Poonachi: Or the Story of a Black Goat

by Perumal Murugan

There are only five species of animals with which I am deeply familiar. Of them, dogs and cats are meant for poetry. It is forbidden to write about cows or pigs. That leaves only goats and sheep. Goats are problem-free, harmless and, above all, energetic. A story needs narrative pace. Therefore, I’ve chosen to write about goats.

ONCE, IN A village, there was a goat. No one knew where she was born. The birth of an ordinary life never leaves a trace, does it?

‘You say you went to several villages. Did no one there have the money to buy this wonder kid?’ ‘Oh, men of fortune are as plentiful as fruit worms, but a kind heart is rare. Only a kind-hearted man can have my baby,’ the giant said.

They talk about the highs of toddy and liquor, but those are not highs at all. Real intoxication comes from talking. The moment it crosses a limit, we forget everything,’ the old woman lamented.

‘There’s an old saying that the regime is deaf.’ ‘It’s deaf only when we speak about our problems. When we talk about the regime, its ears are quite sharp.’

‘It’s true, ’pa. Leave right now. These days, even if you fart, you have to register with the government,’ a woman said.