The Crow Eaters (14 page)

Both girls let go of him at once, searching the floor with their eyes, while Billy scooted from the room and up the stairs to the terrace.

The girls quickly recovered the two two-piece bits and Katy, who wanted to buy ice-candy, rushed down to the hawker.

Yasmin, deceived by the click of the money on the floor, was left alone to ponder the deception. She had been sure it was the ring he had flung. She almost wept at the realisation that her treacherous brother had escaped with it to the terrace.

Taking the steps two at a time, she climbed up after him.

Billy was crouching cautiously, three paces from the door, when Yasmin emerged. She shut the door and drew the bolt from the outside.

‘O.K., I’ve got you cornered now, you little squirt. I’m going to teach you such a lesson … such a lesson …’

Yasmin lunged forward. Billy, dodging her charge, just managed to slip her reach. He skipped to and fro on the brick terrace hopping to her and back like a wilful monkey; his sister, patiently, ponderously and inexorably crowding him into a corner.

Yasmin, arms outstretched, legs straddled beneath her cotton nightie, moved forward menacing and confident.

Just as she thought she had him, Billy leapt to one side. In a single movement he scaled the three-foot parapet wall and dropped six feet on to their neighbour’s mud-thatched roof. He knew she wouldn’t dare the plunge.

Yasmin glared over the parapet. Billy danced beneath her, criss-crossing his nimble legs and waving his arms. His ears stuck out like a gargoyle’s, and beneath his large nose the elfin split of his mouth curved ebulliently.

Yasmin’s face was purple with chagrin. ‘You’d better hand over the ring if you know what’s good for you!’

‘Your fault. You shouldn’t be so careless with jewellery. Do you know how much it cost? I showed it at Barkat Ram’s and they offered five hundred rupees … and I can tell you, Papa did not pluck the money off a tree. Fat lot you care for your father!’

Yasmin, frustrated and enraged beyond measure, swung her legs over the parapet wall. She contemplated risking the six-foot jump, and decided against it. Even if by some miracle she survived the drop, Billy would escape to the next roof and then the next.

‘You mean, ugly, toad-sized grasshopper, if you don’t give me the ring at once, I’ll tell father!’

Billy’s face sobered. He knew she meant it. His brown skin took on a dangerous, dusky hue. This was no longer sport. His father never struck any of them, and for this very reason his censure was unbearable and humiliating to the children. There was a tacit agreement between them not to complain to their father. Billy felt the provocation in this case was trifling.
After all, Yasmin must know she would get the ring back eventually.

‘I’m going to father,’ she repeated, and as she drew back from the parapet, Billy suddenly raised his fist in the air and shouted, ‘I’m going to throw it away!’

He swung his arm back, and Yasmin screamed.

‘If you go to father, I swear I’ll throw it away!’ he shouted again.

‘Then give me the ring. Please, Billy, please,’ pleaded Yasmin, shaken by his sudden fury.

Billy brought his hand down slowly, ‘Say you’re sorry first.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Say, “I’m careless, careless, careless, and I’ll never do it again, so long as I live”.’

‘I said I’m sorry.’

‘That’s not good enough. Say, “Sorry Billy, I’m so careless. I’ll try and improve my bad habits”.’

‘You monstrous little rat! Give me that ring before I kill you!’

‘All right, if that’s the way you feel, I’ll throw it into the street.’

‘All right, all right, I’ll say it! I’m careless, I’m careless, I’m sorry!’

‘And I’ll try and improve my bad habits.’

‘And I’ll try and improve my bad habits.’

‘Not like that! You are too proud to admit your fault! What will Papa say when he finds out you are so proud? It’s no use. You’ll never learn unless I throw the ring away.’

Yasmin suddenly burst into tears – and Billy couldn’t stand to see anyone cry. He felt trapped and choked and unaccountably sorry for his sister – and these baffling emotions charged him with the helpless fear of a wild thing at bay.

‘Say what I told you … say what I told you to say, as if you mean it!’ he screamed, strident as a girl.

Yasmin knew when he reached this point he was not answerable for himself. Seeing her tears reflected in the agony of her brother’s face, she was overcome by a wave of
sisterly compassion. Docilely, timidly, she mouthed the words he demanded of her – and held out her hand.

At once Billy was calm. ‘You promise you won’t take revenge?’

Yasmin nodded.

Billy gave a puckish grin that stretched from ear to ear.

