They arrived late in the season for their kind. Four of them. Our men - Tarro, Karfur, and the young one, Maman - saw them situated. Mine was the dark one: a female, and heavy. I lead them out across the barren planes that have been my home for fifteen years. We reached the sand by midday - the time when the humans must seek shelter from the heat. They did, leaving us to the sun. I settled near to watch our men prepare food, feed them, and leave them to rest in the shade.
We would bear them for four days. Our men would feed them - toast, eggs, and porridge - every morning and - dhal, rice, and chapati - every evening and afternoon, as they do with every load we've carried across the desert. After the sun sets they sing to them in the human language I understand - Rajasthani: the song about the tortured love of a man trapped behind the wall in Pakistan, silly songs about chickens and chai, and - on their final night - the song that celebrates the passing of another year. They laugh, jump and throw the beetles that roll away our dung, kill scorpions, and look at the sky. When they've gone to sleep on the metal frames that Kaloo carries from the village, our men extinguish the fire and see to us before retiring themselves.
Every day we ride. Our long legs easily covering the distance between the dunes of sand people are so fond of seeing. We stop once a day at the adobe villages that dot the landscape to drink and collect our food. The children of the villages run out to inspect our load. Sometimes the women sing to them or give them chai. These stops are our only contact with people other than our men and those we carry. Of our own kind and our wild relatives we see few. For this reason, I was glad to be ride of this load. Soon we'll be turned loose by our men's village as our desert will enter the season people have difficulty surviving. Those of us that have adopted humans will reunite and look after ours. For now, our men stand by the side of the road waving. Another group of people has looked their last on the land they had come so far to see, and is gone.
Raju
We would bear them for four days. Our men would feed them - toast, eggs, and porridge - every morning and - dhal, rice, and chapati - every evening and afternoon, as they do with every load we've carried across the desert. After the sun sets they sing to them in the human language I understand - Rajasthani: the song about the tortured love of a man trapped behind the wall in Pakistan, silly songs about chickens and chai, and - on their final night - the song that celebrates the passing of another year. They laugh, jump and throw the beetles that roll away our dung, kill scorpions, and look at the sky. When they've gone to sleep on the metal frames that Kaloo carries from the village, our men extinguish the fire and see to us before retiring themselves.
Every day we ride. Our long legs easily covering the distance between the dunes of sand people are so fond of seeing. We stop once a day at the adobe villages that dot the landscape to drink and collect our food. The children of the villages run out to inspect our load. Sometimes the women sing to them or give them chai. These stops are our only contact with people other than our men and those we carry. Of our own kind and our wild relatives we see few. For this reason, I was glad to be ride of this load. Soon we'll be turned loose by our men's village as our desert will enter the season people have difficulty surviving. Those of us that have adopted humans will reunite and look after ours. For now, our men stand by the side of the road waving. Another group of people has looked their last on the land they had come so far to see, and is gone.
Raju
Camel of the Thar
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