Ramesh and the Talking Goat

In the small, sun-drenched village of Bhatkpur, where roosters crowed like they had something to prove and the chai was always just a little too sweet, lived a man named Ramesh.

Ramesh wasn’t the kind of man who worked with his hands. He preferred to work with his imagination. He often said, “I don’t need to plough the field—I can grow ideas.” The villagers would smile politely and go back to their farming, though deep down, they knew Ramesh’s ideas were more like daydreams wearing confidence as a disguise.

He was kind, in his own way—always ready with a joke or a wild story. But he had a habit of believing the most unlikely things, especially if they made him feel important.

One warm afternoon, while sitting on a wooden bench near the market, chewing on a crispy samosa and blowing on his steaming cup of chai, Ramesh noticed an old man standing beside a fluffy white goat.

“She’s special,” the man said, patting the goat gently. “Not just any animal.”

Ramesh raised an eyebrow. “Special how? Can she dance? Solve riddles?”

The man leaned in, voice low. “She talks. But only when it’s dark.”

Ramesh paused, the samosa halfway to his mouth. “Talks? As in… words? Sentences?”

The man nodded, eyes serious. “Only at night. And only if she trusts you.”

Most people would’ve laughed, finished their snack, and walked away. But Ramesh felt a spark—like he’d just been handed a key to something magical. Without thinking too hard, he pulled out every rupee in his pocket and bought the goat on the spot.

He named her Laila.

That evening, he cleaned the courtyard, placed a wooden stool in front of her, and sat with a cup of chai, like a man waiting for wisdom under the stars.

“Alright, Laila,” he said softly. “It’s just us now. Say something. Anything.”

The goat looked at him, chewed slowly on a piece of hay, and blinked.

“Come on,” Ramesh coaxed. “Just a ‘hello’? A ‘good evening’?”

Silence.

He tried singing. He recited a poem he remembered from school. He even offered her a handful of peanuts—her favourite.

Still nothing.

By midnight, Ramesh gave up and went to bed, disappointed but not defeated.

The next morning, he returned to the market to ask the old man for advice—only to find the stall gone. No trace. No one had seen the man before or since.

“Must’ve been a traveler,” someone said. “Passing through.”

Ramesh trudged home, feeling a little foolish. As he pushed open the gate, Laila lifted her head, stared at him for a long moment, and let out a long, drawn-out “Meeeeeeeeeh.”

Ramesh froze.

That… that had to be his name. It sounded like “Ramesh.”

“She said it!” he shouted, clapping his hands. “She said my name!”

He ran through the village, barefoot and breathless. “My goat talks! I heard her!”

The villagers chuckled. “Ramesh, goats go ‘meh’—not ‘Ramesh’.”

But he wouldn’t listen. “You didn’t hear it the way I did,” he insisted. “There was meaning in it. Emotion.”

Slowly, word spread. A talking goat? In Bhatkpur? Children came to see. Tourists on scooters stopped by. Laila, calm and dignified, accepted the attention with grace—especially the carrots and apples people brought.

Ramesh began giving little talks in the evening. “Believe in the impossible,” he’d say, sipping chai. “Sometimes, the quiet ones have the most to say.”

He even painted a small sign and hung it near his gate:

*"Come meet Laila — The Goat Who Knows More Than She Lets On."*

Years passed. Laila grew older, her fur turning a soft grey. She never spoke—not in words, not in sentences. But Ramesh never stopped believing.

“She’s not shy,” he’d tell the kids. “She’s just waiting for the right moment.”

And maybe, in a way, she was.

Because while Laila never said a word, she gave Ramesh something just as real—purpose, attention, a story to tell. And in a quiet village where days blended into one another, that was enough.

Some say Ramesh was fooled. Others say he simply chose to see magic where others saw silence.

Either way, every evening, without fail, he sits with his chai, talks to Laila about the weather, the village news, and sometimes, the stars.

And sometimes, just sometimes, when the wind is still and the sky is clear, it almost sounds like she answers back.