The Crow Eaters (15 page)

The family treated him with tact, especially Faredoon. When he said he did not always find it convenient to return from school with Billy, no objections were raised.

He will turn out all right after all, thought Freddy with a surge of relief.

A fortnight after the fateful altercation, Yazdi returned from school barefoot. He had given his shoes to an orphan in his class.

Putli quietly replaced them.

A few days later he returned without his shirt, and the day after climbed up to the flat in only his homemade underpants. He had distributed his apparel among four beggars near the Regal Cinema square.

The family discoverd that Yazdi had given up eating tuck. He spent his pocket money and the money he borrowed from Yasmin and Billy on the unfortunates.

Freddy clutched his forehead and groaned when Putli told him all this.

Jerbanoo had a fit at the thought of her grandson squandering money. Her acquisitive little heart was cruelly pained and suddenly full of sympathy for Faredoon. Her suggestion found favour with both Putli and Freddy.

‘Send him to school in Karachi. The change will do him good and he will have a chance to meet lots of Parsi girls and boys.’

Yazdi became a boarder in a boys’ school in Karachi.

And on the heels of this trouble, Freddy’s stars that had behaved so decently since the fire, once again turned on him.

INDIA is magic: it always was.

The word ‘magic’ comes from Magi and Faredoon was a descendant of the Magi; the wise men of antiquity initiated into the mysteries of medicine, astrology, mysticism and astronomy – disciples of Zarathustra.

Hinted at in the Gathas, Songs of Zarathustra, the knowledge is now lost to the Parsis. Legend says it was withdrawn when unscrupulous elements degraded the knowledge to sorcery.

In India there is still a cornucopia of ancient Aryan wisdom, of esoteric knowledge, of incredible occurrences. A lot of it is superstition and a lot of it is mistaken for superstition.

There is a real throbbing fear of black-magic – and visual evidence of its craft is everywhere. There is Kali, the goddess of death and destruction and disease. And on days when she holds sway, mothers keep babies indoors. They warn their children not to step over broken eggs, little mounds of cooked rice, coloured chalk and entrails of animals, strategically placed on sidewalks by evil adherents of the art. Brain and trotters are not eaten on such days; or liver, or heart — for it is not only the vegetarian Hindus who believe in the black art, but all those who are of India.

There are ghosts and spirits and
dains
, witches disguised as women, who give themselves away by their misshapen feet that point backwards. And when they remove their shawls of an evening, thinking they are alone, embers can be seen
glowing from braziers built into the witches’ sunken heads.

There is the threat of the Evil Eye.

Then there are the mystics: Sufis, Sadhus, Pirs, Babas and Swamis; and the incarnation of saints, those dead ancients whose wisdom and miraculous knowledge set them apart in a bygone age – and their interpreters.

From among these was the Brahmin, Gopal Krishan.

Gopal Krishan was introduced to Freddy by Mr Bottliwalla, who was still shy, and still unmarried. They were in Freddy’s office. Gopal Krishan held them captive by the sincere inflection in his soft, factual voice, and by his fascinating tale:

Two years back, on a visit to Jhelum, the Brahmin had bought a betel-nut
paan
at one of the streetside stalls. The
paan
was wrapped in an old and mouldy pipal leaf. He put the
paan
in his mouth. Just as he was about to throw away the stained, heart-shaped wrapper, he was struck by some lettering on it. The Brahmin was a Sanskrit scholar with a love of ancient languages. Intrigued, he held the faint lettering to the light of the sun and deciphered the script.

At his sister’s house, where he was staying, and with the help of his books, he laboriously made out the text. It read: ‘You, the fifth incarnation of the scholar Rabindranath, will find me. You will unravel a whole treasure house of knowledge. Look after the treasure carefully. Use it for good. Do not exploit it for gold, or fame. These
janam patris
(birth sheets) are fruits of a lifetime of dedication.’

The next morning he again went to the betel-nut stall. The stall-owner gave Gopal Krishan the few leaves remaining with him, and directed him to the rag and paper man who had supplied him.

At the rag-man’s Gopal saw gigantic mounds of these leaves stacked beside dumps of old newspapers, empty bottles and iron scrap. They were marked with the same fine print. He bought the whole lot for ten rupees and had the leaves transported 100 miles to Lahore. Their large backyard, in which his wife washed clothes, stitched and sunned herself in winter, was filled with leaves.

Miraculously, as if unseen hands were directing his picking, the first handful of leaves he picked up for study, revealed the mystery.

