It was past nine in the evening when we stepped into the club. The lights were off in the veranda on the first floor, but the bulbs from the compound cast a faint glow on the chairs and the tables.
“Bhabi, Dada,” I said, “please do sit down,” as wife and husband took their seats. They had travelled all the way from Goa and the least that I could do was offer them dinner. We sat facing the railings, with Jiten to my left and Gautam to my right, and the couple to Jiten’s left.
A bird darted into the veranda, circled around and then flew out. I thought it was a bat.
“It’s a crow,” said someone from one corner of the veranda.
I turned around. “Hello,” I said to Rana. Even in the semi-dark I could make out his smile. He had an easygoing charm; and looks that could well have featured in the big screen.
“It’s a crow,” he repeated.
“I see,” I said, and thought, What’s a crow doing in the veranda at night? I looked at Mauzo. “Dada,” I said, “would you care for chicken curry?”
“Anything goes,” he said, smiling. I liked him, not only because he wrote fiction rich in imagery but also because he was unassuming in all that he did.
The crow flew in again. I could make out only a blur. Against the lights from the yard, it looked brownish-grey, not the sleek, shiny black that you see under sunlight.
A tall, slim waiter padded up to us as we placed our orders. Jiten turned to look at Mauzo’s wife. “You are a vegetarian, Bhabi?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, her smile as graceful as her husband’s. “Just rotis and dal will do, please.” The crow swept past, keeping low, parallel to the railings.
From near the stairway, a voice boomed. “That’s on me,” said Vikram, as another waiter came over with a tray and glasses. He placed the lime-and-soda in front of Bhabi and then came over to Dada and Gautam and Jiten and me.
“Thank you, Vikram,” said Gautam. He took a sip from his glass, and then from a bag brought out the books meant as gifts for Dada.
The crow swished over our heads and flew out into the night, the wings soundless in the cool April air. I wanted to talk, to spend well an evening with friends as dear as can be. But all I could think of was the crow.
When I was very young, Ma would often wake up in the middle of the night and mutter loudly, “Ishwar, that’s a crow cawing,” and I would feel the fear in her voice climbing into me. And just that one time, early in the morning in the kitchen, Deuta had said, “We’ll have a guest arriving today. There’s a crow on the clothesline.” When he passed away more than a decade ago, my brother and I went to the river, our silence echoing grief that knows no measure as we placed near the waterline a plate containing the prasad anointed by the priest. Minutes later, when a solitary crow flapped down from the blue and picked up a morsel and flew away, the priest said, “It’s carrying that off to your father.” For a long while, I stood staring at the sky, the lump in my throat choking my breath.
“Is the drink all right, Dada?” I said now, turning to look at Mauzo.
“Fine,” he said, “it’s just fine.”
The crow flew in again. It dropped into a chair a few feet away, and then, as the lights outside flickered, flew off. There was no sound. Only movements. Quick and sudden.
“What’s with this crow?” said Gautam. We had been friends ever since our post-graduate days. For years he had taught literature. And like Jiten, he, too, cherished fine conversation, but, as it had done to me, the bird seemed to have robbed him of that pleasure now.
“I don’t know,” I said, and leaning back, turned to look where Rana sat all by himself. “What’s with the crow, Rana?” I said, loudly. He got up, and when he reached us, I introduced him to Bhabi and Dada. The crow came in again, flew around and over Rana.
He was a cool, steady man in most things and he was steady now, as he said, “A friend of mine died all of a sudden down there in that field a few years ago. A kind, wonderful soul.” He gazed at the lights beyond the veranda. “Ever since then, the crow’s been around.”
Jiten said, “You sure?”
“Yes,” said Rana, “that’s how it is.”
The crow flew up and away. It circled the yard and then disappeared behind a clump of trees. A few seconds later it flapped its way back to the veranda. A thin, cold feeling crawled up my spine. That feeling that you get when you know that you do not know anything at all. In that one and a half hours it must have flown in and out no less than fifty times. Not once did we hear it cawing. Nor was there the sound of wings flapping.
“It’s eerie,” mumbled Gautam and drained the contents from his glass.
Excerpted with permission from ‘The Crow’ in The Shoot: Stories, Dhruba Hazarika, Speaking Tiger Books.
