by Benyamin
I felt lonely and sad, as if I was the last man on earth. I cried sitting on the sand. Ibrahim, you left me alone like this, on the way to where? Weren’t we together all these days? All through the misery and the sorrow. And here we are, about to reach the road to safety. At most an hour’s walk to the highway. But where are you? Where did you disappear last night? You could have told me. You could have said a goodbye, at least.
It was only after the day grew hot that I got up from there and walked. I found that walk a hundred times more difficult than all my days of walking with Ibrahim. I felt like I was moving backwards. How much that solitude hurt me! Finally, by about evening I reached the road. It was not a highway on which a lot of vehicles passed. A vehicle came along once in a while. They were mostly trailers carrying heavy loads. Infrequently, some cars screamed past. Worn out, I extended my hand at every vehicle. But all the vehicles ignored me and went on their way, leaving me very frustrated. As each vehicle moved away, I kept hoping that the next one would surely stop for me and take me along. But luck was not with me. No driver showed any sympathy. Rather, Allah didn’t direct any driver to do so. Thus, I passed one more night orphaned by Allah.
Forty
Day broke. The flow of vehicles, which had almost ceased in the last quarter of the night, started again. Most of them were vehicles carrying heavy loads. Going down to the middle of the road, I waved my hand at each vehicle. That day too every vehicle ignored me and drove past me. I wasn’t surprised. Seeing the shape that I was in after three years in a masara, people would not have wanted to take me along. And after many days of wandering in the desert, I had completely ceased to resemble a human being.
My hunger and thirst kept growing. It had already been three days since we set off from the oasis. I just couldn’t imagine losing my life after coming this close to freedom. I hated myself as Allah wouldn’t look at me. What sin had I committed to deserve this? I asked, beating my chest. Allah, you made me lose both my friends in the desert. The desert dried Hakeem to death and made Ibrahim vanish. You have brought me till here. For what? For what? It remains unanswered in my mind.
The afternoon blaze soon set in. More vehicles kept moving past me. I saw a very expensive car zooming in from afar. I knew there was no use waving at it. Why would the driver let me get into such a car when even trailer drivers sneered at me! Still something inside me urged me to wave at the car as it drew near. Naturally, it didn’t stop and went past me. But, at a short distance past me, it screeched to a halt. I was surprised. Did it stop because I signalled? After wondering for a second if the car had actually stopped for me, I ran towards it. Inside it was a handsome, richly dressed Arab. Lowering the car window, he asked me something. I didn’t know what to answer. Revered Arab, how many vehicles have gone past me since yesterday. Nobody stopped for me. You didn’t ask what do you want, why are you staying here, how did you land here. You felt like applying your feet on the brake for me. Enough. That is sufficient for me. Unconsciously, my eyes overflowed.
The Arab didn’t ask me anything after that. He opened the back door of his vehicle for me. He beckoned me to sit inside. Then he drove down the road with me.
I hesitated to sit straight on the spotless seat of that splendid vehicle. Still, I sat. Some time after I got in, he switched off the air conditioner and lowered the windows. He covered his nose. I knew it was because of my stench. Had he wanted, he could have thrown me out of the car. But he didn’t show any annoyance. I asked that great man for some water. He gave me a bottle of water. I emptied it at one go. He asked me if I wanted another bottle. I nodded my head. He gave me another one. I drank that too. Still my thirst was not quenched. But politeness restrained me from asking for more.
Slowly I reclined on the seat. I was so tired I soon fell asleep. So, I don’t know how long I travelled. I only woke up when the vehicle stopped in a city area. It was almost evening by then. I looked all around perplexed. Very huge buildings. Many people and a lot of commotion. Heavy traffic. After travelling for some more distance, the Arab parked the car by the side of the road and looked back at me. I understood that was my signal to get down. How could I express my gratitude to that great man who tolerated me for so long? In return for his goodwill, I could only give him a teardrop. He didn’t ask anything. He didn’t say a word.
I got out of the vehicle and shut the door. Leaving me alone in the middle of the city, the Arab sped away.
I wept. I had realized that Allah occasionally travels even in a luxury car.
Forty-one
Eyes wide open, I stood in that area for some time. I could see those who went past me stare at me like I was a strange creature. I walked slowly, keeping to the side of the road. It was a market alongside a long, winding road. All around were heaps of vegetables and fruits. Their soft odour hung in the air. Crowds of Arabs flowed like a river. Women, with only their eyes showing, moved around in black robes. There were many Indian vendors. The sound of commerce. And among them all, I stood out looking like a primitive man. Everyone stared at me and tried to skirt around me to avoid touching me. I didn’t feel hurt. In fact, even I could smell my stink.
I was very hungry. But I didn’t have any money to buy food. During my life in the Gulf, that was the first occasion when I felt the need for money. Had I been in the masara, I could have eaten the arbab’s khubus at least. I didn’t need money for that. I could have eaten the wheat meant for the goats. Money wasn’t required for that either. But one had to pay money to eat anything in the city. Who would give me food without money in exchange? I tried to enter one or two shops. I even begged for food. But their owners drove me away as if I were a despicable stray dog.
With hope springing anew in my heart, I walked through that market. I felt dizzy after walking for some time. I must have walked a little further when I spotted a board with ‘Malabar Restaurant’ written on it. Such relief! An assurance that someone who could understand my language was in there. Someone who could understand what I said. I steeled myself and walked towards it.
