The Crow Eaters (4 page)

PARSIS are a tiny community who leave their dead in open-roofed enclosures atop hills – to be devoured by vultures. The British romanticised this bizarre graveyard with the title ‘Tower of Silence’.

Just a word or two about the Tower: the marble floor slopes towards the centre where there is a deep hollow. This receives the bones and blood. Underground ducts from the hollow lead to four deep wells outside the Tower. These wells are full of lime, charcoal and sulphur and provide an excellent filter.

The outer rim of the floor is made up of enough marble slabs to accommodate fifty male bodies, then comes accommodation for fifty females, and the innermost space, around the hollow, is for children. It takes the birds only minutes to strip the body of all flesh.

Now, the height of the Tower is precisely calculated. The vultures, taking off at full throttle, are only just able to clear the Tower wall. If they try to get away with anything held between their claws or beaks they invariably crash against the wall.

Understandably, only professional pall-bearers are allowed to witness the gory spectacle inside the Tower.

At a time when arable land was too precious to be used as a graveyard, this system was both practical and hygienic. The custom originated in the rocky terrain of Persia. Since then the Parsis have moved to the Indian sub-continent and to cities like Bombay and Karachi. Bombay, where Parsis live in substantial numbers, can boast four Towers. Parsis who
choose to settle in far-flung areas have to be content with mere burial.

When they first came to Lahore, Jerbanoo had been mildly troubled by the discovery that there was no Tower of Silence in the city. Now that her imagined age brought her so tragically close to death, this worry became an obsession. What would happen to her remains when she died? Surely they wouldn’t allow her to be buried like a Muslim or a Christian. She told them once and for all, she absolutely refused to be shoved beneath mounds of maggot-ridden earth! By bringing her to Lahore, Putli and Freddy had damned her soul to an eternal barbecue in hell. She would not permit the sacred earth to be defiled by her remains; and though she was prepared to die for them, she would not perjure her soul for anyone! She would leave her grave, she promised Freddy, and riddled with worms and weeds, walk to the nearest Tower!

The vision of his obese, worm-sprouting mother-in-law trekking cross-country presented so grotesque an image that Freddy turned green and vowed he’d transport her body a thousand miles to Karachi and deposit it in the Tower himself.

Freddy preferred any conversation to this odious topic, but Jerbanoo channelled the talk with astounding versatility and persistence.

‘Do you remember how fond your father was of egg-plant, Putli?’ she might enquire innocently. ‘But how could you? I think you were only eight when he died. He was no beauty of course – but such a fine man!

‘They deposited his remains at Sanjan. What a gorgeous Tower of Silence they have there. The beauty of the estate still swims before my eyes: Ah ha! Ah ha!’ she smiled in remembered ecstasy. ‘Such an arbour of greenery. The entire hill belongs to the
Dungerwaree
… full of mango trees, eucalyptus and gul-mohur. It was like paradise – a fit setting for the Tower that rises like a granite jewel amongst the trees: truly a foretaste of heaven! And the vultures, plump, handsome creatures, roosting like angels on every tree!’

Poor Freddy, by no stretch of imagination could he transform vultures into angels. He thought her comparison in poor taste and the food turned to ashes in his mouth.

And he couldn’t very well stage a walk-out, for the deceased gentleman was rather special. Putli’s face glowed with awe at any reference to her departed father, and Freddy could slight that hallowed name only at his peril.

‘It was his final act of charity! Every Parsi is committed to feeding his last remains to the vultures. You may cheat them but not God! As my beloved husband Jehangirjee Chinimini said, “Our Zarathusti faith is based on charity.’”

One evening, after the fish and egg sauce was served and Putli went to the kitchen to help dish out the next course, Freddy hastily delivered his long-suffering little piece. Matching Jerbanoo’s sombre tone and reverent mien he said:

‘I remember the time of your dear husband’s death. My maternal aunt died a month later and I went to Sanjan for her rites. Those vultures were so fat they could barely fly. One of the pall-bearers told me that your beloved Jehangirjee Chinimini’s right leg was still sticking out heavenward – uneaten a month after he was placed in the Tower! After all there’s a limit to how much those overfed birds can eat!’

Jerbanoo, who had had her fill of fish and did not much care for the okra that was to be served, stalked away from the table in a tearful huff.

‘Where’s Mother?’ inquired Putli on her return.

‘Guess she doesn’t like okra,’ explained Freddy quietly.

Putli, knowing there was more to it than that, went to unearth the mystery after dessert was served and the left-overs safely locked away.

