The Crow Eaters (20 page)

RODABAI read the letter and gave a great sigh. It was always like this. This time though she had allowed her hopes to be raised … and now this letter.

For truth to tell Roshan was twenty; three years older than Rodabai cared to admit; and two sisters younger than she were already married. Now Tanya would also be taken off her hands. Eligible boys were scarce, and she was not one to pass up a good offer. She had liked the stern-faced little woman who was the boy’s mother; and the family was undoubtedly excellent. Still, she wished it had been Roshan.

She gave the letter to Tanya without comment and waited for her simple ruse to work. The letter had the anticipated effect. What girl, untouched, unkissed, and guaranteed virgin at sixteen, can resist the heady flattery implicit in the anxiety of a young man threatening to transform himself into a corpse for love of her? And it was Tanya’s first love letter. Indirect no doubt, written by the wooer’s mother, but a love letter nevertheless. Its ardour gratified her. Her fancy soared and she fell in love with the scrawny youth who had made them laugh so much two evenings back.

She was most distressed, Rodabai wrote back, by the reputable Putlibai’s message. Her distress was occasioned by her description of the pathetic condition of her worthy son, Behram. But she would be even more upset if Putlibai judged him too harshly. These were the ways of young love; and of destiny; and she prayed her thanks to God that the well-brought up and dutiful youth had forfeited his heart to one of her daughters after all. It didn’t really matter which. Both girls
were equally beloved of her and she was equally happy at Behram’s choice.

Alas, ever since the receipt of her letter her Tanya, too, was off food and sighed for love of the boy she had charmed so unwittingly. When fate behaved with such spirit to perform its wonders, it was a blessed omen. Blessed would be their married life.

She knew Putlibai’s time in Bombay was short, and matters should be settled as quickly as possible. Would they come on Saturday afternoon with Behram? They could get the two formally spoken for at the ‘token money’ ceremony and discuss further plans.

Billy was jubilant, Putli tearfully thankful. Jerbanoo was triumphant that this unpromising grandson of hers had proved himself worthy of such a girl – and from such a family!

Billy wore a cobalt-blue suit, a sky-blue shirt, navy blue tie and socks, and blue suede shoes. He was made to stand on a small wooden platform which was prettily decorated with patterns of fish drawn in lime. Rodabai anointed his forehead with vermilion, touched vermilion to the toes of his shoes, and pressed rice on his forehead. The ceremony was restricted to women, except for Billy. The sisters and a collection of aunts and cousins sang traditional ditties while Rodabai garlanded Billy. She gave him the little envelope containing the ‘token money’. She gave him a heavy gold watch on a chain and told him to step off – right leg first.

Then it was Tanya’s turn to mount the platform and Putli performed the rites. She presented the girl with twenty-one Queen Victoria sovereigns, and everyone sang. Billy felt like a thinly stretched blue glass bubble that would take to the air and burst. Never had he imagined Tanya in a sari: she was voluptuous, like a temple goddess – better. And the slip of skin showing at her waist was golden-fawn!

That evening they set the date for the wedding. Allowing
for preparations, the earliest date they could fix on was an auspicious Sunday a month away.

The next day Lady Easymoney reserved three rows of seats in a cinema. Billy and Tanya sat in the middle, quite in the heart of the cosy hive of sisters, brothers-in-law, aunts, uncles, cousins, and their offspring.

Towards the end of the movie, a tragic Hindu film called ‘Shakuntala’, Behram held Tim’s hand. Her fingers were short and stubby and her grip eager and endearingly probing.

Wires were despatched to Lahore announcing the date of the wedding. Happy, newsy letters, full of instructions to bring this and that, were written to Faredoon, Yasmin, Hutoxi and Ruby; and the clan in Lahore hurriedly prepared for the exodus to Bombay.

Jerbanoo and Putli worked a sixteen-hour day, visiting jewellers, sari shops, cloth merchants, and tailors. Rodabai and each of her seventeen daughters were to be given sets of clothes: sari, petticoat, blouse,
sudreh, mathabana,
panty and a thin chain of gold. The elder sister a thicker chain and Rodabai a ruby-and-gold set of necklace, earrings and ring. Tanya’s four brothers, two of whom were studying in England, would get suit lengths, shirts and cufflinks, and Sir Noshirwan Easymoney could count on receiving extras, like pearl studs and diamond tie-pins.

Then, of course, there were dozens of outfits to be selected for Tanya: blouses and petticoats carefully matched, sets of jewellery and perfume.

