Rajiv lands a transfer to a sleepy upazila branch and rents a tin-shed backyard for cheap. What the listing didn't mention: the yard is the goats' sworn highway to the giant jackfruit tree behind the mosque. Day one, 7:03 a.m., a council of three goats enters like auditors, eats half his printed ledgers, and arranges a single black pellet on his keys as if filing a receipt. He calls the landlord, who strokes his beard: "They've been here longer than the bank. Give them leaves; they don't do bKash."
Rajiv declares war politely—a smear of chili paste (goats sneeze, then wink), a laminated "No Goats" sign (chewed into a bookmark), and daily pep talks ("You are more than your appetite" met with a burp). The tea-stall uncle finally says, "You can't beat goats. License them."
Next chalk-dawn, Rajiv chalks an exam onto cardboard: *Q1.* _If I hide the jackfruit, you will:_ (a) meditate (b) eat my file anyway. *Q2.* _My slippers are not salad. True or false?_ *Q3.* _Circle one:_ I respect boundaries / I am boundaries. He props it at goat-height.
Morning reveals answers: "b"; a bite-hole where "false" was; and *Q3* circled so hard the chalk snaps. The biggest billy goat even adds a footnote: a crudely drawn jackfruit.
Rajiv pivots. He buys two jackfruits, negotiates office hours on a poster: _Goat Hours 7–9 a.m.; Human Hours after_. He sticks to it. The goats arrive, salute with their beards (he swears), eat, and leave. By week's end, his ledger is intact and his sleep schedule is biblical.
When the area manager visits, Rajiv opens the yard at 9:01. The goats trot out like employees clocking off. Manager raises an eyebrow. Rajiv: "Work-life balance." One goat pauses to chew the manager's tie-bar—quality control, clearly. Performance review next month notes Rajiv's "innovative stakeholder management." He doesn't mention the pellet-based filing system. Some trade secrets stay secret.