The Price of Goat
Dadu pours a handful of the stinky Keo-Karpin oil on his cupped palms and dabs his nearly bald head. It glistens under the tube light. A stubborn clump of hair refuses to settle down, no matter how hard he presses it. It pokes outwards like an antennae. “Som, we must leave now!” he calls out to me.
As soon as I hear his voice, I tie my laces the best I can: into a floppy, loose knot. I run across the room and skid on the marble flooring. “Let’s go!” I announce. “Now, wait,” Dadu says, as he looks at my laces that have come undone already. He places his hands on his thighs. His bony knees crack as he slowly lowers himself into a squat. Mummy says that seven is the age when boys should start tying their laces themselves, but Dadu likes to do things for me. He puts an extra cube of sugar in my Rooh Afzah, straightens my tie before I leave for school. Once, he even finished my math homework for me. Dadu pushes against the floor and springs up like a toast. Ding! He slips his feet into his tattered sandals and extends his hand for me to hold. Mummy is going to be late from work today, so the two of us have all the time in the world.
The paved footpath has baked the fallen leaves crisp and brown. They crunch under our feet as we walk past the scorched, denuded trees. Like Mario, I jump over open sewers. I even hop over some imaginary (but devious nonetheless) goombas for some extra coin. “Careful,” Dadu cautions. He trails behind. Almost briskly. When the hot wind blows dirt all around us, and I cannot even open my eyes, he shields my face. I can still smell that hair oil of his. “Dilli ki loo!” He announces gleefully.
Dadu is proud of everything that happens in Delhi. We have the best winters without the inconvenience of snow; the hottest summers that sweeten the melons, ripen the mangoes; the wildest monsoon during which we sip on chai and gorge on hot pakoras.
The rocket in the middle of the park is empty. It’s a perfect day to play space invaders. I see Rohan at the other end of the park and decide to make a run towards the rocket to beat Rohan to the top. There is only one pilot, after all. I can see Dadu from up here. He walks with utmost urgency, as if he has medals to win. Rohan spots an asteroid hurtling towards us, and I order him to launch missiles and destroy it.
We are about to land on Jupiter. But I see Dadu waving at me. He points his fingers towards his watch as if I can see the dial from this distance, or tell time for that matter. But time’s up, so I jump from the top and land on the bristly grass. I splash dirt on my knickers. Mummy is going to be so mad!
The yellow van at the corner is selling chowmein. I can smell it as we walk past the exit. “No, Som,” Dadu says before I can say anything. “That’s junk. Not good for you at all!!” He adds. “Do you know? These hawkers put pigeon poop in it.” he tells me. I picture the cook squeezing a little bird until it relieves itself directly into the wok. “Chhee,” I say in disgust.
“You should have milk,” he suggests, “Especially after exercise!” he adds. I gag at the thought of a thick layer of fat sticking to the top of my mouth. “With a banana,” he goes on as if he is reading from a script that Mummy has prepared. “And eggs.”
“I love omelette!” I declare, hoping that my love for eggs will please him and save me from those slimy bananas.
“Shabash,” he says. “You need protein to become tall and strong. You need to eat chicken, mutton…”
I have never eaten meat. We don’t eat meat. We don’t even go to places that serve non-vegetarian food. Mummy can’t stand it. Once Arun, from school, got chicken nuggets for lunch. He begged me to try them. “It tastes like paneer.” he urged. So, I stopped eating paneer for a week. We eat eggs though because Dadu fought with Mummy over it. She had to give in. So, eggs are fine.
“You don’t eat meat!” I say, in disbelief.
“Yes, I do! Your Papa, too!” Dadu boasts. As if nibbling on animal carcass was something to be proud of.
“I used to cook it all the time. You won’t remember; you were just a little baby. Your mother does not want us to make it at home. That’s why we had to stop.” he says.
“Don’t talk like that. It’s food. It’s nutrition. It’s delicious.” Dadu says. “The meat is so tender that it melts in your mouth. And the flavor of the curry? Don’t even get me started on that. The spices will dance at the tip of your tongue for hours,” he says, smacking his lips. “Do you want to try?”
