The Goat Election

In the quiet village of Chikni Dhani, elections had always been a loud, dramatic affair. But this year, something unexpected happened. Something… goaty.

The usual candidates were at it again—Chaudhry Munshi Lal, the self-styled village philosopher who claimed he’d studied at the “London School of Wisdom” (though no one had ever heard of it), and Qasim Chacha, whose entire campaign revolved around his promise of free jalebi for life if elected. The speeches were long, the promises thinner than roti dough, and most villagers had already decided to stay home on voting day.

Then came Bano.

Bano wasn’t a person. She was a goat—a tall, white, slightly cross-eyed female goat owned by Guddu, a quiet boy from the edge of the village. Bano wasn’t famous for her intelligence. She once tried to eat a plastic slipper and still believed the well was a friend. But she had one trait that set her apart: she nodded. Constantly. Whenever someone spoke to her, whether it was Guddu scolding her or a neighbor asking how the weather was, Bano would tilt her head and nod slowly, as if deeply considering every word.

One afternoon, Guddu tied a piece of paper to her back with a string. It read: “Vote for Bano – She Actually Listens.” He was only joking, parading her through the market for a laugh. But the villagers didn’t laugh for long. They started clapping.

“She never broke a promise!” someone shouted.

“She hasn’t raised taxes!” another added.

“She doesn’t talk much—must be honest!” said an old man, convinced.

By sunset, Bano’s name was on every tongue. The village WhatsApp group, usually full of blurry wedding photos and chain messages about lemons curing diabetes, exploded with goat memes. The next morning, someone had painted “Goat for Chairman” on the side of the panchayat building.

Chaudhry Munshi Lal stormed into the tea stall, red in the face. “This is an insult to democracy!” he declared, nearly knocking over a stool.

Qasim Chacha just stared into his teacup. “Do goats even like jalebi?” he muttered.

Bano, meanwhile, remained blissfully unaware. She grazed near the temple, accepted marigold garlands like a seasoned politician, and continued nodding at everyone—children, dogs, even the stray peacock that wandered in from the fields.

The elders held an emergency meeting under the banyan tree.

“This is absurd,” said one.

“But she hasn’t lied,” said another.

“She hasn’t said anything at all,” pointed out a third.

“Exactly,” came the reply. “That’s what makes her trustworthy.”

By election day, half the village wore Bano badges. Some had drawn her face on their umbrellas. Guddu led her to the polling booth like a royal procession. She chewed on a leaf as people snapped photos, laughing.

When the votes were counted, the result stunned everyone.

Munshi Lal: 47

Qasim Chacha: 39

Bano the Goat: 312

The courtyard erupted. People danced, someone brought out a dhol, and a group of kids chanted, “Bano! Bano!” Guddu lifted her gently onto his shoulders, her hooves dangling like a victorious wrestler.

The election officer scratched his head. “A goat can’t be village chairman,” he said.

The crowd didn’t care. “Then make her honorary chairman!” they shouted.

And so it was.

A small wooden bench was placed outside the panchayat office—painted blue, with a nameplate: Chairman Bano. Every morning, Guddu brought her there. Politicians arrived with carrots, asking for her “opinion” on new drains or school repairs. She would chew, blink, and nod. Somehow, decisions got made. Disputes were settled faster. Even the bickering families started talking.

No one knew if Bano understood any of it. But she listened. She didn’t interrupt. She never promised what she couldn’t deliver.

And in a world full of noise, that was enough.

Years later, when visitors asked why Chikni Dhani was so peaceful, the elders would smile and point to the goat napping in the shade.

“She taught us,” one said, “that leadership isn’t about speeches. It’s about showing up, staying calm, and listening—even if you’re mostly thinking about grass.