The Crow Eaters (16 page)

Freddy climbed into his tonga and galloped all the way to his store. Mr Bottliwalla watched their swift passage through the crowded streets with a hand on his heart and a prayer on his lips.

By the time Freddy reached home his mind, unable to accept even the possibility of the prophesied tragedy, had erased all the beliefs imprinted on it through the years. At a snap as it were, his brain had embraced reason and discarded a lifetime of faith, superstition, and supernatural conviction.

When he climbed up to the flat Freddy had regained his control. He led Mr Bottliwalla into the vacant sitting room and there engaged him in an eager, scathing, and logical attack on superstition, astrology, reincarnation and all that rubbish. He decided not to mention anything about the
janam patri
to Putli. She was inclined to be superstitious and might take the nonsense to heart, he explained to Mr Bottliwalla. And when Mr McReady, the affable, bearded Scotsman from the Planning Commission, dropped in for a drink, he was surprised by Freddy’s vehement tirade against the so-called saints, soothsayers and mystics of India.

Soli was out to dinner but he and a college friend joined Freddy in the sitting room after dinner.

Freddy raised himself to sit up in his armchair as Soli entered. He looked young and strong. Nothing could stem the force of his will to live, his irrepressible vitality. The man with his ridiculous
janam patris
was a charlatan and a joker!

Jerbanoo came into the room and started scolding Soli for not telling them he would be out to dinner. Soli gave her a bear-hug, raising his grandmother’s unwieldy bulk a foot off the floor. Jerbanoo gave a delighted squeal and the family broke up with mirth, Freddy laughing loudest.

But the next day, and the next, worry gnawed at him. All of a sudden an unreasoning fear would well up like a gaseous smog and clutch his heart. Then again he would see Soli, see the vigour in his handsome limbs, the joyous flash in his eyes and his warm smile, and know there was no truth in the prophesy.

But it is not easy to shed a lifetime of instinctive faith in irrational beliefs. Had not Christ risen from the dead? Weren’t there miracles? Something would miraculously change the course of the stars and thwart destiny. There could be a mistake in the
janam patri
. He tried to recall the particulars of a story in which a Moghul emperor had taken his son’s death upon himself by praying. He would pray. There was black magic … the dark moments in Soli’s stars could be transferred to some other member of the family …

And all at once Freddy put a stop to this trend of thought. It harboured the insidious ingredients of faith – his deadliest enemy since that stricken moment when he had believed the Brahmin.

KATY rushed up and shouted gleefully from the landing:

‘Mummy, Soli’s had a nasty fall! He tried to stand up on his bicycle. Serves him right for trying to show off!’

Putli, assiduously scrubbing a tomato in the kitchen, ignored her, but Freddy shot up from his chair in the dining room and hurtled headlong down the stairs to collide with Soli. Soli was on his way up to wash his bruises.

‘You fell down!’ he accused, breathless with anxiety and winded by the impact.

‘Oh, it was nothing. Only a few scratches,’ said Soli, surprised.

Freddy went limp with relief.

‘You should know better than try tricks on a bicycle at your age,’ he scolded, turning to remount the steps and finish his tea.

The next day when Soli complained of a headache at dinner, Freddy’s spoon clattered to the floor. He jerked his head up to look at his son.

‘You look flushed. Get into bed at once!’ he ordered.

‘I’m just going in for a cold – it’s nothing,’ protested Soli.

‘I said, get into bed! Your mother will get you some hot soup.’

As Soli stood up, Freddy added, ‘Putli, you’d better take his temperature.’

‘You might have let him finish his dinner,’ remonstrated Putli, astonished at her husband’s behaviour. He was as white as the tablecloth. Still, she followed Soli out of the room.

‘My word! What a hue and cry over nothing!’ gargled Jerbanoo through a mouthful of curry-rice – and wisely eschewed further comment.