Billy spent his mornings in a happily inquisitive and mildly interfering buzz and his evenings at the Easymoney monument.

He met Sir Easymoney briefly, only once, just before the household left on the cinema excursion. Sir Easymoney towered over Billy. He had patted him patronisingly, and looked at him out of one black eye and one grey glass eye so cordially, that Billy’s knocking knees turned to jelly. Sir Easymoney had embraced Jerbanoo and Putli and ensconced his dapper frame elegantly in a sofa. His suit was from Savile
Row, his patent leather shoes shone like mirrors, and his long, gracefully crossed legs occupied an impressive amount of space in the room. Jerbanoo and Putli, thoroughly awed by his magnificence, gaped at their host like quiescently expiring lambs. Despite his British affectations he looked graciously and splendidly Indian.

Every evening two or three sisters and their offspring accompanied Billy and Tanya on a sight-seeing tour of Bombay. They drove in grand style in one of Sir Easymoney’s carriages, with two flamboyantly liveried and tall-turbaned lackeys standing on boards behind the carriage, and one up front seated next to the coachman. Past landmarks, museums and galleries they drove, and disembarked only on promenades. Here the sisters sat down on benches, and the children, accompanied by the lackeys, scattered to buy roasted lentils, ice-creams and coconut-water from vendors. Tim and Billy strolled up and down the promenades. When they were screened from the sisters’ vigilant scrutinty by other promenaders, Billy quickly took hold of Tanya’s hand. Once he even put an arm around her shoulders. They walked between the massive stone pillars of the Gateway to India, along Cuff Parade, Ducksbury, and Worli Sea Face.

Then one evening they decided to stroll all the way down the Marine Drive pavement to the crowded Chowpatti Beach. They told the sisters of their plan and the sisters sitting on the sea-wall nodded. One of them called after them, ‘Don’t be too long.’

Billy held Tanya’s hand. On one side was the soft breeze, the sway of the sea, and on the other the exciting rush of traffic. They kept to the sea-wall, winding their way between hawkers and strolling past stone benches. Billy noticed the thin, ragged length of a vagabond occupying a bench, a newspaper over his face. He felt himself infinitely lucky.

At the beach, their shoes dragging in the sand, they merrily sampled hot, spicy delicacies peddled on carts. They sat awhile on the sand until, reluctantly, Tanya said, ‘I think we’d better get back.’

Once again they walked between the traffic and the sea, past benches, past the ragged vagrant – and suddenly Billy’s heart thumped wildly and his footsteps faltered. He turned to look back at the bench. He had the impression that the newspaper had just been replaced on the face.

‘My God!’ said Billy.

‘What’s the matter?’ Tanya was alarmed by the furtive look on his face.

‘Just a minute,’ he said, turning hesitantly to retrace his steps. Now he knew why his eyes had twice sought out the nondescript man sleeping on a bench, one among so many equally threadbare derelicts.

He stood a pace from the bench, slightly stooping forward. ‘Yazdi?’ he asked. ‘Yazdi?’

Yazdi slid the paper from his face and sat up slowly. A three days’ growth of beard made him look wan and old.

‘You saw me?’ Billy was certain now that Yazdi had deliberately tried to hide behind the paper.

‘How are you, Billy?’ Yazdi asked gently. His eyes were as poetic as Billy remembered – but the fearless gleam that had come into them since his quarrel with Faredoon was intensified, giving him a look of fierce independence.

Tanya stood hesitantly behind Billy, and noticing her, Yazdi stood up.

‘My fiancée,’ said Billy. ‘Yazdi, my brother.’

Yazdi fixed Tanya with his intense gaze and Billy noticed his brother’s bare feet and his starved face, and he suddenly grew vastly afraid that the girl’s love for him would diminish at the sight. He was torn between his fear and the bond with his long-lost brother. Touching Yazdi’s wrist briefly, he said, ‘I’ll leave her with her sisters. They’re waiting. Don’t go away, I’ll be back in a minute. I must talk to you.’

Tanya, respecting his wish to be alone with his new-found brother, turned to go. ‘I’ll go by myself. You stay here.’

‘I’m coming with you,’ insisted Billy holding her hand. Over his shoulder he repeated, ‘Please don’t go away – I’ll be right back.’

They hurried to the sisters sitting on the wall at the end of the walk, and all the time Billy held Tanya’s strong fingers in his hand, he was aware of the feel of his brother’s wrist. It had felt like a stick, almost brittle.

