The Crow Eaters (10 page)

BEFORE dinner they gathered around Faredoon in the sitting room. They knew by the way he reclined in his armchair that he was in a fine mood to talk. The electric fan whirred jerkily above them and displaced the still air enough to allow them to breathe. The open windows were screened by gauze netting to keep out the flies, mosquitoes and gnats. Freddy wore only his pyjamas and his
sudreh
, the collarless, sleeveless, V-necked coarse muslin undergarment. Three strands of the holy thread girdled the
sudreh
at the waist. As he spread himself out on the chair, beneath the fan, Billy marvelled at the smooth, strong expanse of his father’s shoulders and arms. Billy wondered uneasily that Freddy had so little hair on his chest. Only that morning a boy at school had remarked that men with no hair on their chests were heartless. He was glad that at least his father had some. He suddenly realised that Faredoon was already talking. He leaned forward to catch the words.

Faredoon said, ‘I’m going to tell you how I got married.

‘My mother died when I was twelve. My father was around forty-five at the time. My youngest sister was only five days old! I had two other sisters, both younger than I.

‘When I was Soli’s age, about eighteen or nineteen, something happened to my father. He suddenly decided he was too nervous to cycle to work, too nervous to face his bosses and co-workers, too nervous even to venture out of the house after dark. In short, he was too nervous to look after his family! Since I was the eldest, and the only male, the entire responsibility fell squarely on my shoulders. I got a job in the
coconut plantation where my father had worked. In two years I was promoted to overseer.

‘That year the eldest of my sisters got married.

‘We weren’t well off, but we were comfortable. I was twenty, successful in my work, able to support the family – and ready for marriage. The blood sang hot in my veins. It sang one tune only: marriage, marriage, marriage – Oh, God, give me a woman!

‘My sister squabbled with her husband and came to live with us for a few days. I thought, ‘Here is my chance!’ And every morning, for three days, I dropped a fistful of salt into the drinking water.

‘Then I waited.

‘No one approached me. Neither my sister nor my father. Nothing happened.

‘My sister returned to her husband and a month later my father obliquely hinted that my wish to get married was inconsiderate. We were barely able to make ends meet, he said. Thank goodness his daughter had returned to her husband – it was impossible to go on feeding another mouth! And, my unmarried sisters’ dowries – he had to think of that!

‘I saw his point, but I was miserable. My needs were clamouring. Anyhow, I managed as best I could – single-handed.’ Freddy lowered his lids and grinned.

Soli smiled, red-lipped and intimate. Yazdi blushed, Hutoxi’s husband and Jimmy Paymaster (the engine-driver’s son, who often visited with the family) tittered. Billy missed the innuendo. He and his sisters looked at the smiling faces with surprise. When Katy glanced towards him for illumination he put on a superior look and inclined his head to indicate he’d explain later.

‘After two years, when my second sister got married, I tried again. But my family had grown too accustomed to my single state and to my salary. They imitated the three wise monkeys: speak not, see not, and hear not. By this time I was in love with every woman in the village – married, unmarried, old and young. Hidden in a mango grove, near the village well, I
watched them pass by – a procession of
hoories
– pitchers balanced on their heads, on saucily jacked-up hips – it drove me crazy.

‘My eldest sister quarrelled with her husband and once again moved in with her brood. A few days later her husband joined her. I found myself contributing to their upkeep as well.

‘At twenty-two I was no longer able to bear my celibate condition. Ahura Mazda is better pleased with a married man than with an unmarried man – and one evening I brought home a ten pound sack of salt. I hid it in my room. Every morning I poured a fistful of salt into the drinking water. Afternoons, when I came home for lunch, I poured in some more, again in the evenings, and at night again. As soon as they changed the water – I sneaked in a fistful of salt. To hell with the prescribed limit of three days, I thought, and continued pouring, until the family, fed up with drinking brackish water, finally gave in.

‘My eldest sister approached me.

‘“Fredeee, I think I detected a trace of salt in the water this morning!” she said, as coy and insinuating as a kitten.

‘A trace of salt! My word! They had swallowed ten pounds of salt in twenty days! It oozed from their bodies. I could see the chalky moustache on her upper lip where her sweat had dried. Her children ran around with salt glistening on their sickly faces. And she had detected a trace of salt only that morning!

‘“You have?” I asked. “Well, now that you have, what are you going to do about it?”

‘She produced your mother. I approved. I saw her only once before marriage. I didn’t care whom I married – as long as the girl was young, decent and reasonably good-looking – but your mother was beautiful: one of the bewitching pitcher-bearers, veiled in maidenly modesty. I was overripe for love and I fell passionately in love.’

