It is one o'clock in the afternoon in the month of May at Chennai. The curtains are drawn, the interiors dark and the fan whirls violently. Through the parting in the curtain, all you see is a dazzle. It is "katri", the fiercest part of the Chennai summer when no man or beast or even a leaf can stir.
However, we are wrong. The stillness of the afternoon is punctured by a raucous caw- once, twice and a few more times in quick succession. It is earnest, demanding- sufficient to wake up the entire household. Gingerly, I open the kitchen door leading to the service-room balcony, and the crow is there- sitting on the little ledge. I look at him; he looks back at me. It is a curious stare- as though he is sizing me up. He is used to seeing my mother and glares at me with distrust. Seeing no progress in the proceedings, he expresses his intent once more with a rasping set of caws. He needs his lunch...and now!
I unpack the half-eaten sandwich from my morning Shatabdhi train-ride. With the bread in hand, I stretch out to feed him. An unfamiliar hand with unfamiliar food- with a sudden flutter, he hurriedly shifts to the clothesline a meter away. From the new vantage point, he scrutinizes my face suspiciously and then at the bread slice. I back off. He alights onto the ledge with the sandwich at his feet. One sniff and he stops. The disappointment is writ on his face. He lets out a back-to-back volley of caws. As if, this stale bread-slice is not what he ordered for lunch. Not to be browbeaten by a crow, I slam the balcony door and move away.
Crows are persistent creatures. They can pester us with the same tenacity as your four-year old, till you eventually give-up and yield to their tantrums. That is their game plan. From the service veranda, he now flies to the main balcony and makes his demand once more. Shooing off a crow is as wasteful as a swish of the hand against a squealing mosquito by the ear. Within minutes, they are back and irritate us even more.
My mum is now awake. The moment she enters the kitchen, he spots her and swiftly flies back to the ledge. Mother takes a ball of fresh rice, mixes it with curd, a dash of salt and tops it with another sumptuous dollop of curd. As my mum extends her hand onto the ledge, he simply waits...a centimeter away. Total trust and not one flutter. He sniffs; watches the curd dripping off the rice-ball in tiny rivulets and he is satisfied.
"Yes, he comes thrice a day, for breakfast, lunch and tea. He does not like your bread and your dry roti. He is also a Tamilian, and like the rest of us, he needs curd-rice for all meals. When we go on vacation, he suffers. Who will feed him?" mother trails away.
In no time, the crow has cleaned up the curd-rice. A few stains of white curd glint on his jet-black beak. He looks at me and again at my mum. The next minute, he picks the sandwich by the beak and nonchalantly throws it off the edge of the ledge, cranes his neck and watches it tumbling down. He has made his point. He lets out a final caw of delight and flies away. He will be back for his next meal.
Crows are scavengers, with no choosy tastes- so we think. However, my mother is certain. This crow is definitely our ancestor, a total foodie, known for his "long tongue" and over-refined sense of taste. A man of exacting demands- one grain of salt less or more, he would throw a fit and bring down the entire house. Each time he scooped up curd-rice from the banana-leaf, the overflowing relish was registered in his eyes. And when he licked off the last trickling droplets of buttermilk from his palm, it was as if, he was in the seventh-heaven! This crow has to be him. My mother is so sure.
However, we are wrong. The stillness of the afternoon is punctured by a raucous caw- once, twice and a few more times in quick succession. It is earnest, demanding- sufficient to wake up the entire household. Gingerly, I open the kitchen door leading to the service-room balcony, and the crow is there- sitting on the little ledge. I look at him; he looks back at me. It is a curious stare- as though he is sizing me up. He is used to seeing my mother and glares at me with distrust. Seeing no progress in the proceedings, he expresses his intent once more with a rasping set of caws. He needs his lunch...and now!
I unpack the half-eaten sandwich from my morning Shatabdhi train-ride. With the bread in hand, I stretch out to feed him. An unfamiliar hand with unfamiliar food- with a sudden flutter, he hurriedly shifts to the clothesline a meter away. From the new vantage point, he scrutinizes my face suspiciously and then at the bread slice. I back off. He alights onto the ledge with the sandwich at his feet. One sniff and he stops. The disappointment is writ on his face. He lets out a back-to-back volley of caws. As if, this stale bread-slice is not what he ordered for lunch. Not to be browbeaten by a crow, I slam the balcony door and move away.
Crows are persistent creatures. They can pester us with the same tenacity as your four-year old, till you eventually give-up and yield to their tantrums. That is their game plan. From the service veranda, he now flies to the main balcony and makes his demand once more. Shooing off a crow is as wasteful as a swish of the hand against a squealing mosquito by the ear. Within minutes, they are back and irritate us even more.
My mum is now awake. The moment she enters the kitchen, he spots her and swiftly flies back to the ledge. Mother takes a ball of fresh rice, mixes it with curd, a dash of salt and tops it with another sumptuous dollop of curd. As my mum extends her hand onto the ledge, he simply waits...a centimeter away. Total trust and not one flutter. He sniffs; watches the curd dripping off the rice-ball in tiny rivulets and he is satisfied.
"Yes, he comes thrice a day, for breakfast, lunch and tea. He does not like your bread and your dry roti. He is also a Tamilian, and like the rest of us, he needs curd-rice for all meals. When we go on vacation, he suffers. Who will feed him?" mother trails away.
In no time, the crow has cleaned up the curd-rice. A few stains of white curd glint on his jet-black beak. He looks at me and again at my mum. The next minute, he picks the sandwich by the beak and nonchalantly throws it off the edge of the ledge, cranes his neck and watches it tumbling down. He has made his point. He lets out a final caw of delight and flies away. He will be back for his next meal.
Crows are scavengers, with no choosy tastes- so we think. However, my mother is certain. This crow is definitely our ancestor, a total foodie, known for his "long tongue" and over-refined sense of taste. A man of exacting demands- one grain of salt less or more, he would throw a fit and bring down the entire house. Each time he scooped up curd-rice from the banana-leaf, the overflowing relish was registered in his eyes. And when he licked off the last trickling droplets of buttermilk from his palm, it was as if, he was in the seventh-heaven! This crow has to be him. My mother is so sure.
No comments:
Post a Comment