Billy ran back anxiously. He held on to the change rattling in his pocket and only slowed when he spied Yazdi still lounging on the bench. He knew he would never have forgiven himself if Yazdi had slipped away.

‘Mother’s here,’ he said breathlessly, sitting beside Yazdi. ‘We’re staying at Mr Toddywalla’s brother’s house at Colaba.’

‘I know.’

Billy looked at him, bewildered.

‘I’ve seen her a couple of times,’ said Yazdi, as if he were giving a perfectly rational explanation.

‘You saw her? But you didn’t greet her?’

‘No,’ said Yazdi. ‘What’s the use? She wouldn’t understand my appearance. She would only be sad.’

‘Oh God,’ Billy grew excited. ‘You must see her!’ He took out his creaky new leather wallet and removed all the notes. He crushed them into Yazdi’s hands.

Yazdi accepted them with a thin, crooked smile and shoved them carelessly into his shirt pocket. ‘Perhaps I will get hold of a clean shirt and pants and visit you all.’

‘You must,’ begged Billy. ‘I’ll give you more money. That’s all I have right now.’ Seeing the amused, independent glint in Yazdi’s eyes, he added facetiously, ‘Think of all the beggars you will be able to convert into lords!’

They laughed, relaxing with each other for the first time since their meeting. Four years had wrought their change on each.

‘That’s exactly what money’s for,’ said Yazdi.

‘Papa was wise to put your money in a Trust.’ Billy’s tone was wry. Then a curious look crept into his face and he asked in an awed, subdued voice, ‘Are you a communist?’

‘Maybe,’ said Yazdi. ‘Perhaps I’m a follower of Mazdak.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘The first communist. A Zarathusti ancestor. He realised
centuries ago that all material goods, including women, had to be shared!’

Thank God Tanya was not with them, thought Billy; and, as if reading his mind, Yazdi said, ‘Your fiancee is very pretty.’

‘I’m not sharing her with anyone!’ said Billy.

Yazdi chuckled. ‘So give me all your news,’ he said, smiling.

Billy gave him the news from home. He told him of Yasmin’s marriage to Bobby, of Ruby’s two new children and of Hutoxi’s husband, Ardishir Cooper’s hernia operation, of Jerbanoo and Putli. He told Yazdi how dispirited their father had grown after Soli’s death, and especially so after Yazdi’s departure, and how he had to manage almost all the business. Billy had to travel to the stores in Peshawar, Jullundur and Rawalpindi. Their father only attended to the correspondence. Billy had passed his Bachelor of Arts examination.

‘They are all coming for the wedding,’ Billy said proudly. ‘Hutoxi, Ardishir, and their children, Ruby and her children. Her husband can’t come, he’s working on a construction project. But Yasmin’s Bobby is coming direct from Karachi by boat. Papa and Katy will be here too. You will see them all together in one go!’ he exclaimed. They talked for half an hour and Billy got up after exacting a promise from Yazdi that he would visit them soon.

‘I saw Yazdi today,’ announced Billy to Putli and Jerbanoo in the room they shared.

‘Oh! When?’

‘Where?’

‘Loafing on the Marine Drive walk.’

‘How did he look?’

‘Filthy; thinner … happy.’

‘What did he say? Did you take his address?’

‘I asked. He said he didn’t have any. He ate and slept where he could.’

‘Oh God! You should have brought him forcibly to us! Did you tell him father is coming?’

Billy nodded.

‘You shouldn’t have! Now he may not come.’

‘Did you tell him about Yasmin’s Bobby?’

‘Oh, my poor child! My poor child,’ wept Putli.

They did not sleep until late that night; but Yazdi never came.

BILLY’S sisters arrived a week before the wedding. They were effusively welcomed and driven away by Lady Easymoney to her mansion. Each sister was accommodated in an extravagantly furnished room with crystal chandeliers, copious wardrobes, canopied beds and downy pillows.

Hutoxi and Ardishir were given two interconnected rooms on the first floor; one for themselves and one for the children. In the morning when Hutoxi drew the lace curtains to look out of the window she received a shock. ‘Adi! Adi! Come here!’ she squealed, urgently waving her hand to beckon her husband.

‘What is it?’ asked Ardishir Cooper drowsily.

‘Come quickly! Come quickly,’ she hissed, sotto voce.