Freddy’s lilting voice was as rich and mellow as honey.

Putli passed through the room to the rear of the house and
Freddy paused, following her transit with veiled eyes. She was still whip-slender and straight, but there was a gaunt, middle-aged angularity about her elbows, shoulders and hips. Her small, high cheekboned, triangular face was palely etched with lines. Her hair was still jet black.

Putli went through a side door and Faredoon said: ‘Your mother looks stern, doesn’t she? But that’s just an impression. She has no guile in her, no gossip, no evil. She is honest and straight. So soft-hearted – she wears that expression to safeguard herself. I appreciate this in her – her goodness. I love her even more now than I did then. She is my one and only love. The image of her beauty is painted on my soul – But I can’t tell her that. She will snap at me and tell me not to babble like a foolish child.

‘Coming back to the story: That is when I realised that you have to respect your own needs! You can’t go wrong! My family had been using me and I had buried my needs. But God has fashioned man as a creature of desires and fulfilling desires brings contentment; the driving force, the essence, of life. Such a man follows the divine Path of
Asha
. But a discontented man creates chaos! Thus spake Zarathustra!’ sighed Faredoon, content at the scholarly effect he created by quoting the title of Nietzsche’s book. Had he read the book, he would have crusaded to establish that its philosophical outpourings were not Zarathustra’s!

‘I was unhappy until I asserted myself; and we were happier all round for it in the end. I stayed with them for a year, till Hutoxi was born. I stopped giving them money. My sister’s husband regained his self-respect when he started looking after his own family. My sister was happier. Then I embarked for Lahore.

‘That is how I got married,’ said Faredoon.

AFTER supper, Faredoon and Soli went out for a stroll.

The air was slightly cooler, carrying in it a promise of rain. The sky was like black felt, dotted with pin-pricks of tarnished silver.

‘Did you like the story?’ asked Freddy.

‘Yes,’ said Soli.

‘Well?’ said Freddy, pausing beneath a gas-light. His son was as tall as he and he looked him in the eye. The road was deserted.

Soli felt embarrassed. His father looked as if he expected him to hurrah and clap him on his back. He averted his bewildered eyes and said nothing.

Putli was right. The boy was shy. ‘Well?’ Faredoon encouraged again.

Well, what? thought Soli, suspecting they were at cross purposes. ‘It was an excellent story,’ he said lamely.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Faredoon began to walk. He decided on another approach.

‘I’ve seen you eyeing the girls … The Toddywalla girl is pretty, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, she’s O.K. The Cooper girls are very pretty too. Have you noticed Shireen Bottliwalla? She isn’t much to look at but she has a lovely voice. She sings beautifully,’ added Soli helpfully, hoping to keep the conversation rolling until his father decided to come to the point.

‘But which one do you like best?’

‘I like all of them,’ sighed Soli, with impartial ardour.

‘But you can’t marry all of them!’

So, thought Soli, we have come to the point!

‘I don’t think I can make up my mind just yet,’ he said.

‘Then who has been putting water in the salt … I mean, salt in the water?’ said Freddy.

Oh, so that was it! His father’s peculiar behaviour the last few days began to make sense.

‘Not me,’ he laughed. ‘I didn’t even know there was salt in the water.’

‘It isn’t Yasmin either … I wonder who it could be? Unless it’s your grandmother!’ exclaimed Freddy, chortling gleefully at the mischievous afterthought.

Soli’s mouth curled in a wide, warm smile. His eyes twinkled and he laughed – a young bellyful of mirth. ‘That’s a good one. But don’t let grandmother hear you.’

It was too good to pass up.

Jerbanoo, Putli and Freddy sat across the breakfast table.

Freddy had called a family conference and the two women looked at him with excited and expectant faces.

Putli had already confided in Jerbanoo. The salt in the water was of too momentous a significance to be passed over lightly. Jerbanoo would have been mortally offended to discover she had not been told.

Faredoon cleared his throat.

Their suspense rose to an ungovernable pitch.

‘You know someone put salt in the water?’

Jerbanoo nodded her head solemnly. ‘Putli told me.’

Freddy turned to Putli. ‘And you are sure it wasn’t Yasmin?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, it’s not Soli either!’

‘Oh!’ the women cried simultaneously.

Freddy ran his hand over the tablecloth, thoughtfully brushing some bread crumbs. ‘I can think of only one other person …’

Putli and Jerbanoo looked at him encouragingly.