When Putli called, ‘His temperature is only 99 degrees,’ Freddy glared at Jerbanoo. ‘See? I could tell he had fever! I am getting a doctor!’

Freddy flung his napkin besides his half-eaten plate of fish curry and went to wash his hands.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Putli rushing after him. ‘It’s only a cold. I’ll give him some honey and brandy, and you see if he is not as fit as a horse tomorrow! If he is not well by tomorrow you can get a doctor. All right?’

Freddy agreed reluctantly.

He did not sleep that night. Next morning when he discovered Soli had no fever, he was inordinately joyous. Soli wished to go to college but Freddy ordered him to spend the day in bed and nurse his cold.

In his office Freddy decided he had to put a stop to his nervousness. He realised it was foolish to go to pieces like that. It came of listening to phoneys and quacks.

The office mail that morning contained two personal letters from Karachi. Freddy slit open an envelope. A delighted smile crossed his face. The letter was from Mr Katrak, formally proposing marriage between Yasmin and his son, Bobby.

‘Putli will be pleased,’ thought Freddy, making up his mind to give her the good news after dinner.

Freddy had hinted at the desirability of such a match to Mr Katrak when Mr Katrak was in Lahore. Mr Katrak had not capitulated at once and Freddy, despite the fifty thousand rupees he had taken off him, had had such pressures put on Bobby’s case that Mr Katrak was constantly in need of Freddy’s assistance and intervention. All this was done most subtly of course – and Mr Katrak was not sure if Freddy had a hand in it.

Freddy had hinted again.

Mr Katrak, grossly indebted to Freddy, and uneasy about
the cause of the prolongation and complications of the case, decided to try out the marriage angle.

And why not. The girl was quite pretty, well brought up and docile. Besides, Bobby had appeared to like her at the dinner Faredoon had hosted in Lahore.

That his stratagem had worked so well infused Freddy with a sense of achievement.

‘Ah, but you don’t know the part I played in all this romancing,’ he crowed that night when Putli smiled up from reading the letter. ‘I am like that charming, baby-god Cupid; I shot my arrows straight through their hearts.’

‘How is that?’ inquired Putli.

‘I had to shoot one into old man Katrak’s first,’ was Freddy’s enigmatic reply. He turned his back upon his staring spouse and disappeared into the bathroom.

The other letter was from Yazdi’s guardian in Karachi. Yazdi appeared to have settled down at last. He was doing well at school and his behaviour was very nearly normal.

It was a happy week for Freddy. The stars were giving him a respite.

Exactly a week from that day Freddy was plunged into the throes of a nightmare.

At noon Freddy climbed up to collect some papers from the safe in his bedroom. The door to Soli’s room was ajar and as he passed it he saw Soli, his head propped up on pillows, reading a book.

‘What’s the matter, son?’ asked Freddy from the door.

Soli laid the book face down on his stomach and Freddy was appalled by the colour in his face. His lips were red like a mannequin’s, and two brilliant spots flamed on his cheeks.

‘I had to come away from college. I felt giddy,’ said Soli.

Freddy tiptoed into the room and sat on the edge of the bed.

‘You did well, son,’ he smiled, but his hand on the boy’s hot arm was trembling.

‘Has your mother seen to you?’

‘Yes, she’s making cinnamon tea.’

‘Why didn’t she send word you weren’t well? Doesn’t matter – I’ll fetch the doctor.’

Soli’s feverish eyes sparkled with mischief.

‘How can you expect mother to tell you anything if you make such a fuss? It’s just the cold again.’

‘Try and get some sleep,’ said Freddy getting up. He laid a hand on Soli’s forehead, gently pushing back an unruly wave of brown hair.

Soli glanced up at him with a good-natured mocking look in his eyes. He was incredibly handsome, and prone on his back with his face flushed, terrifyingly vulnerable.

Freddy removed the papers from his safe. On his way down he stopped at the landing to tell Putli: ‘I’m getting a doctor.’