Freddy performed his toilet, changed into his night pyjamas and awaited her return calmly. He wasn’t unduly concerned. Putli permitted poor Freddy to blow his fuse once in a while.

Jerbanoo’s old belligerence also erupted occasionally. She
restrained herself before Freddy and Putli and vented her feelings on the servant boy and on the woman who cleaned out their primitive bathroom tray twice daily.

IT was the beginning of autumn and Lahore started to smile again. It was still warm outside in the sun but pleasant indoors. October can have unpredictable days, and this particular Saturday was hot. By about one o’clock it became quite sultry. Jerbanoo decided to get the boy to work the fan strings while she had her siesta. The fan was a stiff quilted stretch of cloth the length of her bed. It was affixed to the ceiling. The boy would squat on the floor and diligently pull the fan string down and up, down and up, until Jerbanoo dozed off. He then nodded at his monotonous post.

Jerbanoo toddled off to the kitchen to fetch the boy, and she caught him smoking a biri. The room was acrid with tobacco smoke. He was the same boy she had cuffed two years back for pinching her sweets.

Hauling him up by his ears Jerbanoo slapped him and yelled for Putli to come and witness the crime. More excitement followed and Freddy was called from the store to deal with the outrage.

He was shocked.

In a house fragrant with sandalwood and incense the smell of tobacco is an abomination. Fire, chosen by the Prophet as the outward symbol of his faith, is venerated. It represents the Divine Spark in every man, a spark of the Divine Light. Fire, which has its source in primordial light, symbolises not only His cosmic creation but also the spiritual nature of His Eternal Truth. Smoking, which is tantamount to defiling the holy symbol with spit, is strictly taboo – a sacrilegious sin. Theirs was a household in which candles were snuffed with a
reverent pinch of the fingers. The cooking fire was never permitted to be extinguished: it was politely preserved in ashes at night, and fanned alive each morning. To blow upon fire is vile. Priests tending the temple fires cover their mouths with cloth masks, lest spittle pollute the
Atash
.

The shameful crime hurt everyone deeply and each thrashed the boy in turn. Later, to soothe his family’s ruffled sentiments, Faredoon suggested a drive in the colourfully varnished tonga that had replaced his bullock-cart. Clip-clopping sedately over the Ravi Bridge, the horse pulled the two-wheeled carriage and its occupants into the countryside.

The evening was cool and welcome with the promise of winter. Flat fields of young green wheat trembled daintily in a languid breeze, and brushing past as they rode, the breeze brought to them the fragrance of rice and spices; of new beginnings in tender sprouting things.

Freddy had not felt so tolerant of his mother-in-law in a long time. That afternoon they had been united in a cause and agreed upon principles. She wasn’t such a miserable old so-and-so, he mused with whimsical magnanimity, when suddenly, Jerbanoo exclaimed, ‘Look there,’ and excitedly pointed out a tree.

The rotten top branches of the sheesham were covered with vultures.

Infected by her excitement, the children chattered and delightedly discovered cluster upon cluster of the brooding, ungainly birds.

Clucking her tongue sympathetically, Jerbanoo commented on their rather lean and mangy appearance. Warming to the theme, she shook her head sadly and said, ‘What a pity. What a shame. These poor birds are permitted to starve despite all the Parsis we have in Lahore.’

Putli reasonably pointed out that one or two bodies a year could hardly be expected to fatten the multitude.

‘Still,’ sighed Jerbanoo wagging her head, ‘all these vultures are going to waste – such a pity.’

Freddy’s skin became as prickly as an army blanket.

Jerbanoo eyed the vultures as if she were witnessing an inspiring sunset. She swivelled her head, ducking this way and that, squashing the children to look admiringly over the brim of the carriage.

Freddy desperately racked his memory for a suitable English quote.

‘Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink!’ he cried at last, venting his agony. His family, so used to these alarming, erudite outbursts, turned to him for enlightenment.

Freddy stamped savagely on the warning-bell pedal by his feet. Then he stood up and turning to Jerbanoo, once again shouted, ‘Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink!’

‘Uh?’ asked Jerbanoo.

‘Vultures, vultures everywhere and not a body to share!’ he translated with an accompanying clamour of bells from the depressed pedal.

‘I’ll leave your remains on top of that hill there,’ he said, pointing out a small brown mound on the flat landscape and wishing feverishly to deposit her there right away.

‘Leave my remains where you wish. At the first peck of the vultures the angels will rush forth to escort me safely across the bridge.’

Faredoon felt positively sick. The old hag is getting more sinister, morbid and weird each day, he thought.