Faredoon raised his eyes on a direct level with Jerbanoo’s.
‘I’m not going to beat about the bush. We are all adults here … no one is going to feel shy or coy. Did you put salt in the water?’

Jerbanoo gurgled, choked and glared at Faredoon with disbelieving eyes.

Putli turned and stared at her mother in astonishment. Jerbanoo’s jowls were quivering as if an electric current was passing through them.

‘Well?’ persisted Freddy.

‘How dare you! At my age! You are shameless! Absolutely shameless!’ she spluttered.

‘I’ve asked you a plain, simple question. Did you or did you not put salt in the water? All I want is a plain and simple answer.’

‘No! No! No!’ screeched Jerbanoo.

‘Oh, Faredoon! How could you!’ protested Putli.

‘Look! You asked me to find out, didn’t you? It’s not Soli, it’s not Yasmin – so why not your mother? Maybe she is still over-fond of the Irishman who rescued her from the fire. How was I to know?’

‘Behave yourself!’ said Putli.

‘What do you mean “behave yourself”? What else do you think I’m doing. I ask a reasonable question, expecting a simple “yes” or “no” – and here you two go screaming like fish-wives and losing your heads. So, it’s not your mother. That’s all I wanted to know!’

‘You’d better get to work. It’s almost half-past eight.’ Putli pushed back her chair. Jerbanoo stood up.

‘All right! If that’s the way you feel about it, I wash my hands of the whole affair. You can find out for yourselves,’ called Freddy after the two haughtily receding backs.

Faredoon skipped down the steps, a huge boyish grin wreathing his noble features.

EVERY day a steady stream of visitors poured into the store to see Faredoon. He had converted one of the store-rooms into a private office. When he was not attending to customers personally (he did this very seldom now) he sat here busy with matters relating to his Peshawar, Amritsar and Delhi stores. He was constantly interrupted by the visitors.

This morning a thick-set Sikh police officer was waiting to see Freddy. His hair, as long as a woman’s, was tucked away beneath the neat folds of his khaki turban. His black beard was parted in the centre and made to fan out fiercely on either side of his swarthy face. The Sikh sprang to his feet and salaamed as Freddy entered the room.

‘How are you, my dear friend?’ cried Freddy, clasping the policeman’s hands in both his and touching them to his forehead. The man smelled faintly of the yoghurt with which he washed his hair and beard. ‘Get some tea for Sunder Singh sahib,’ Freddy told the clerk who was sitting at his small table in one corner of the room.

Harilal, old, diminutive and wiry, removed his small reading glasses and tucked them into the top pocket of his coat. He left the room with the hospitable air of a housewife accustomed to entertaining.

The police officer sat down, sheepishly adjusting the bandolier across his khaki shirt. Freddy knew the symptoms. He wondered what the man wanted.

After a few preliminaries, resting his elbows on the desk and sipping tea from the saucer, the policeman aired his request.

‘Sir, there is a slight matter – I wonder if I could trouble you with it?’

Freddy looked at him kindly. ‘Yes?’

‘I want my son admitted at the St Anthony’s School. You know how it is – those Padres have no time for a poor constable.’

‘By all means. It will be done! The Fathers are good friends of mine … I send them a hamper every Christmas. Anything else?’

‘I will be very grateful, sir. I want my son to be educated at an English school.’

Harilal came into the room. ‘Mr Paymaster’s son is here to see you, Sahib.’

‘Tell the rascal to wait,’ said Freddy.

The Sikh stood up, sending a whiff of yoghurt across the desk. ‘I will not delay you.’

Freddy walked round the table and put his arm around the policeman’s shoulder. As they moved towards the door he drawled, ‘There is a young pup waiting outside to see me. I’d clean forgotten about him … He’s a decent boy really – but you know this young blood. He’s in a spot of trouble. Two or three nights back he was caught in a brothel raid. The fool knocked down one of the sepoys. He is my kinsman and they expect me to do something for him. Think you can handle it?’

‘Why not? Ask him to see me at the
thana
tomorrow morning.’

‘Thank you, your honour. I will. But don’t make it look too easy – otherwise young Mr Paymaster will not learn his lesson.’

Freddy walked through the store to see the Sikh out. Harilal followed behind with a brown paper parcel.

As the policeman knelt to undo the lock on his bicycle, Freddy tucked the parcel into the carrier stand.

‘Must you take this trouble? You never allow me to go empty handed.’

‘No trouble at all. Just something for the children,’ smiled Freddy.

After Jimmy Paymaster also left, Freddy settled down to write out an order to a firm in England for a consignment of paste jewellery for his store in Peshawar.

