Vicky's Bell

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Vicky’s Bell

Meeta was only seven years old and already a teacher’s favourite. Even at that age, she understood the difference between possession and friendship—something many adults never do.

Among the four goats her father, Lochan, owned, one stood apart—not by size alone, but by affection. His name was Vicky, a young he-goat bought from the weekly market a year ago, now grown sturdy and full-bodied. He was jet black, with a bold white patch on his back and an oily sheen on his fur that made neighbours joke about whether Meeta gave him regular shampoo baths.

But what truly made Vicky special was the small brass bell tied around his neck.

Wherever he went—ambling with other goats, crossing courtyards, or circling the veranda—the bell tinkled softly, a sweet interruption in the bucolic tranquillity. It announced not noise, but presence.

Every morning, Meeta studied on the veranda with a bowl of puffed rice and dry snacks beside her. Vicky would settle nearby, chewing contentedly, and without ceremony dip his mouth into the same bowl. They shared food, unbothered by human boundaries.

Her mother, Phoolna, objected—gently but firmly. “It’s not healthy, Meeta.”

But Meeta knew better—or thought she did. Vicky was a vegetarian. He ate grass, twigs, grams, chillies, rice particles, fruits, and vegetables. He never pecked insects like chickens, never scavenged filth like dogs—about whose habits Meeta had heard unsettling stories from friends who still defecated in the open. Vicky was clean, she believed. His glossy coat was proof enough.

While the other goats were tied to stakes with ropes, Vicky enjoyed privileges earned by affection. By Meeta’s insistence, he roamed freely—into the drawing room, across the enclosed courtyard. Once, she even suggested that Vicky sleep in her bedroom. That request was firmly declined.

Still, Vicky was never tied.

As he grew past a year, neighbours began to notice. They estimated—without weighing scales—that he could yield fifteen, maybe sixteen kilos of mutton. Bargains were discussed, numbers floated. Nothing was final. That was how Vicky reached nearly two years of age.

Until Dussehra came closer.

One afternoon, Meeta overheard the neighbours talking. They planned to slaughter Vicky for the festival feast. The words struck her like betrayal.

Vicky, she believed, was not born to die. He was her friend—her closest companion.

His bell was more than a decoration; it was a symbol. Every tinkle seemed to remind her: friends are protected, not slaughtered for celebration.

When she challenged them, the adults laughed gently. Dussehra required mutton. They were even willing to pay a premium—fifteen thousand rupees for such a robust goat. Her parents listened in silence.

Meeta understood what that silence meant, even though the formal payment of an advance to Lochan was handled out of her sight.

But how does a seven-year-old save a friend from destiny?

She decided to hide him.

Two kilometres to the east lay a wild field overgrown with pandanus bushes—dense, thorny, untamed. Meeta had seen it many times while walking to her uncle’s village. It could serve as a perfect hideout.

On Dussehra morning, after breakfast, Meeta quietly led Vicky away. She was discreet. Vicky cooperated, not bleating or resisting; after all, he was with his bosom friend. They left before the butcher arrived.

Meeta knew the rules. The goat could not be killed until Goddess Durga was sent off with hymns—the visarjan rituals. That would end by eleven. Only then would the killing be considered sinless.

The butcher had already taken an advance of five thousand rupees. The decision was final.

As they walked, Meeta’s mind filled with terrifying images. Would they sever Vicky’s head? Or let him bleed out slowly? A teasing friend had once described it cruelly—talking of veins in the neck, of blood draining in minutes, even of cutting a goat at the knees while it was still alive. The images sent shivers through her heart.

They reached the pandanus jungle. Vicky found food everywhere and began to eat greedily. Meeta tugged at him, whispering warnings, but hunger prevailed. She relented, letting him eat until eleven.

She wasn’t sure whether adults had noticed her escape. But she knew a small boy named Bagi had seen them heading east. She bribed him with a promise of five lozenges. Yet pleasing his father proved more tempting than candy.

Before eleven, a neighbour arrived at the pandanus field. He was one of the men who had paid the butcher’s advance on behalf of the group. Breathless and urgent, he confronted her.

“Why are you here with Vicky?” he demanded. “After the send-off hymns, when Devi Durga returns to heaven, he will be slaughtered.”

“Vicky is my friend,” Meeta said. “How can I let you kill my friend?”

The man shook his head. “We don’t recognise such friendships. We’ve paid five thousand rupees. Hand over the leash.”

And he snatched Vicky away.

Meeta wept—her loud, broken sobs could not alter fate. She walked home alone, tears streaming down her cheeks.

She knew what would happen. Money would change hands. Vicky would become meat.

She locked herself away in grief, her face buried in the pillow.

By midday, Phoolna came to her. She promised that no one in the family would eat that mutton as a mark of respect for the departed soul. But Meeta remained inconsolable.

Then her mother tried another promise.

“I’ll buy you a parrot, my darling,” she said softly. “No one eats parrots.”

The idea reached Meeta’s heart—slowly. Through sobs, she asked, “Where is Vicky’s bell?”

Phoolna had anticipated this. She had earlier removed the bell and tied it in a knot at the corner of her sari. She untied it, took out the small brass bell, and handed it to Meeta.

Meeta tied it to a woollen thread and hung it from her window transom.

The breeze entered. The bell tinkled—like a wind chime.

Through tears, Meeta listened.

Then she warned her mother, firmly, “If the parrot doesn’t come within a month, I will stop going to school.”

The bell kept ringing as if to chant: Vicky is dead. Long live Vicky. It sounded even more melodious than ever.

Friendship, after all, does not fade so easily. The bell continued to tinkle—as it should—floating on the breeze like a reminder that presence outlives possession.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar /26-12-2025

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