‘Rush forth to push you over into hell more likely!’ he said aloud.

‘The man is stark, raving mad,’ whispered Jerbanoo, sliding closer to Putli. ‘He’s getting dangerous. There’s no telling what he might do. I tell you, you’d better watch out.’

The drive back home was not a success.

Freddy’s penchant for quoting scraps of English not only relieved his feelings, but it was a source of pride to him and his family. He memorised proverbs – not always quite accurately – and hauled them up like genii from a bottle.

How much store he set by these sayings can be judged by the hallowed position occupied by his book of ‘Famous
English Proverbs’. It stood on a shelf right above the prayer table, snug between the Bible and the Bhagwad-Gita. Other books on the shelf were a translation of the Holy Quran and Avesta (the holy book of the Parsis), the complete works of Shakespeare, Aesop’s Fables,
Das Kapital
, and books representing the Sikh, Jain and Buddhist faiths.

Beneath the shelf, on the prayer table, burnt the holy lamp with a likeness of the Prophet Zarathustra stamped on its glass shade. The Prophet held aloft his finger to remind his followers of the One and Only God.

The table once again echoed his reverence for all faiths; a tradition dating back 2,500 years to the Persian kings, Darius and Cyrus the Great, who not only encouraged religious tolerance, but having freed the Jews held captive by the Babylonians, rebuilt their Temple. The Torah, written at this time, testifies to the influence of Zoroastrianism on Judaism, and the influence of the ancient religion of the Parsis on other Semitic religions can be dated to this period. A Hindu scholar says that ‘the Gospel of Zarathustra, the
Gathas
, covered all the ground from the Rig-Veda to the Bhagwad-Gita, a period extending over 1,500 years at least, in the short span of a single generation … Zoroastrianism lies, thus, at the centre of all the great religions of the world, Aryan and Semitic …’

Other scholars, European and American, say much the same thing; and it is little wonder that Faredoon Junglewalla’s yearning heart discovered an affinity with all religious thought.

A picture of the Virgin Mary was framed with an inset of the four-armed, jet-haired goddess Laxmi. Buddha sat serenely between a sinuous statue of Sita, provocatively fixing her hair, and an upright cross supporting the crucified Christ. Photographs of Indian saints crowded the table. Then there was the sacred silverware: rose-water sprinkler, pyramid shaped
pigani
and anointing bowls. Fresh coconuts, joss sticks, flowers, figs, prayer beads and garlands of crystallised sugar completed the ensemble.

Freddy, who normally approached the prayer table once a day for a brief benediction, found himself attracted oftener as his woes increased.

The burden that had shifted to his left shoulder became unbearable. His business steadily diminished, for how could anything be expected to prosper in a household committed to death, disease and vultures? He was sure they were jinxed. Jerbanoo had got them to a point where even the children considered these topics commonplace and suitable for airy and animated chit-chat.

In desperation Freddy frequented once more the fortune-tellers. He took his horoscope from one sage to the other for interpretation.

The birth of Parsi infants is timed with the precision of Olympic contests. Stop-watch in hand, anxious grandmothers or aunts note the exact second of delivery. This enables Hindu pandits to cast the horoscope with extreme exactitude. It is an enigmatic diagram of circles and symbols, quite beyond the scope of the layman, hence the need for interpretation.

Freddy learnt of the devastating influence of Saturn on his stars. The worthies clucked sympathetically and told him to take heart. Saturn was on its way out and better days lay ahead. ‘Your life will blossom in unexpected ways,’ they told him, ‘once you get started you’ll never look back.’

Of all the predictions, Freddy was most taken by what a gypsy told him. Sitting on the pavement, dealing out a strange deck of cards, the gypsy said, ‘A tall, slender charmer will come your way soon. The person will have a very fortunate influence on you and change the course of your life.’

Who can blame Freddy for the dreams this prophecy sparked in his despondent heart? He envisaged a willowy angel with soft black eyes and blush-brown lips. She came to him in a hundred ways from a hundred places. From the far off mountains of Iran she came, and from the depths of the Indian ocean. She was part of a chance encounter – dramatic
with his heroism, and glamorous with her gratitude. Full of sympathy and tenderness, she touched their hearts; Freddy’s, Putli’s and the children’s; but not Jerbanoo’s. Oh no, that flinty heart was impervious to love.

She saw all, knew all, understood the whole complex and agonising situation. Befriending him, her voice quivering with emotion, she told the world of Faredoon’s worth and kindness, of his gruelling and silently endured ordeals – of his courage in face of unmentionable tortures at the hands of his satanic, vicious, demented and hypocritical mother-in-law.