Adi toddled over to the window and gaped in astonishment. There were acres of garden and trees beneath them, but what fascinated Hutoxi was the emerald swimming pool and the elephant kneeling before it. While they watched he dipped the tip of his trunk into the pool and gave himself a shower. Half hidden behind a clump of mango trees was a camel and to their right, in a hedged enclosure, some deer and a peacock. Hutoxi rushed to the adjoining room to awaken the children.

Every morning the household descended to the chaotic traffic in the dining room to gorge itself on eggs,
parathas
dripping with butter, caviar, pickles, fish and cold cuts of meat. A dainty, marble-topped console held the wine to which the toothless aunts helped themselves because of its health-giving properties. Their husbands stuck to Scotch.

There must be at least a hundred people in the house,
thought Hutoxi, while they were being served breakfast at the mahogany table that could seat eighty. Each time they breakfasted in the house a bearer placed a freshly corked bottle of Black and White Scotch whisky before Adi.

Cadaverous, false-toothed uncles, similarly served, spent hours breakfasting. At lunch-time they returned to the table to chew and ruminate, and chew and ruminate, like feeding cattle. They tottered through the corridors bleary-eyed, and snored noisily all afternoon.

Barefoot servants, carrying sacks of flour, sugar, rice and spices on their backs jogged through the dining room to the kitchen making little warning sounds to clear the way. Her Ladyship darted behind them, and all over the house, with a bunch of silver keys jingling at her waist, her quick, hospitable eyes alert to the minutest comfort of her guests.

The house was never empty of guests, who often visited for six months to a year, and frequently became permanent members of the household.

Freddy arrived four days before the wedding, and Bobby Katrak’s boat docked in Bombay late that same evening.

It had been a frantic day for everyone. The
Mada-sara
ceremony occupied the entire morning. This entailed much stepping on and off the small, fish-patterned platform. After the prospective bride and groom stepped off and planted the mango sapling that was to guarantee their fertility, the sisters hopped up to be garlanded, stained with vermilion and presented with their set of clothes and thin strings of gold. The gummy-mouthed aunts and uncles, eagerly awaiting their turn, came next. They were also garlanded, stained with vermilion, and given small envelopes containing cash. Her Ladyship performed the honours for Jerbanoo and Putli and last of all, with a great deal of coaxing, mounted the platform herself.

Sir and Lady Easymoney, some of the major aunts and uncles and the Toddywalla household, went to receive Freddy at the station.

Faredoon Junglewalla was welcomed with beaming smiles
and garlands. Jerbanoo pushed herself to the forefront when Freddy emerged from the compartment. She waved her hands and energetically cracked her knuckles on her head to bless him; thereby compelling him to touch her feet.

Freddy was introduced to Sir Easymoney and they clasped hands in a warm, four-handed grip. Being the father of the groom Freddy’s position was a notch superior. The two men took to each other instantly, as their wives had, and Sir Easymoney, who normally refrained from fussing over his kin, exerted himself commendably on Freddy’s behalf. That is to say, in between princely pinches of snuff, he directed his entourage to bustle about and see to the porters, the luggage and carriages. In the manner of his English counterparts, Sir Easymoney prefaced his instructions with an authoritative, ‘Now look here, old chap, why don’t you …?’ and a hearty, ‘Jolly good.’

Freddy, who long ago had given up his pyjama and frock-coat, looked handsome in a brown suit; but not as debonair as Sir Easymoney in immaculate grey checks. And when Sir Easymoney removed his spectacles, Freddy observed the redoubtable glass eye glinting electrically in his swarthy, smooth-shaven face.

Later that evening the Easymoneys entertained the Junglewallas at a quiet dinner. There followed a cosy after-dinner chat in a leather upholstered and book-encased study. The younger members of the household had gone to receive Bobby at the harbour.

Sir Easymoney was expansive and cordial, Lady Easymoney tense in her anxiety to please. After dinner, in order to put his guests at ease, Sir Easymoney removed his eye, his coat and tie, and put on his pyjamas. Freddy was coaxed into a pair of Sir Easymoney’s pyjamas and the two gentlemen sank into identical swing-backed leather armchairs and raised their feet to matching stools. Four uncles settled in an attentive arc, a little to one side, and their wives joined the women sitting primly in their elegant straight-backed chairs opposite the men. Sir Easymoney made a sign, and her Ladyship promptly
placed two silver spittoons by the reclining men. A white-and-gold turbaned bearer served the liqueurs.

‘When I was with the army in the Sudan,’ began their host, launching the story about the loss of his eye; and Lady Easymoney started a conversation at her end about her various and variegated deliveries.