by Pushpa Kurup
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I’ve been listening to this constant chatter for a long time now. Little does the murder of crows know I’ve understood much of what they’ve spoken.
It had taken months for me to make the tedious journey from Aden to Alexandria after my master drove me away from the farmhouse where I had lived for years. Rahman was a trader. He had three wives, five children, three horses and several chickens. I’d no idea what he bought and sold but he would often go away on short tours. Sometimes he’d be away for two or three weeks and then there would be lots of goings on in the house. Squabbles, back-biting, intrigues, name-calling, hair-pulling, you name it!
Zarina was the youngest of the three wives and the most favoured. The Quran calls upon the Faithful to treat all their wives alike, but they seldom do. At least Rahman never did. He always played favourites, resulting in much bickering in the house.
You see, they all lived under one roof. The senior wife Fatima had three little daughters. The middle wife, Amina, had two sons. Zarina however was childless, though she’d been married to Rahman for six years. That made her the butt of many jokes and jibes. She would hit back at her tormentors in teeny-weeny spiteful ways.
One day I injured my foreleg in a hunting accident and developed a pronounced limp. Realizing that I couldn’t run fast any more, Rahman decided to put me to sleep. When I saw him aim his rifle at my head, I didn’t hesitate for a moment. I tripped him over with my hind leg and bolted. I made good my escape before he had recovered his balance and his composure. That was when I discovered I could still run fast enough to flee from danger.
I don’t wish to talk about the days and months that followed. There were times when I felt I would die in the Arabian Desert. But every time Allah had protected me and provided solace. And I had never lost my way because I had made it a point to remain near the sea coast.