“Just a little?”
“I am going to vomit. I know.”
“No, you will not,” Dadu assures me. “Accha, let’s buy some mutton. And I will make it for you. It will be yummy, I am telling you. You can taste it. Just a little bit. And If you don’t like it, even better! Because I will eat it all by myself…”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yes, I will! You will see!” Dadu says.
“But what about Mummy?”
“What about her?” He challenges. Dadu looks at his watch and assures me that there is plenty of time. “Your mother does not have to find out,” he whispers. His eyes sparkle with joy. I am still unsure.
“Do you want to be a tiger, or do you want to be a goat?” he asks.
Dadu is not too fond of Mummy. It’s easy to tell. I think it’s because she does not make him aloo parathas and kachauris for breakfast. Well, she can’t make four things for four people! I explained it to Dadu, once. “See? I don’t get jam-bread every day either!” But he didn’t say anything back to me. He scoffed and kept looking at the T.V. with his big, wrinkled cheeks drooping lower than usual.
It could also be because Mummy is not Rajput like us. She is from the South, and we are from the North. I am not allowed to talk about these things. Once Mummy was asking me to finish up my homework, and I told her that Rajput princes did not have to do homework, only lead armies. She said that I was wrong, and I had to. When I told her that she wouldn’t know, because she isn’t one, she slapped me so hard that I cried for hours. Later, she asked me if princes could drink chocolate milkshakes.
Dadu takes a turn towards Shayar Bagh, the smelliest part of our neighbourhood. I have only seen it from outside. There is a half-broken stone building at the entrance of that locality. Dadu insists that it used to be an inn built by the Mughals. It’s a cowshed now. All the cows are on the streets, though. They are chewing on garbage that lies strewn all over the place. Children with muddied faces run past us. Some are without shoes, some are without knickers. I am afraid that Pooja aunty might see us and tell Mummy when she comes to clean the house tomorrow. So, I keep an eye out for her.
“How far?” I ask, pinching my nose trying to shut out the flurry of smells that invade my nose. But he doesn’t have to answer. I can smell the butcher shop before I can see it. Naked, pink bodies of animals hang from hooks. A stream of blood flows in the drain at the foot of the steps. The shop is bare. The walls are coated in glossy, pink paint. A calendar hangs behind the counter. It has squiggly green markings in Urdu and some red splatter at the edges. It could be paan or blood. I wonder which. A toothless man with a henna-dyed beard greets Dadu.
“Nadir bhai comes from the line of royal cooks! They have a huge shop in old Delhi. It was right beside our house,” Dadu tells me. “I want the best quality mutton. Fresh, no? It’s for the kid,” Dadu requests. “It’s dirty here,” I complain as I look at an ugly slab of concrete lying next to a yellowing ceramic bath. Dadu ignores me.
I know he will buy the mutton from this shop. It is because the shop reminds him of Chandni Chowk. Dadu and Papa used to live there. I have only heard stories about it. All fascinating. Like the one where Papa boasts about leading a gang of kite-raiding kids. He would jump across rooftops in a race to get to the loot first. It is hard for me to imagine myself living there. Mummy says that Chandni Chowk is a place where poor people live poorly; a lot like Shayar Bagh, I think. It’s filthy, there is no electricity, and hardly any water. If Mummy had not made Dadu and Papa move to our new house, I could have been leading my own gang of kite pirates!
I see Nadir Bhai walking in with a headless goat in his arms and my first instinct is to scream and run away. I look at the dead goat and I gag. Its cleanly severed neck exposes the bone where the head must have been attached. I cannot look away. I hold Dadu’s hand tightly and watch Nadir Bhai make guide marks on the body. His cleaver cuts through the animal effortlessly. Not a drop of blood. Where did it all go? I squirm when he removes the guts. They fall into a bucket like runny stool. Snip. Chop. In a few minutes little pieces of goat are put into a black plastic bag. Nadir Bhai hands it to me. I recoil. I don’t even want to touch it.