‘Good girl,’ he condescended, and careful to maintain a safe distance from her legs – Yasmin was not above a parting kick – he tossed the ring gently over the parapet wall to her.

WHEN Faredoon Junglewalla, pioneer and adventurer, trotted into Lahore in his bullock-cart at the turn of the century, there were only thirty Parsis in the city of over a million Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs and Christians. Twenty years later the number of Parsis in Lahore had swelled to almost three hundred. Poor families had drifted in from Bombay and the area thereabouts to settle in the rich North Indian province, gratefully partaking of the bounty that was Lahore. And of course, original sons of the soil, of whom Freddy justifiably considered himself a member, had enormously proliferated.

Freddy was the undisputed head of this community. He was also spokesman and leader of the Parsis scattered over the rest of the Punjab and the North West Frontier Province right up to the Khyber Pass. Freddy’s willingness and ability to help, to give of his time, to intervene and intercede, were proverbial; his influence with men who wielded power was legendary. They said of him, ‘Oh, he has the police in his pocket.’ They boasted, ‘He has the English Sahibs tamed so that they eat out of his hand.’ And this was no mean accomplishment, for the aloof, disparaging and arrogant British rarely became pally with the ‘natives’.

Faredoon Junglewalla, toady, philanthropist and shrewd businessman, was renowned for his loyalty to his community and friends. People came from afar seeking his help in bagging prime jobs, securing licences, contracts, permits and favours. They travelled two thousand miles from Bombay, expecting Faredoon to extricate them from ‘tight spots’. As
did Mr Adi Sodawalla, whose brother, Mr Polly Sodawalla, was languishing in a London jail.

Mr Adi Sodawalla, pale, timorous and pleading, sat across the desk from Faredoon presenting his case.

‘Tell me everything … every detail,’ insisted Faredoon.

Mr Adi Sodawalla related the facts honestly and humbly. He glanced every now and then at the heavy-lidded eyes that missed nothing, and drew courage from the benign and understanding expression on Freddy’s handsome face.

Mr Polly Sodawalla, the subject of his brother’s narrative, had voyaged to England with a suitcase full of illegal opium which he had airily sent away to be deposited in the ship’s hold with the rest of his luggage. On disembarking he was too worn out by landing formalities to clear and take along his possessions. Carrying only the suitcase he had had in his cabin, he went to refresh himself at a hotel in Earl’s Court. When he sauntered up to claim his luggage the next day, he discovered that one bag, dumped unceremoniously from place to place with the rest of his luggage, had split open, spilling its secret.

The reception committee of customs officers and policemen, patiently awaiting his return, welcomed him with flattering interest and marched him off to jail.

Interpol moved in. Mr Polly Sodawalla could look forward to a long sojourn in His Imperial Majesty’s prisons.

His brother, while relating the story to Freddy, had emphasised the freezing temperatures in dank English cells.

At the end of his tale he anxiously watched Freddy sit back in his swivel chair, fold his hands on his chest and tilt back his head to gaze at the ceiling. He could see that Faredoon was angry.

‘Cunt! The lazy, stupid cunt!’ exploded Freddy slowly. His voice was bitter. ‘Do you know how much money your brother would have made if he had succeeded? At least fifty thousand rupees! Even a toothless baby would have known to clear the luggage first. But no. His Imperial Majesty was too tired … he had to go to a hotel to wash behind his ears first
… he had to curl up on a sofa like a carefree lamb, and fall asleep. He deserves to be in jail!’

‘You’re right, sir. I will break his teeth,’ quavered Mr Sodawalla, holding aloft a puny fist for Freddy’s edification.

‘Now, had he been caught by a vigilant customs officer,’ Freddy continued, ‘had he been informed upon, he would have my sympathy. I can find it in my heart to help a misguided soul – but I cannot forgive a fool!’

‘But he is my brother! I beg you, I implore you for our mother’s sake to help him. She has not stopped crying since she heard the news. “Oh, my son will freeze into a block of ice, oh, he will die of pneumonia,” she wails, non-stop. My heart breaks to hear her. You shall have the entire family’s undying gratitude – only you can save him.’

Freddy pursed his lips. ‘Something will have to be done,’ he agreed. ‘Not for that indolent bastard’s sake, but for the good name of our community. We can’t let it get around that a Parsi is in jail for smuggling opium!

Mr Sodawalla sniffed, wiped his eyes with a huge white handkerchief, and raised grateful, supplicating eyes to his brother’s anticipated saviour.