I have no recollection of what happened after I reached the place. Later I heard that I fainted on the steps.
Forty-two
In every Arab city, there is a loving, shelter-giving banyan tree.
It was in front of Kunjikka’s hotel, a refuge for Malayalis in Batha market, that I had fainted. Note the loving ways of Allah. I, who was a stranger to that market, could have strayed anywhere and could have fainted elsewhere. Nobody would have cared for me. But Allah had decided that I was to reach Kunjikka. So I walked that way, reached the doorsteps of the Malabar Restaurant and fell down. He had trusted Kunjikka’s heart to take care of the rest.
On the third day after reaching the city, when I opened my eyes, I found myself in Kunjikka’s room. When I regained consciousness there was a heavy ache in my hands and legs. There was a needle in my arm and I had been on a drip. I wondered if I was in a hospital. Still, seeing Malayalis around me, I wept. Taking my hand in his, Kunjikka consoled me. I had become a topic of conversation among the Malayalis of Batha. When they heard I had regained consciousness, many of them rushed into the room. They brought me apples, oranges, grapes and bananas as gifts. Everyone wanted to know my story. How did I end up in that state? How did I land there? Their curiosity was written on their faces. But nobody asked me anything. It was only after another two days, after a doctor came, examined me and removed the drip, that Kunjikka gently asked me for my story.
‘I need a mirror,’ I said.
‘Why a mirror?’ Kunjikka, who was sitting beside me, asked.
‘I just want to see myself.’
The others present stared at one another.
I just wanted to see myself as everyone saw me, the man everyone thought was pitiable.
One of them brought me a small mirror. I looked at myself. I stared at it for a long time. I couldn’t recognize myself at all. The person I saw there was a stranger. His hair was cut short, his beard shaved off. The man in the mirror
was not the one who had set off from the homeland. I was someone else altogether. A dark, frail, skinny figure with protruding teeth. Had I been told on any other occasion that the person I saw in the mirror was me, I would not have believed it.
Kunjikka explained to me how he and his workers held me as I fainted and brought me into his restaurant to give me food and water; how I was taken to his room; how, with tender care, he bathed me on that day, the next and the day after; how a barber was brought in to cut my hair and shave my beard; how a doctor was brought in to examine and treat me. But my unconscious mind had not registered any of these events.
I had nothing to give them except my tears. I didn’t even have any love to give in return. I had only one regret, that they didn’t take my photo before cutting my hair and beard. I never got to see the primitive shape I had been in. Today, I don’t have any evidence to produce before you as proof of that life. Only my experience and memories. Even the passport that testified my arrival in that country was in the custody of the arbab …
‘What date is it today?’ I asked those who were gathered there.
‘It’s the thirteenth.’
‘Which month?’
They frowned. ‘August.’
‘Which year?’
They became anxious. ‘Nineteen ninety-five.’
‘Lord! Rabb al alameen …’ I placed my hands on my chest. Then I calculated the time that had elapsed.
‘Three years, four months, nine days.’
Those who heard me were dumbstruck.
Then, after two more days, when I was able to walk a little, Kunjikka took me from that room to the next one. There was a telephone in that room. Kunjikka made me sit before it.
‘Don’t you want to call home? Don’t you want to hear the sound of your ummah and your wife?’
I cried. I didn’t have a telephone at home. I told him the telephone number of the Moplah neighbour. I still wonder how I had remembered that number, which I had not used for such a long time. It was from Bombay that I had called that number the last time.
Kunjikka spent a very long time in front of the telephone. The connection wasn’t getting through.
Finally the phone rang at the other end. He gave me the receiver. I had to try hard to make my neighbour recognize me. When he finally did, there was a brief silence. Then he asked, ‘Where have you been so long, Najeeb?’
I didn’t have any answer. I could imagine the many stories that might have spread about me back home.
‘Call after quarter of an hour. I will fetch your wife,’ he said.
Those fifteen minutes were longer than the three years I had spent in the masara. Kunjikka finally dialled the number again.
This time, it was easy. Kunjikka gave me the receiver. I only said hello. I heard the loud wailing of my Sainu at the other end. Then for a long time, both of us could only cry. She didn’t ask anything. Where have you been? Why haven’t you called till now? Sitting there, she must have read my mind.
After crying for some time, she said, ‘Our son Nabeel has started going to kindergarten this year. Don’t you want to see him? When is ikka coming home? Ikka, our ummah is no more. Last year. She died heartbroken, not hearing a word about you …’
I didn’t have the strength to hear anything more. I put the receiver down. My mind throbbed with pain. Covering my face, I wept. Kunjikka consoled me. ‘Haven’t you suffered so much, Najeeb? All that that was given to you was given by Allah. We don’t have any right to question His will.’
Feeding on Kunjikka’s generosity, I stayed with him for a period of three months. There, in the shelter he provided, my wounds healed. The swelling on my legs reduced. I regained my health. And at different times, I recounted my story to Kunjikka and friends. Many of them refused to believe my story. Only a few believed me. Even those who believed me, found the disappearance of Ibrahim Khadiri inexplicable. Their doubts were justified. I don’t have any proper explanation to offer.
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.
Forty-three
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 u
p 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.
Author’s Note
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.
