Poonachi: Or the Story of a Black Goat

by Perumal Murugan

The birth of an ordinary life never leaves a trace, does it?

Goats always tried to break free of their shackles. Sheep had none, so they didn’t need to make the effort. If it was in your nature to bow down, why would anyone shackle you? And yet, they were fortunate, these sheep. They had no inkling that to bow was to be shackled.

‘People keep destroying everything and shoving every last bit into their mouths. How then can anything or anyone survive here apart from human beings? In the end, can even people survive for long?’ she remarked with a sigh.

‘The difficulties of the dead leave along with them, those of the living are here to stay,’

Why then did the mind always blow up and despair over sad events?

Why did people who had nothing to do with them get to decide who should interact with whom and who should stay with whom?

What could anyone do with a miracle during a famine? Miracles and exhibitions were meant for when people were relaxing after a sumptuous meal.

The call of hunger sweeps aside all other invitations, to rise up in front of you. You become aware of other calls only after you’ve heeded this one.