The Crow Eaters (8 page)

‘I don’t care if we lose everything! Save my mother, savemy mother!’ cried Putli. She was hysterical. Neighbouring women, forgetting their woes in the face of the impending calamity, struck their breasts and sobbed, ‘Hai Bhagwan! Hai Bhagwan!’ and, ‘Hai Allah! Hai Allah!’

The fireman once again climbed the ladder. This time he held an enormous pulley basket of the kind used by housewives to haul up coal and potato sacks. He jumped on to the balcony. A strong pulley was attached to the railing and the thick rope tested. Holding the tangle of cords to one side, the fireman persuaded Jerbanoo to sit in the basket. Modestly holding her petticoat down, Jerbanoo sank into it. It was a tight fit and she leaned the small of her back against the rim. The cords, standing in a cone above her head, grew taut. She clutched the rim. Bending forward, the firemen carefully hoisted the load. About a foot off the floor, Jerbanoo suddenly screamed, straightened her legs, and slipping from the basket, stood up. A disappointed wail rose from the crowd. Tongues of fire darted up and licked the projecting balcony. The cement floor turned as hot as the bottom of a pan. The crowd roared, encouraging Jerbanoo to try again. They shouted an unintelligible jumble of suggestions.

Screaming, ‘Mother, Mother!’ Freddy once again broke into the clearing.

‘Oh my son! What am I to do? Tell me my son, what am I to do?’ wailed Jerbanoo.

Rushing perilously close to the fire, spreading his arms and
bracing his legs, Freddy shouted, ‘Jump into my arms, Mother! I will hold you. Jump into my arms! Come on, come on,’ he begged, his voice cracking with desperation. If only she’d jump, he prayed. If only she’d jump before a rescue was effected.

Jerbanoo looked at the hard, gleaming stretch of tarmac beneath her, and at the queer figure of her son-in-law with his eager upturned face. She nearly fainted.

‘Jump! Come on, jump!’ Freddy’s voice begged hypnotically.

‘Get that crazy bastard out of here!’ screamed the Irishman.

By the scruff of his neck and the seat of his pyjamas, a policeman dragged Freddy back.

Pale and stunned, Jerbanoo almost crashed through the door behind her.

The Irishman rushed about giving orders.

‘Get the net, go on, get the net!’ he shouted.

‘Where from?’ asked the exhausted fireman whose destiny it was all evening to climb up and down the ladder.

‘Where from!’ exploded the Chief, flinging his hands up in exasperation. ‘Every bloody fire department in Lahore is here and you can’t find a bloody net?’

‘I’ll get it, sir,’ volunteered another fireman, hurrying away.

‘Come on. You come up with me,’ said the chief, buttonholing the weary mountaineer. ‘I’m getting that daft woman down even if I’ve to knock her out first.’

As the determined Irishman scurried up the ladder, a group of firemen spread a net in the clearing.

It all happened quickly.

A curious huddled struggle took place on the balcony. For a brief moment it appeared as if the grim-faced Irishman was dancing a tango with the even grimmer and glowering lady. Jerbanoo’s winged eyebrows almost disappeared in her hair. Then she disappeared altogether from view in a flaying tangle
of arms and bent backs. A weird operatic aria rose into the sky, in which Jerbanoo’s strident soprano distinctly outbid the Irishman’s rich tenor.

And a moment later, with the dramatic timing of a prima donna, Jerbanoo made her grand appearance over the balustrade – swaying from the end of the rope in her basket!

One wail of a lost soul flying through space, and Jerbanoo’s voice dried up. She remained as still as a statue of the Chinese Buddha swaying from a pendulum. The earth and its people down below heaved like the sea. Trees and buildings lunged forward. Jerbanoo squeezed her eyes shut. Her grip froze on the wickerwork.

Slowly, jerkily the swaying basket, with its flaccid overflow of arms and legs, descended. The firemen, holding the net taut between them looked up anxiously, ready in case the basket swerved out of control.

Ten feet from the net one of the cords snapped. Losing her balance, Jerbanoo slipped from the basket, hanging on to the rope she’d had the sense to grasp. The crowd screamed once and hushed. The snap and roar of the fire came through in all its pristine majesty.