The Sodawallas were not well off. Faredoon financed the entire rescue of the unfortunate smuggler from his personal funds. An emissary was despatched to London with special documents. Influential connections were entreated and coerced. Faredoon worked incessantly, and at the end of two months Mr Polly Sodawalla sailed from London, a free man.

But if Faredoon did not take a penny from the Sodawallas, he had no scruples about relieving Mr Katrak, a diamond merchant from Karachi, of fifty thousand rupees.

Mr Katrak, a saturnine man with a venerable beard, sat before Freddy, his trembling hands on a gold-handled walking stick. His son, Bobby, sat beside him with lowered head. He was a thick-set youth of about twenty-four, his arrogant air momentarily deflated. Freddy approved of his open-faced,
neatly groomed handsomeness, thinking he would make a good match for Yasmin.

Bobby Katrak owned a gleaming Silver Ghost Rolls-Royce. It had stately dashboards, two horns, elaborately curled, rising on either side of the tinted windscreen like silver cobras, and sundry silver fittings. He was given to dashing about at reckless speeds and had rammed the Rolls into an old blind beggar on a busy thoroughfare. Bobby had panicked and roared away at thirty-five miles an hour. Five men had noted his number. Even without it, his was in 1920 the only Silver Ghost in Karachi.

The old beggar died next day in hospital.

‘I have told him again and again not to drive so fast,’ mourned Mr Katrak. ‘How many times have I told you not to go over fifteen? But no! He wants to “dhoorr-dhoorr” around at thirty-five and even forty miles an hour! Now look what you’ve got yourself into. I feel so ashamed having to give you all this trouble, Faredoon.’

Freddy wagged his head and clicked his tongue kindly at Mr Katrak’s son.

‘Bobby, you must do as your father says – after all it is his privilege to guide you. Now, I don’t think it is only your speed that is to blame. The first rule one must observe is to respect the law. You can never run from it … though you may get around it! You should have stopped and seized one or two witnesses. There must have been people who saw you were not to blame – with the aid of a little money perhaps? Then you could have reported the matter to the police. But you did not do this and you have complicated things for yourself.’

Faredoon turned to Mr Katrak. ‘I talked to my friend; you know whom I mean. I pleaded with him that the boy is like my own son. He says he will try and get him off the hook. I convinced him it was not Bobby’s fault, but since he did not report the accident the charges are grave … Anyway, my friend promises to help. He might go to Karachi himself to arrange for a couple of witnesses – make a pre-dated report at some police thana or other … but,’ and here Freddy’s in
flection rose to a thinly pitched, incredulous whisper, ‘the bastard wants fifty thousand rupees!’

Mr Katrak turned pale. He looked at his son whose head was hanging as low as it ought. He looked at Freddy again, and wrote out the cheque.

Freddy gave Mr Gibbons, who was now Inspector-General of Police, the ten thousand rupees they had agreed upon, and stowed away the remaining forty in his special kitty. This was the kitty he dipped into to help others – and occasionally himself.

And when his old friend Mr Toddywalla dropped into the office with his perennial tales of woe concerning Jal, his fifth son, who was once again in some kind of a scrape, he was surprised and hurt that Freddy instead of sympathising and offering to scold the boy as usual, patted Mr Toddywalla’s hand kindly and said: ‘You don’t know how lucky you are in the boy. As the English say, you have a “black goat” in the family. I too have a “black goat” – my Yazdi! He keeps giving me no end of trouble.’ Freddy sighed, thinking of the ridiculous scrap of notebook paper in his pocket. ‘And I thank my stars he will keep on being a “black goat”. I can count on him as you can count on your Jal.’

Mr Toddywalla gaped in disbelief.

Freddy gazed soulfully at his bewildered friend. ‘In a few years all our children will be married. They will look after our business interests … and we will have no cares. Tell me, what is a man without worry? Without challenge? He is but a useless, retired parasite waiting to die! But your Jal and my Yazdi, they will save us. They will always create some problem or the other, keeping our blood hot with anger and pulsating with excitement. They will keep us alive!’

In his agitation Mr Toddywalla sniffed so hard on a pinch of snuff, he sneezed steadily for a full minute. He believed his friend had finally gone round the bend.

After Mr Toddywalla’s departure, Freddy took the envelope from his pocket and spread the crumpled scrap of paper on his desk. Once again he read the neat, slanting handwriting:

To the beauty of her eyes:

The eyes in your eye touch me deep down somewhere.

