I have always been curious about matters like this, and here I unveil the mystery of a three-legged goat.[break]
When I first heard about the goat’s three-leggedness, it reminded me of the classic joke about the pig with a wooden leg but, seriously, my suspicion was on congenital abnormality.
I was wrong.
The truth, as narrated by my uncle, was this:
Many years ago, in the village of P where I was born and raised, lived a perfectly normal goat. It belonged to my father’s neighbor who later became a politician and a minister. One day, while the goat was peacefully grazing on a meadow by a thick forest near the village, a tiger attacked it. My uncle happened to be passing by and he saw the goat leaping sideways and evading the tiger’s first pounce. However, the goat was cornered on the edge of a cliff and its fate was evident. When the tiger pounced again, the goat had no choice but to turn around and jump off the cliff. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the tiger caught hold of the goat’s left hind leg and neatly ripped it off.
I gasped and analyzed the story: Extraordinary but not entirely improbable because it was set in a time before I was born. During my childhood, I played with other kids in that same forest and never did we come across any tiger. We did occasionally encounter foxes and we played ‘hunting’ with our little bows and arrows but, nowadays, the largest animals in the forest are squirrels. Hence, it’s very much likely that tigers once lived in that same forest and it’s no wonder that one of those tigers tore off a goat’s leg.
The story continued, to my increasing discomfort and the uncle’s delight:
As fate would have it, at the bottom of the cliff, my father, who was a teenager then and not yet my father, was busying himself with my mother, who was also a teenager then and not yet my mother. The now-three-legged goat landed right on top of my father’s back and, lo and behold, it survived. The tiger, on the other hand, choked on the goat’s splintered leg bone and was found dead a week later. Meanwhile, my embarrassed parents hastily tied the knot and, less than nine months later, I was born.
Who believes in fate? I pretend that I don’t but sometimes I doubt myself. After all, fate is perceived only when it’s dramatic whereas, in fact, it’s just a conglomeration of scientifically proven, though seemingly insignificant, causes and effects.
And, who are we to question fate when we are only beginning to understand things like genetics?
Sometimes, I have this nightmare where I wake up, in my dream, to find that I’ve grown horns. I then realize, in my dream, that that was just a dream. But when I try to say “Thank God,” I bleat a loud and piercing “Mehhh, Meh!”
Illustration: Sworup Nhasiju
I believe we invented God with the desire to manipulate our fate. Who doesn’t wish to be in control of natural consequences, especially when they are adverse? And what better solution than an Almighty, albeit imaginary, God?
As time passed by, we then created sacred texts with the desire to make others ‘good’ (whatever that may mean) and contrived elaborate ceremonies with the desire to consume meat (well, at least in some forms of religions).
The village happened to be practicing one such religion and the demand for castrated goats was very high during festivals back then (and so it is now).
I have never been fond of castration but I have to admit whether one tastes better − simply because it lacks that awful buck odor. It’s amazing how callous and ingenious we humans can be when it comes to the matter of pleasing our taste buds. I’m sure our future generations will resort to castrating their sons in order to produce healthier and sturdier adults. (If you’re a male and un-castrated, this is the moment for you to sigh with relief that the future isn’t here yet.)
Anyway, my parents couldn’t get hold of a castrated goat for their wedding because a major goat-eating festival had just ended. So they had no choice but to make use of the only mature living goat in the entire village at that time − the three-legged un-castrated goat. Funnily, that was the same goat that had caused them to get married in the first place!
In the beginning, my parents were unwilling to establish any relationship with that particular goat. But my uncle persuaded them: First, what kind of a feast is one without goat meat? Second, my parents could think of the goat as a blessing from the heavens above. And, third, he would personally see to the cooking of the goat.
Finally, my parents relented and accepted to buy the three-legged goat from their neighbor. But no matter how much they offered for the goat, the neighbor surprisingly refused to sell it. When they asked him the reasons for not selling, his answer was shady. He kept repeating, “This is my favorite goat. This is my favorite goat.”
So my clever uncle resorted to communal pressure: He went around the village telling all men, women, and children that there would be no meat at my parents’ wedding if the crazy neighbor didn’t sell his goat. He then requested each of them to go to the neighbor’s house, one at a time, knock on his door loudly, shout “Sell the goat!” and run away before he opened the door.
“Oh! Did you really do that?” I asked my uncle.
“Why not? That was the least I could do for your parents,” he replied.
The feast at my parents’ wedding turned out to be the most delicious in the history of the village. Those who attended it still talk about the goat meat, and my uncle humbly takes the credit for the feast’s success. Obviously, my uncle wasn’t only good at cooking stories but also goats.
“But, the goat wasn’t castrated,” I remarked.
“There are various ways to get rid of the stench, my friend.” my uncle answered.
“Then tell me how you got rid of the goat’s stench. What secret spices did you use?” I asked.
“Wrong question. The marinade was a normal mixture of regular seasonings. The actual trick lay in ‘how’ the marinating was done,” he replied, and then asked, “Tell me, do you know anything about marinating?”
Being an amateur cook myself, I answered, “Yes, you prepare the marinade and mix it with the meat. Then you set it aside for some hours before cooking. This results in juicier and tastier meat.”
“So you do know a little about marinating. Now, imagine what the result would be if the marinating was on live flesh rather than on dead meat!” he said with a triumphant grin and went on to explain:
Early one morning, he shaved the three-legged goat naked and generously applied on it the marinade he had prepared the other night of mustard oil, turmeric, ginger, garlic, cumin, and coriander. He then left the goat out in the field to graze on the grass and bathe in the sun. Every two hours, he applied a fresh coating of marinade so that the spices penetrated deeply. By sunset, the goat turned a beautiful crimson and, by dinnertime, the entire village was swooning with the aroma of the goat meat being slowly roasted over an open fire! And the rest is history. (If I were a poet, I would’ve said that they merrily ate some tasty fare.)
These days, I have a new set of nightmares. I’m sunbathing at a beach and, as the sun starts to set, something starts to smell funny. I then see a bonfire in the distance and realize, to my horror that I wasn’t sunbathing the entire day but was being gently marinated. How foolish of me to be so excited about some unknown lady giving me herbal massage every two hours!
(In some versions of the nightmare, I involuntarily reach for my balls − only to find that they are gone.)
Kohi Raikoan writes fiction for amusement and can be reached at kohiraikoan@gmail.com
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