Roughly translated the messages read: ‘I, Pandit Omkarnath, reincarnation of the famous mathematician and astrologer Pandit Bhagwandas, have undertaken this task for posterity. Every child born in the land of the five rivers, or man residing in the Punjab, will have his future revealed in the
janam patris
. He will find good counsel and knowledge of herbs to cure ailments. My son Premnath will work out the charts, and I will interpret the future.’

The pipal leaves were three hundred years old! Although mouldy and discoloured, they still retained flexibility, probably the result of some mysterious preservative.

Gopal Krishan continued:

‘Once again, miraculously, my fingers picked out my own
janam patri
and later those of my wife and children. I have since tried to sort out the leaves, as many as I could, but it never ceases to astonish me how easily I can find the
janam patris
of those who visit me for advice. It is as if their presence guides my hand; as if their ordained visit coincides with the leaves I have sorted. Every now and then when I am troubled, I find a sheet to guide me. Each of us has several leaves that turn up as the need arises.’

Freddy studied the modest, nondescript man closely. His sombre black eyes were candid, his smooth-skinned, flat-nosed, round face gentle. The man had no pretensions in his get-up: neither caste-marks on his forehead, nor the naked torso or shaven head of priests and soothsayers. He wore neither the beads nor the bizarre raiment often affected by fortune-tellers. He was dressed like any
baboo
employed in a business concern. He wore a white, European-style shirt and cotton coat over his dhoti and his head was covered by a limp, unassuming turban.

Freddy found himself readily believing the man’s story. For Freddy was of India: and though his religion preached but one God, he had faith in scores of Hindu deities and in
Muslim and Christian saints. His faith taught heaven and hell, but he believed implicitly in reincarnation. How else could one reconcile the misery, injustice, and inequity of life in the scheme of things?

Gopal Krishan needed assistance in sorting out the millions of leaves. He needed space, shelves and money for all this. Quite a bit of his meagre salary was contributed to this end.

Freddy was touched by the man’s selfless obsession, and eager to find his own
janam patri
. Mr Bottliwalla had already found two sheets regarding himself, and had contributed generously to further the research.

‘I will be honoured to look into this,’ promised Freddy and made an appointment to visit Gopal Krishan’s house after two days.

Freddy’s somnolent lids flew open at the sight of the enormous dump of discoloured pipal leaves in the courtyard. How could the Brahmin ever hope to sort them all out?

A rusty tin-sheet roof with bamboo supports covered the yard. ‘This is the best I could do to protect my legacy from the elements,’ explained Gopal Krishan shyly, indicating the roof.

Freddy did not comment.

‘Come, I will take you to the sorting room where we may find your sheet.’

Mr Bottliwalla and Freddy followed Gopal into a long, roughly white-washed room in which every bit of peeling wall space was streaked with wooden planks. The
janam patris
were neatly stacked and tabulated on the makeshift shelves. In the centre of the room was a worn table with four cane-backed chairs.

Gopal noted Freddy’s date and place of birth and began to search among the stacks.

Freddy sat bemused and anxious.

‘He’ll find something, don’t worry,’ said Mr Bottliwalla, adding, ‘He only took five minutes locating mine last time.’

‘How many of your sheets has he found?’ asked Freddy.

‘Only two.’

‘Were they truthful?’

‘Of course! You’ll see for yourself soon enough.’

Gopal Krishan approached them, carefully holding a leaf the size of a man’s palm. ‘I think I’ve got it,’ he said sitting beside Freddy.

Freddy felt exhilarated – as if he was on the threshold of an adventure.

‘It coincides with your date of birth. It says your name begins with “fuh”; that you were born to the south of the Punjab; and you are of the Agni Puja (fire worshipping) sect. It appears to fit in. I will read it out. Only you can confirm if it is yours.’

Gopal Krishan adjusted his black-rimmed half glasses low on his nose, and looking every inch the humble, care-worn accountant he was, began to read and translate from the leaf. Two years of practice had made him quite proficient in the ancient language. Unlike written English, most Indian scripts are in shorthand.

‘The owner of this
janam patri
is a singularly fortunate man,’ he began. ‘You will be endowed with exceptional grace and good looks. Tall and fair-skinned, you will enchant all who are privileged to meet you. You will shine like a star in the thoughts of men. Your community will look upon you as their leader.

‘Your wife is the reincarnation of a Devi. She is a saint. You will be blessed with seven children. Three of them will be boys.’

Gopal looked up at Freddy for confirmation and Freddy nodded. ‘That’s right, seven children.’

‘Your young manhood will be sorely troubled by an older woman, but the trouble will be overcome. From this point onward you will do exceedingly well in business.