As soon as we enter the house, Dadu tosses his shirt aside and begins chopping onions. He weeps uncontrollably. I don’t think he knows how to cook. He stands hunched over the stove trying to fry onions. He throws in spices at a whim. Not like Mummy at all. The goat is in the vessel and is still not done. “Stubborn little animal.” Dadu laughs. The cooker spews steam, filling the kitchen. Dadu’s head emerges from the cloud making him look like a hatless, robeless sorcerer.
“Can you smell it, Som?” he asks.
I do. It smells delicious. A bit like black chana, but I don’t tell him that. I salivate only because I am starving.
Dadu brings the thick, bright red curry in a bowl that Mummy uses to keep cut fruit. There is a shiny layer of oil along the edges; little pieces of meat float in the middle. “What do you think?” he asks. I am eager to try it. It’s only because I am hungry!
I put some gravy (only gravy) on lumpy rice that he has made. This is all I am going to eat. I greedily put a spoonful into my mouth without even blowing on it. The curry tastes like a savory rainbow. It’s all so delicious. Dadu urges me to try a morsel of meat. He does not wait for me to ask but takes a sliver of meat in his hands and slides it into my mouth. It dissolves on my tongue. Then I see him messing about with the bones. It all looks like so much fun. Barbaric, but fun. You chew one end and tap it on the plate. The gummy, meat-like substance that oozes out of it can be slurped straight from the bone.
We sit at the table satiated, with a pile of discarded bones next to our plates. Dadu has begun cleaning it all up but the doorbell rings.
Even before Mummy enters the house she asks if Dadu has made mutton curry. She flinches but enters the hall possibly to rescue her kitchen from sacrilege. I picture her wailing, screaming, weeping inconsolably. But she does not do any of those things. She is calm, and that scares me.
“It’s Tuesday. You had to make meat today?” she asks coldly. She is looking straight at Dadu. Papa and I offer a prayer to Hanuman ji on Tuesday. I had completely forgotten! How could I? I stand between the curtains, half- wishing that I were invisible.
“I don’t need your permission for anything.” Dadu replies in a stern voice.
“You have had two heart attacks. At least think about your health,” Mummy steps back, as if trying to avoid the smell. “Do you even know how expensive your treatment is?”
“Then don’t pay for it. Isn’t that what you want? Wouldn’t you be happy if I dropped dead today?” Dadu scoffs.
“Yes. Because I would get that piece of land that you signed off to your other son. Oh, no, wait. I will get the piddly cash in your bank account. What do you have?” Mummy asks. Dadu clenches his jaws so hard that I think his dentures might fall off. “You had that hole of an apartment in Chandni Chowk which could not even cover the down payment for this house!” Mummy adds.
“I gave more money to you than your dead father ever could!” Dadu spits out. “Bahus bring their weight in gold,” he says looking at me, “Not her. Not a penny to her name before my son picked her off the street. Who else would have married this low-life Tamilian otherwise?” Dadu says to me. I listen in shock.
Mummy slams the bedroom door shut. I can hear her sobbing. Dadu’s eyes seem to be popping out of his head. The veins on his forehead are taut. I have never seen him this angry, this hateful, this ugly!
As I begin to cry, I see the intensity in his eyes wear off. He looks at me guiltily, then smiles like he always does. He walks up to me and places his hand on my head. But I shrug it off. He pats me on the head and goes into his room and turns the T.V on like nothing has happened. I sit at the table. Tears roll off my cheeks.
Papa is not home yet, and Mummy is still crying. There is a big stain on the tablecloth where I have spilled the gravy. It has grown into a giant circle as if the goat has bled on it. I reach down my throat with a finger and feel the goat rising up my throat, burning it. I retch and spit it out. I am never eating the damn animal ever again. Neither am I speaking to Dadu ever. I swear.
Prateek Nigam grew up in Delhi, but lives in Bangalore. He writes code for a living, and short stories in his spare time. He is a graduate of Bangalore Writers Workshop. Some of his works have appeared in Spark magazine. His story, “Less Than Perfect,” was shortlisted for Wasafiri New Writing Prize in 2019.