Half way through the letter, Mr Charles P. Allen walked in with ah affable ‘Hello, old chap,’ and a seductive flash of raw pink thigh.

‘My lord! My lord! My lord!’ cried Freddy, surging to his feet and dancing forward. He was genuinely pleased to see the huge bear of a man with his mild, clean-shaven, purple face. Mr Allen was rigged out in the costume he had worn for the past fifteen summers with unvarying constancy: a grey open-necked short-sleeved shirt, loose white duck shorts held up by elastic braces, and though the temperatures ranged round 115 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade, a pair of thick grey stockings of pure wool. The stockings were turned to make a thick-ribbed border at the knees. Between the stockings and the shorts was the tantalising bit of vein-mottled, hair-fuzzed leg.

Embarrassed by the lavish battery of titles, the ‘My lords’ ‘Your honours’ and ‘your excellencies,’ bestowed upon him by Freddy, he had protested and then given in to his friend’s incorrigible persistence, realising it signified little more than a desire to please. He never grew accustomed to the authority and deference unexpectedly bestowed upon him by his career as a British Civil Servant in India.

Mr Allen removed his sola-topee, revealing a close-cropped, sweat-matted sphere of sandy hair, and sat down in the chair held out by Freddy. Freddy drew his own chair closer to the Englishman’s, asking, ‘What brings your worship to Lahore to give me this glorious surprise?’

‘I’m on my way to see the Memsahib off. She’s already in Karachi. The ship sails on Tuesday. Thought I’d stop in Lahore for a day and say hello to you. Got to catch the train tomorrow, early morning.’

‘You visit Lahore after all these years for only one day? I will not allow it! I will tell the Chairman Railways to delay your train until nightfall. He is my friend.’

‘And he’ll do it too if I know you,’ grinned the Englishman, his little blue eyes twinkling like gems. ‘But I’ve got to be off in the morning. Otherwise the Memsahib will come after me with a broom.’

‘All right then. We will have a party … a big party to celebrate your visit tonight,’ declared Freddy. ‘You occupy a special corner of affection in my heart.’ The corner had been occupied since the time Freddy had ministered to his friend’s impotency with his own particular brand of doctoring and been rewarded with a franchise for trade with Afghanistan.

Freddy beckoned Harilal, who had been hovering around with a beaming, obsequious face. ‘Go, see if you can find Alla Ditta. He’s bound to be at the biri shop or in the bazaar. Bring him here.’

Harilal darted out obligingly.

‘Where are you stationed?’ asked Freddy.

‘Bihar. Deputy Commissioner. Bloody boring place.’

‘And how is my Prince?’

‘Peter? He’s in England. Quite a
Pukka Sahib
now.’

‘And my little golden-haired Princess?’

‘She’ll be sailing with her mother too. You wouldn’t know Barbara if you saw her now. She’s thirteen – such a tomboy – forever teasing the old Hindu gardener … keeps trying to pull his loin-cloth off. You should see the poor fellow – holds on to his little bit of cloth as if it were a chastity belt or something. The Memsahib thinks the school in England will improve her manners.’

Harilal unleashed Alla Ditta into the room. The pimp-cum-cart-driver salaamed, giving off an odour of sweat, grease and garlic. He was of middle height with a massive chest and enormous solid stomach that protruded through his shirt like a bomb. Despite the grimy
lungi
wrapped round his legs, his gross flesh conveyed an air of obscene nudity. His close-cropped head was criss-crossed with white brawling scars. He stood proud and straight-backed before them as before equals.

‘Well, you old rascal,’ said Freddy affectionately. ‘Haven’t
seen you for a long time. Where are you hiding all the pretty girls?’

‘At your service, hazoor,’ said the pimp.

‘My dear friend Allen sahib is here for only one night. I want you to arrange a good party for him at the Hira Mandi. It has to be a memorable evening. Pretty girls, mind you. I will bring the Scotch – and they should be good dancers and singers … Not like the one you produced last time – she sounded like the creaking of your horse-cart.’

‘I’ll get the best,’ promised Alla Ditta with an assurance that recalled Freddy to the time when he had first hired him for the nocturnal trips to the warehouse just before the fire. Right away he had been taken by the youth’s air of self-assurance and had found him useful and reliable over the years. They fixed on the time. Alla Ditta salaamed and swaggered from the room.

Mr Allen and Freddy remained chatting for an hour. When Mr Allen got up, flashing his enticing bit of muscular thigh, Freddy escorted him to his hired tonga. Mr Allen directed the tongawalla to take him to the Nedous Hotel.