‘You have a great attraction to fire; an intuitive understanding of its mysterious nature. You can draw upon its pure strength as few are able to. Its divine energy will always benefit you. Don’t forsake it.’

There was nothing to indicate how startled Freddy was by
this revelation. There was no change in his demeanour as, for a brief moment, his mind dwelt on the fateful blaze that had given him his start in life.

Gopal Krishan looked at Freddy diffidently. ‘You light the holy lamp daily? You offer sandalwood and frankincense to the household fire as your religion prescribes?’

‘Oh yes. We are a religious household.’

‘No doubt this has benefited you. In difficult times this reverence you show will always come to your aid.’

Freddy felt the man was giving a slightly inaccurate interpretation to the message contained in the leaf. He let it go at that, but he knew what the
janam patri
really meant. It was like a delicate and secret communication between him and his
patri.

Gopal turned his attention to the leaf.

‘You will make a lot of money. You will give a lot away – of your money, and of your time. Your name will shine like lettering on the sky long after you are dead.

‘You are fortunate in your children and in your grandchildren. Except for a little trouble in your middle years, your relationship with them will be excellent and beneficial.

‘One of your sons is the favourite of the gods. He will be a bigger man than even you. Good fortune will rest beneath the soles of his feet, endowing him with success at each step.’

Freddy was exultant. He knew the
janam patri
could only mean Soli. His heart filled with joy and pride as the image of his handsome son smiled inside his eyelids. Soli was all any father could wish; considerate, affectionate, quick-witted and intelligent. He was the most blessed of fathers.

Freddy hardly followed as Gopal Krishan continued to read the horoscope. He was too full of gladness and pride in his son’s marvellous future.

Suddenly Gopal Krishan paused:

‘This is not so good,’ he said. Then, clearing his throat and consciously assuming his matter-of-fact tone, he read: ‘Even the most fortunate of beings cannot escape sorrow entirely. You are lucky in that your sorrow will visit you in your middle
years — you will have enjoyed living to the full and gained insight into the transitory ways of life and destiny. You will not allow bitterness to taint your days or sorrow to rob you of your joy of life. The gods take unto themelves those they love most. Consider yourself fortunate even in misfortune.’

‘What does all this mean?’ interrupted Freddy.

‘One of your sons will die …’

‘Oh – who?’ demanded Freddy peremptorily. All his senses were suddenly alert. He was sitting up straight in his chair.

Gopal Krishan read silently for a moment.

When he looked up his dark liquid eyes mirrored his sympathy. ‘Your eldest son will be lifted by the gods before he completes twenty-one years.’

Colour drained from Freddy’s face. He gripped the table with white knuckles. He found it impossible to breathe. The room swayed and went dim.

‘You are mistaken,’ he said, so faintly they could barely hear him. ‘Look again,’ he breathed in a stronger voice.

Soli was to complete his twenty-first birthday on the 22nd of December, just a month and a half away.

Gopal Krishan looked at Freddy in alarm. Mr Bottliwalla, who knew of Freddy’s love for Soli, grew fearful.

‘It must be a mistake,’ he echoed feebly, trying to signal Gopal Krishan to agree with him.

‘No, I don’t think I’m mistaken – but one never can tell – we might find another sheet suggesting preventive measures or a cure for the disease …’

‘Then find it. Look for it now!’ cried Freddy.

‘Forgive me, Junglewalla Seth, I’m afraid I won’t be able to. I’ve never been able to locate two sheets for a person on the same day. The
janam patri
reveals its secrets slowly – only when ordained.’

‘For God’s sake man,’ Freddy exploded. Then he shouted, ‘Rot! What absolute nonsense!’ He stood up.

‘But you have other sons …’ said Gopal Krishan. How was he to know the other sons did not matter? Not when it came to a preference – or even comparison of Soli.

‘Please be rational,’ he begged kindly. He was touched and disconcerted by Freddy’s reaction. ‘Look at it this way. Those who are plucked in youth and innocence are among the fortunates. It is we sinners who have to plod and labour through the whole span of a long life, rebirth after rebirth. This is your son’s reward for his past virtue; for his present goodness. He is closer to blessed ‘Nirvana’ than you and I – eons closer. We must rejoice in his piety and advanced state, and pray that his remaining incarnations be as short. For aren’t we all striving for this? That we may pass quickly through our lives and at last reach perfect accord with the Supreme Source of all life?’

‘You will excuse me,’ said Freddy by way of reply. ‘I am overcome by the message you have just read out. I must go.’

Freddy, followed by his nervously apologetic friend, rushed from the house, not waiting even for Gopal Krishan to show them out.