Scraping up her back, the wicker had caught in Jerbanoo’s petticoat, hitching it up with the basket. Jerbanoo pivoted on the rope like a sporting trapeze artiste in loose, homespun drawers. Air filled the knickers and the gathers tied round her waist with a tape. They expanded into smooth balloons. Seconds thereafter, a confused jumble of basket, rope and Jerbanoo sank into the net.

The firemen, holding the net between them, staggered to the grass and deposited the bundle beneath a tree.

Sprawled on the net, Jerbanoo lay inert and winded. A man stepped forward with a jug of water. Someone hurried off to get salve for the burns. A glass of water was held to Jerbanoo’s lifeless lips. Putli cradled her mother’s head on her lap. She efficiently swabbed the blackened face and dusted singed bits
of hair from Jerbanoo’s head. Dusk was gathering rapidly.

Squatting by her feet, Freddy sobbed as if his heart was breaking.

‘There, there, she’ll come around soon … she’s perfectly all right,’ soothed Mr Toddywalla.

Jerbanoo’s lids fluttered. She moaned deliriously, trying to sit up. Ten pairs of hands reached to help the mountainous heap. She glimpsed Freddy. A flicker of recognition sparked in her glazed eyes; and back she fell in a dead faint.

Soonamai put her ear to Jerbanoo’s chest. ‘She’s alive. Her heart’s beating.’

‘Alive? Alive? squawked Freddy feebly. He was convulsed by a fit of weeping, and some of his friends, supporting him tenderly, took him away.

‘Poor fellow, it’s been too much for him. He’s so fond of Jerbanoo …’ said Mr Toddywalla to Mr Bankwalla, Mr Chaiwalla and Mr Bottliwalla.

Mr Gibbons, the Anglo-Indian Deputy Superintendent of Police, and the Fire Chief joined the group.

‘She’s O.K. now, so what the blazes is he crying for?’ inquired the Irishman.

‘He’s in shock. He is overcome by the reverend lady’s collapse. And then, look at what’s left of his place,’ explained Mr Bankwalla on Freddy’s behalf.

‘Blimey! You chaps really go for your mothers-in-law, don’t you?’ said the intrepid Irishman.

A month later he was awarded a medal for his gallant part in the rescue.

Night descended on the scene. Now that the old lady was out of the way, the firemen attacked the blaze in earnest. By nine o’clock the last flames were out. As predicted, the fire had not spread beyond the toy shop.

The crowd thinned. Evacuated families set about refurbishing their shops and homes. Everybody helped everybody. Mr Toddywalla took the Junglewallas to his spacious home. Two
rooms were quickly emptied of their occupants and allotted to the stricken family. Chicken curries and hot soups were served.

MR Adenwalla arrived from Karachi. Five tongas loaded with Parsis went to receive him at the station. Docile and unobtrustive, Freddy hung behind the welcoming committee lined up on the platform holding garlands.

Mr Adenwalla jumped to the platform. He clasped the men to his lean, loving chest and greeted the women with affectionate pats and smiles. Bristling with flowers, he tossed a little boy in the air and picked up a little girl. Carrying the girl he cut through to Freddy.

Demure, deferential and becomingly forlorn, Freddy took Mr Adenwalla’s extended hand in both his hands. He didn’t say a word.

Mr Adenwalla was effusive. ‘Well, well my friend, how good to see you. You’ve given us some anxious moments, you know, but you are looking well. I’m so glad. Everything all right? Sure, everything’s all right!’

Mr Adenwalla put his arm round Freddy and chattering non-stop, led the procession to the tongas parked outside the station.

Five tonga-loads drove to Mr Toddywalla’s house. After a round of fizzy drinks for the children and beer for the adults, the men went into the sitting room cluttered with small tables, china figurines and any number of vases crammed with drooping red roses. After a few pleasantries they settled to the business that had brought Mr Adenwalla to Lahore.

Mr Adenwalla ran a hand over his sleek, oily hair and deft fingers over the pencil-thin moustache beneath his long, hooked nose.

‘I am so glad to see you all again, but I wish it were in happier circumstances.’

Everyone glanced at Freddy. In a room full of sofas he sat quietly in the only straight-backed chair.