And in a final act of sacrifice, the lady of his dreams invariably throttled Jerbanoo with her bare hands and fled, heart-broken at the separation from Freddy, to her remote and mysterious habitat.

As was to be expected, the dark and charming stranger figured in a cornucopia of sexual fantasy. Her hands, like perfumed garlands, circled his neck … they wandered …

But the blackest cloud has a bit of silver, and when things were at their worst, a glib, dark and long-nosed insurance agent arrived from Karachi.

Mr Dinshaw Adenwalla, long and lean, visited Lahore in December and changed the course of Faredoon Junglewalla’s destiny. Unbeknown to Freddy the prophesied charmer had stepped into his life.

Visiting Parsis were rare. When they did steam into the city station, the community mood became festive. The Toddywallas, the Bankwallas, Chaiwallas, Bottliwallas and Junglewallas vied with each other in making the visitors welcome. They were wafted from home to home for breakfast, brunch, lunch, tea, drinks and dinner. The festivities ended with a gala farewell shindig in which the whole community participated. The morning after, fortified with enough roast chickens and hard boiled eggs to feed the entire train, the hung-over wrecks were seen off at the station. Grandmas, grandpas, aunts, uncles and children waved until the little fluttering handkerchiefs faded from view.

Hospitality was accorded even to those Parsis who merely passed through the city. It did not matter if no one knew the travellers. As long as news spread, and it invariably did, that a Parsi was on a train, some family or other was sure to meet him. Bearing gifts of food and drink, they helped pass the time for the duration of the stop.

It is little wonder then that Mr Adenwalla was welcomed with open arms and lavishly entertained.

This sleek, fast-talking insurance agent whirled ecstatic children through the air. He disarmed their strait-laced mammas with flattery and called their grandmothers ‘little girls’. Jerbanoo hung about him like an overfed puppy and Putli was transformed into a breathless, pink-cheeked hoyden. Well, not hoyden really – but at least she acquired a fetching animation. He treated the whole jing-bang assembly to mildly off colour stories and had the men roaring at smuttier ones.

Mr Adenwalla distributed his charms impartially, paying as much attention to Mrs Chaiwalla, who was almost bald, as he did to Mrs Bankwalla, who was green-eyed and merry. He slapped shy Mr Bottliwalla as heartily on the back as easygoing and witty Mr Toddywalla. Everyone loved him. They talked and laughed and Freddy, together with all the others, was swept off his feet.

Mr Dinshaw Adenwalla, silver-tongued and loving, spent a full week in Lahore. He arrived on Sunday and left the following Sunday. They begged him to stay longer. But he just had to get back to his family for the New Year, you know. Ooh, what a shame. They’d let him off just this once if he’d promise to stay longer next time!

The Parsis, who celebrate every festival under the sun, with all the attendant customs and spirit, understood his need to be united with his family over the New Year.

Saturday, the day before Mr Adenwalla’s departure from Lahore, was a very busy day. Man after man signed on the dotted line. Women signed with intent faces and laboured pens. Jerbanoo preferred to give her thumb impression.

En masse, they flocked to the station to see Mr Adenwalla off and he steamed away, energetically waving a white handkerchief at the end of his long, lean arm.

After the train left, the Parsis huddled in a tight little knot talking animatedly about Mr Adenwalla. They attracted a barrage of curious glances as they drifted in a throng towards the exit. A bunch of fiercely bearded Sikhs with curving swords and hockey-sticks stood by to gape. The Parsi women whom they ogled tied their heavy silk saris differently, with a triangular piece in front displaying broad, exquisitely embroidered borders. The knotted tassels of their
kustis
dangled as if pyjama strings were tied at the back, and white
mathabanas
peeked primly from beneath sari-covered heads. The men wore crisp pyjamas, flowing white coats fastened with neat little bows, and flat turbans. They looked quite distinctive.

Freddy glanced at the Sikhs. The muscles in his jaw grew tight when he noticed the lewd direction of their eyes. He couldn’t stand his women being stared at. For that matter, no one in India appreciates strangers looking at their women. He threw the Sikhs a fierce glower. The men averted their eyes and moved away, trailing their hockey-sticks on the platform. A shorn Brahmin with a strand of hair looping from his crown shuffled by, saluting Mr Bankwalla. What connections did a Brahmin priest have with a dancing instructor? asked his merry friends of Mr Bankwalla. Mr Bankwalla, enjoying the merriment, parried the question.