They require me most casually
To inquire into desire
While the world holds us apart …

They demand me
Through the indolent glint of half-closed fire
To sink deeper in the stupor of unfulfilled love.

They urge me to
Give from a depth in myself …
What am I to do?

Freddy could feel an angry vein throb in his forehead. He was furious and horrified that a son of his should write such emasculated gibberish. As for poetry, ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ he could tolerate, but this …

In a cold rage he scribbled beneath the last line of the poem: ‘If you must think and act like a eunuch, why don’t you wear your sister’s bangles? And don’t tear pages from your notebook!’

He tucked the notepaper into a fresh envelope and addressed it to Yazdi.

The strife between them was now intensified. Freddy was tight-lipped and stern — Yazdi sullen and uncommunicative. Neither of them spoke during meals and the evening session of discourse stagnated. Freddy tended to be overly moral and angry.

A week later he received another poem in his business mail. On a scrap of paper was written:

What makes me seek

And want to know

Your nearness?

Why does the uncertain void in me

Wish to perceive

Your form?

Who are you?

Remove the veil.

An undecided deep am I

And thirst is a fever.

Thankless of the blessings of Ahura am I

For I seek the impossible …

How can I fight the maniac force of society?

Of my father?

That evening when Freddy went upstairs he found Yazdi alone in the dining room. Just as Yazdi turned his sullen, narrow back on him to skulk out of the room, Freddy called to him and handed him the creased envelope.

‘I’ve corrected the gibberish. You seem to have wasted your entire education drooling over girls. Not one sentence is complete or correct!’

‘You don’t know English, father – let alone poetry,’ sneered Yazdi.

Freddy flushed. He prided himself on his English, and the contempt of his son wounded him more than he could have thought possible.

‘And Rosy Watson?’ he asked, ‘What kind of English does the whore speak?’

Yazdi glowered at his father. ‘How dare you slander a girl you haven’t even met!’

‘Met? I have not only met her, I have fucked her. She is a common little alley cat. It might interest you to know, Mr Allen thought her breasts are like fried eggs.’

Yazdi blanched. ‘You haven’t met her … you are lying, father, lying!’

‘Why don’t you find out from Alla Ditta? Ask him … he
might be able to arrange a rendezvous for you at the Hira Mandi as well!’

Freddy had been so carried away by his emotions that he hadn’t noticed the effect of his words on Yazdi. Now he was frightened to see Yazdi cringe as under a blow. The boy turned pale, and Freddy thought he would faint. He reached out a hand but Yazdi flinched like a lizard scraping against the wall.

‘You liar! You liar!’ he snarled and fled to his room.

He failed to come to dinner, and later they discovered he had slunk out of the house after dark and had returned only late at night.

Yazdi stayed closeted in his room for three days. He refused to answer to knocks and entreaties. He would not eat and accepted only a jug of water from his mother. Putli was distraught.

On the second day, Jerbanoo rocked the flat to its foundations by storming for one solid hour: God knows what her son-in-law had told the boy? He was so tender, so green, so sensitive; and didn’t she know how brutal her son-in-law could be! How unfeeling; how selfish! Her grandson would sicken; he would die. Even now he was nothing but skin and bones and eyes. What kind of father was Freddy? Ask her! She wasn’t afraid to speak out! He was the most unnatural of fathers! The most unnatural of sons-in-law! The most unnatural of husbands! He was a fiend! Oh, what had happened … what could have happened between those two? Jerbanoo went on and on until she wound down and subsided in a small monsoon of tears.

The residue of all this passion was curiosity. Jerbanoo had tried her best to coerce Putli into telling her what had happened. But Putli even did not know. She guessed it had to do with the girl, and curiosity ate Jerbanoo’s very soul.

At last Billy, who always appeared to know everything, sidled up to her and hissed in her ear, ‘Yazdi mailed father two poetries about his Anglo-Indian girl friend!’

At the end of three days Yazdi unlocked his door and calmly joined his family at the dinner table. But he was changed.

The family did not realise this at once. Yazdi, always inclined to be gentle, now appeared to glow with tenderness. He was inordinately considerate and kind. He spent hours kneading Jerbanoo’s back, and treated the servants with an unassuming humanity that was quite unnatural in those times. But the timidity, the wince that always had been close to the surface of his narrow frame, was replaced by a sheath of fine steel. He seemed entirely fearless — entirely self-contained.