Mr Adenwalla cleared his throat. ‘Now my friends,’ he said, ‘I want you to remember I am your friend first and foremost, but I am also a representative of my company. I eat their salt. So now, if you will not take it amiss, I will talk to you as a company officer.’

Understanding heads wagged their consent, and Mr Adenwalla continued in a clipped, official voice that seemed to issue straight from his nose.

‘Gentlemen, you are perhaps thinking – here is a house burnt down and valuable stocks destroyed, but the man who insured it will write out a cheque for an enormous sum of money.

‘It is not as simple as that. First of all, I am not authorised to sign a cheque. If I were, naturally, there would be no problem. But the company is not going to fork out a huge amount of money just because they hear a house has been gutted.’

The gentlemen listening to Mr Adenwalla were taken aback. However, they quietly waited for the agent to lay all his cards on the table.

Mr Adenwalla proceeded to do so.

‘First of all you have to establish – prove to my company – that the fire was accidental. Then they must find if the claim is truthfully calculated.’

Freddy turned pale. His friends looked apprehensive.

‘If it cannot be proved that the fire was accidental, if the company is not satisfied – then of course I cannot help you.’

Mr Chaiwalla, middle-aged and corpulent, drummed his fingers on his stomach. Studying the horizontal beams on the ceiling thoughtfully, he said, ‘What if the cause of the fire cannot be traced? Who knows what happened. What caught fire first? When? How? The whole place has been burnt to
cinders. After all it was a provision store – all inflammable stuff – rum, wine, kerosene, wood, paper.’

‘Well, I’m afraid, the company will not clear the claim in that case.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Mr Toddywalla leaning forward. ‘Mr Chaiwalla has just told you all the stuff in the store was inflammable. I think that’s proof enough. Any little thing could have sparked it.’

‘But that’s no proof. Millions of stores are crammed with the same stuff but how often do they catch fire?’

Mr Toddywalla flung his arms out in exasperation and sank back in his sofa. He had a dark, oval face decorated with bell-bottom sideburns and a bristling moustache.

‘Then why the hell were you so eager to get us all insured?’ he cried. ‘Why pay all the premiums and what-not, if in the time of our need we have to prove sister-f … ing this and mother f … ing that? It doesn’t look like your company is going to be satisfied with truth and facts and the word of a gentleman! They just want some damned excuse to wriggle out of their commitment. If I might speak as plainly as you – it is nothing but a swindle. I don’t think any of us need your damned insurance!’

Mr Adenwalla’s straight slick moustache agitated pathetically. ‘I don’t see the need for this ill-feeling. Please hear me out first,’ he begged.

Mr Toddywalla had scored a direct hit. What if they decided to withdraw their patronage? They were valuable clients; generous and prompt. Besides, two new families had arrived in Lahore, the Coopers and the Paymasters, and both were represented in the sitting room. Mr Adenwalla had his eye on Mr Paymaster in particular. Mr Paymaster was an engine driver, a profession invested with much glamour and status. Through Mr Paymaster’s influence, Mr Adenwalla hoped to acquire a heap of railway insurance.

‘Now, please,’ he said, in his most suave and persuasive manner, ‘try and look at this from my company’s point of view. I will tell you something which may surprise you.
Insurance is fairly new here – but it is not uncommon in Britain for some rascal to set fire to his business to present a large claim. It has been proved over and over. And the company is worried. Why, it must have proof. It is the way insurance companies work. I am not saying the company will not honour its claim. Of course it will, if the claim is legitimate – and I have been sent here to investigate. I am putting it to you straight because I don’t want to waste your time or mine.’

But nobody understood anything. Mr Adenwalla had put it to them much too straight; straighter than behoved a well-bred Parsi.

‘Do you mean to imply that the fire was deliberate?’ said Mr Bankwalla sternly. ‘Are you accusing our friend Mr Faredoon Junglewalla, here, of purposely setting a torch to his own house? Do you know that his mother-in-law was in the house? The poor woman was charred, bruised and half dead. Do you mean to say he wilfully and purposefully set fire to his house knowing his own mother-in-law was in there? Do you mean to call my friend a murderer also?’

‘For God’s sake!’ exclaimed Mr Adenwalla. ‘I am not saying or denying anything – but as a representative of my company I am responsible. I have to answer to them.’