Putli continued to strain the cinnamon tea. All these days of Freddy’s inordinate concern about Soli had begun to infect her.

‘Have you taken his temperature?’

Putli glanced at her husband. He saw at once the worry she was trying to conceal.

‘Little over a hundred and two,’ she answered, on the verge of tears.

By the time the doctor arrived, Soli’s temperature was 103 degrees.

Dr Bharucha was a short, rotund, middle-aged man with a kindly countenance and a brusque manner. He was Freddy’s personal friend and he held the family’s confidence.

After examining Soli he remarked, ‘There’s a slight congestion in his chest – could be influenza – but one cannot be sure; so many infections start with a cold. Keep him on a very light diet and bathe his forehead in cold water if he gets uncomfortable. That should bring the temperature down.’

Soli’s temperature did not come down.

On the third day Dr Bharucha confirmed his first suspicion. ‘It is typhoid. Don’t let him eat anything — just a sip of iced water. He’s a sturdy young fellow. He’ll pull through all right.’

Now that the moment was upon him, Freddy withstood the diagnosis better than expected. But Putli’s colourless complexion turned chalky. The fear in her drew fine lines on her dry skin and instinctively Freddy put out an arm to support her.

The children tip-toed in and out of the room to visit their brother. Seeing him unwell, Katy and Billy were suddenly self-conscious and awkward in his presence. The first few days Soli attempted to put them at ease by smiling and joking. As he grew progressively listless, they could see he had to make an effort to talk.

Freddy sent word to Mr Bottliwalla and together they went to see the Brahmin.

Freddy, who had ignored Gopal Krishan since their last visit, was apologetic. He placed an envelope containing five hundred rupees on the worn desk and said, ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t visit you earlier – there was such a pressure of work. I’ve come at the first opportunity … I hope you will accept this little contribution. It is to help you with your noble task.’ And almost casually, he inquired: ‘Were you able to find any more of my sheets? My son is very sick.’

Gopal Krishan studied Freddy’s face gravely.

‘Junglewalla Seth, I’d feel mortified accepting anything from you when you are so troubled. Let’s keep this for easier times,’ he handed the envelope back to Freddy.

Gopal Krishan spoke with genuine sympathy. His manner of returning the envelope was so gracious that Freddy, instead of feeling hurt by the refusal, was deeply moved. His eyes filmed over and his face, always expressive, was eloquent with gratitude.

What the
patri
said was true: One could not help loving the man, thought Gopal Krishan. Aloud he said, ‘I have not been able to find your
patris
so far, but I will renew my effort and send you word as soon as I do.’

Freddy got up submissively and took his leave.

That night he broke down. Sitting on his bed he wept quietly. He didn’t attempt to shield his face from Putli.
Touched by his anguish, Putli held him to her. She bent to kiss his eyes and face and hair in a way she had not done in a long time. She cradled his head and shoulders on her bosom and her sparse frame engulfed him in a caress that had the warmth and consolation of a sunlit ocean. Freddy drew freely of her strength and was recovered for another day.

Freddy climbed to the flat twenty times a day to see Soli.

Freddy stood by the bed. He was acutely conscious of the change wrought in his son in one week. Where once the outlines of his body beneath the bedsheet were those of a full-grown man, there was now only a tenuous frame of bones. Could a body waste so? The colour, still flaming on the young, shrunken face, was garish. Soli’s eyes appeared abnormally large in a mute and desperate appeal. Freddy stroked the forehead that was always burning.

The boy closed his eyes. He darted a bony tongue over his lips and breathed,

‘Water.’

‘His voice is so thin and reedy it is like a sick woman’s,’ thought Freddy, profoundly shocked. He went to a small table loaded with bottles of mixtures and poured a little iced water into a glass. He lifted Soli’s head tenderly from the pillow and held the glass to his lips.

