good show."

Nick didn't know how to respond to the unexpected praise, and for some reason their compliments tasted like bile in the back of his mouth. He smiled and nodded and thanked them as best as he could until he got to the end of the bus. The red faced man was there. Before Nick could turn around, the man put up one hand and opened his wallet. He then plucked out several tattered one-rupee notes and dropped them in the bag. Nick thanked him and rushed to the front of the bus.

"Thanks everyone," he said, his voice was tight and high pitched, "I'll go give it to him."

He stepped off the bus feeling as if he had run a marathon. Adil was right behind him. He put one hand on Nick's shoulder.

"Very good, Nick. Here, let me give some as well." Adil produced two 1000 rupee notes and quickly deposited them in the very full bag.

"Now, I will go tell the owner what's been done, then I will come get you. Okay?" Nick nodded. Adil crouched a little until he was level with Nick. "When I come get you, make sure that the bag is hidden. This is very important. No one must know. Okay?"

Nick nodded again, but this time he asked, "Is someone going to steal it?"

"No, well, not likely. You must keep it hidden for the man. The villagers blocked off the road because they called the government. If they can convince the officials to come here, the owner might be able to get some money as compensation, but not if the government has an excuse. They could use your gift as an excuse."

"Okay," said Nick.

He twisted up the bag full of rupees, shoved it into his jean pocket, and put his shirt over the corner of plastic that peeked out.

"Good. Now follow me."

Nick and his father followed Adil to the edge of the stones. It seemed that the majority of the village had crossed over the line and was now encircling the owner. Nick could not hear him crying anymore. The silence felt louder without it.

Adil motioned for them to wait, before disappearing into the crowd. A minute passed. Then another. Nick was very conscious of bag of money in his pocket.

When he came back, Adil grabbed Nick's shoulder and said, "Okay, time to go."

Adil tugged Nick into the crowd of Indian villagers, and he was pressed on all sides by brightly patterned garments and unusual smells. He couldn't see anyone's face, the faces and clothes seemed to meld together into a background.

When they arrived at the center of the gathering, Nick saw the owner of the goats. Two men were helping him stand, holding him on both sides by his shoulders. The goat owner’s eyes had flecks of white in them, but he wasn't blind. His face was dark and leathery. His spotted scalp reflected the sun. He stared at Nick and Nick quickly pulled the gum bag out. The bag disappeared in an instant, secreted in some hidden pocket of the pillow case garment.

The owner kept staring at Nick. It was a wild searching gaze. It pierced through Nick, and he had the distinct impression that the man was gauging him, and that the man was not certain if he liked what he saw. Then something happened to Nick. A seed of some sort planted itself in his stomach. He felt it as if it were a tangible thing, like a marble, settling in his gut as those white flecked eyes roamed over him.

The moment ended, and the owner and everyone else disappeared again into a blur of human bodies. They reached the edge of the crowd and Nick's father met them.

"Did you see him? Did you give it to him?"

Nick nodded, and kept walking, back towards the car.

"Well what was it like? Did he say anything?"

Nick kept nodding and walking, unable to form a more coherent response. Adil jogged to catch up with Nick.

"Nick," Adil said, "that was a good thing you did Nick. A very good thing."

Nick stopped a moment. A feeling of pride began to well up and warm him, calming his nerves, easing the tension in his shoulders. Nick strangled it. He strangled it with the thorny vines that had burst from the seed in his gut, and willed those vines to tear upward until they blossomed into an inexcapable conclusion.

He staggered, nearly fell, but recovered. He couldn't look at Adil, he couldn't look at his father, and it hurt to smile. About all he could do was nod and walk towards the car. He hoped that his father and Adil would think that he was just being shy.

Whatever they thought, from that point on they didn't try talking to him as he made his way back to the car. He opened the door and got in, and watched through the tinted windows as his father shook Adil's hand.

Nick deflected his mother's questions, and waited. His father opened the door and sat heavily in the back seat of the car while the guide and driver took the front seats. With loud tones and emphatic gestures, Nick’s father explained what had happened to Nick's mother. He guffawed when he told her the look on the British man’s face.

As his father told the second half of the story, Nick thought about the feeling that was still burning like a shard of light in his chest. He thought about the people on the bus, about monkeys with cigarettes and drivers with silly little hats, about Adil thanking him and about the fact that he had wanted to be thanked; and he knew the truth of it all. He knew and he knew there was no way to un-know it.

Reaching the end of his storytelling, Nick’s father clapped Nick on the back and laughed.

"Well, I bet in a couple of years you would have forgotten some old temples in the desert, but this, I bet you will never forget this."

And the child who was no longer a child never did.