‘Mind your tongue,’ warned Mr Toddywalla, thrusting his pugnacious whiskers to the forefront. ‘We are not going to sit around having our friend insulted. You have accused him of murder. That’s going too far … too far.’

A grandfather clock ticked solemnly in the sudden quiet. The scent of the red spring roses was stifling. Freddy’s lids were closed. He sat on his straight-backed chair, the incarnation of exploited innocence, meekly allowing his friends to champion his cause.

‘What rot! Who’s saying anything about murder?’ protested Mr Adenwalla. His sharp eyes raked Freddy briefly. It suddenly occurred to him that, but for the grace of God, there might have been two claims to settle. He offered a silent prayer for the absent mother-in-law’s longevity.

‘Now, please, let’s not get carried away. Look, I never said you will not get the claim – there’s no question of it … But there are certain formalities to be gone through. They are just formalities, but of a legal kind. You understand? Legalities.’

Freddy felt the time had come for him to speak up; to give the ‘charming stranger’ of the gypsy prophesy a little assistance. He sat forward purposefully and Mr Bankwalla, who had been about to speak, checked himself.

All heads turned to Freddy.

‘I understand your anxiety on behalf of your company. You are quite right. Please proceed as you think best and do everything as legally and properly as possible.’

‘Yes, you’re quite right, quite right,’ said the grateful insurance agent. ‘We must do everything properly. Now, I’m afraid, there has got to be a proper police inquiry. It’s part of the law. Even if my firm wants to help they cannot do so without police clearance …

‘Next, we must go through the books. Each entry will have to be investigated, you understand? It is my duty – and it is to your advantage. But I must warn you – I suppose the books were destroyed in the fire? In that case the company will settle on what it considers reasonable and, you can be sure –’

‘They are not burnt,’ said Freddy quietly. ‘They were due for checking and I gave them to my auditors just before the fire. You are welcome to see them any time – and also talk to my suppliers and agents.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Mr Adenwalla lamely. In all the long, intimidating session of the evening he had not felt quite so shaken. ‘I see,’ he repeated. ‘It is interesting – providential, I should say – that you thought to hand the books over to your auditors just before the fire.’

‘Providential, yes, providential. You see, my friend, my intent and my conscience are clean … God has seen fit to protect me. I have always been content with my lot. I have never envied anyone – nor have I coveted my neighbour’s wife,’ said Freddy modestly, quoting the fifth commandment to pointless but good effect.

A servant entered the room. Leaning over Mr Toddywalla, a duster thrown over his shoulder, he whispered, ‘Gibbons sahib is here.’

‘Ask him in, ask him in!’ exclaimed Mr Toddywalla heartily, and surging to his feet, went to receive his guest.

Mr Gibbons, who often dropped in of an evening for a drink, was warmly shaken by the hand. ‘My friend, I’d just been thinking of you!’ said Mr Toddywalla leading him into the room.

Mr Gibbons was introduced to Mr Adenwalla.

Freddy rose from his chair and embraced the policeman.

Mr Adenwalla, pale as a sheet, knew he was worsted.

Fortifying himself with a long draught of beer, graciously accepting defeat, he set about entertaining the company with some of his engaging stories.

Three days later Mr Adenwalla received a letter from the Punjab Police Department. The very next day he left for Karachi.

The letter read:

Dear Sirs,

In accordance with the inquiry registered by your Insurance Company, we have investigated the fire at the Provision Store and house belonging to Mr Faredoon Junglewalla.

We are satisfied that the fire was entirely accidental. I will quote from the report presented by our investigating officer, Mr R. Gibbons.

There is no doubt that the store caught fire when a bottle of fizzy soda exploded and knocked over a lamp that always burned on the counter near by. Running along the oil spilled from the lamp, the fire quickly engulfed the store and store-rooms.

Like all stores the shop was full of inflammable stuff. Furthermore I have investigated Mr Faredoon Junglewalla’s character thoroughly. He is known to be an upstanding man of integrity and virtuous habits. There is nothing
in his past to indicate that he would stoop to so base a felony as arson.’

We trust the matter is closed to your satisfaction.
From the office of the Inspector-General,
Punjab Police.

Mr Faredoon Junglewalla received a sizeable cheque.