When Freddy came out of the room he saw Jerbanoo sitting by the dining room window. A
mathabana
covered her peppery hair. She rocked back and forth, praying over her beads. Sensing Freddy’s presence, she raised to him her harried, questioning eyes.

Freddy shook his head and shrugged despairingly. On an impulse he stepped up to her, and enfolding her hands in both his, lowered his head to kiss the beads.

Putli and Jerbanoo were in constant attendance upon the patient. Jerbanoo was indefatigable. She bathed his forehead, stroked his frail limbs and administered medicine whenever she could relieve Putli. She ran errands with an alacrity they had not expected of her.

All members of the family moved with conscious quiet and even the insufferable Billy refrained from provoking his sisters. They were anxious to help and craved to do something for the sick youth. Hutoxi, Ruby and their husbands hovered about the flat, relieving Putli and Jerbanoo for an occasional night’s sleep.

On the fourteenth day of the sickness Soli took a bad turn. He moaned and threshed about deliriously, and alternately lapsed into a frightening, death-like coma.

All eyes were red from weeping.

The doctor was summoned thrice that day, and late in the evening, when he left the bedside, Dr Bharucha looked so solemn that Freddy rushed straight to the Brahmin, ranting, ‘Haven’t you found anything yet?’

The mild accountant shook his head. Freddy, who was seldom violent, suddenly swooped down on the short man and seized him by his muslin shirt front.

‘My son is dying: do you know?’ he hissed, shaking him fiercely. ‘What happened to the
janam patris
that were supposed to prescribe a cure for his disease? What happened to the “preventive measures” you were so sure you’d find, you blackguard?’

‘I am sorry,’ stammered Gopal Krishan.

‘You’re sorry? You’re sorry? My son will die tonight and you haven’t even bothered to look?’

Just then Freddy noticed the man’s wife framed in the doorway. She was a short, stocky, nut-brown woman and she looked at Freddy with the enormous placid eyes of her race.

Freddy came to his senses with a start. Releasing his hold on the Brahmin he stepped back. Gopal’s thin shirt was torn below the neck.

‘Forgive me,’ Freddy said, his voice hoarse with the emotions that racked him. ‘It is because I know my son will die tonight.’

‘There is nothing to forgive, sethji.’ Gopal Krishan placed a soothing hand on Freddy’s arm. ‘You must not allow yourself to get so angry – you will only do yourself harm. Please
return to your family and try to get a night’s sleep … your son will not die tonight.’

Freddy’s eyes dilated with alarming intensity. He gripped the Brahmin’s slack shoulders with fingers that bit into the flesh like talons.

‘Oh, so he won’t die tonight? So, when will he die? You have found something,’ he hissed. ‘You are hiding it from me, you bastard! I want to see it, whatever it is. Understand?’

‘All right, since you insist. But let go of me, sethji.’

Freddy let go of him. He followed Gopal Krishan into the room with the ancient leaves. He sat down, taut and impatient on the edge of a chair, and once again noticed the dark woman standing in the doorway.

Gopal Krishan put on his half-moon spectacles and looking down his nose, began to scrutinise the faint lettering on the leaf. He moved the
patri
until it was directly beneath the weak bulb hanging from the ceiling.

‘There is much that you already know,’ he said, looking up. ‘I’ll translate the parts you want. It says you will be so upset during your son’s illness – it will appear you have taken leave of your senses. Your son suffers from an illness that has no cure. The cure will be discovered after the mighty war and after the upheaval that will turn the earth of the Punjab red with blood.’

Gopal Krishan digressed. ‘It puzzles me this reference to a mighty war and upheaval. It appears to crop up very insistently …’

But Freddy made an impatient gesture with his hand and Gopal Krishan looked back to the sheet. He read silently for a while. He picked up a pencil and scribbled some calculations on a scrap of paper. ‘Your son will pass from this life in three days,’ he said, as a result of the calculations. ‘The writing advises you to be brave. Your loss is not permanent. He will be reborn in your family in a few years.’