DEAD MEN IN TOWN - Concluding part.

(If you haven't read the earlier parts of this story, click on the title.)

Dead Man looked disappointed. “Apparently, your accountant isn’t very smart,” was his rejoinder. As I started the car he added, “Do keep the Christmas Eve date.”

First thing I did on reaching home was to visit Koottil Bank’s website. Photo of the ‘special safe’ was quite prominent. There was one of Joseph Koottil Sr. as well, wearing or bearing a different body of course. Picture of the former Chief Minister placing one hundred and one rupees in the safe, was also given.

How much money that iron box contains, I wondered. Five million? Ten? More? As a good citizen, I should report the matter to the authorities. I was aware that my reward would be twenty per cent of the unaccounted money seized. That should be sufficient to get my project off the ground. After pondering for two days, I decided that to succeed one had to take risks, and contacted a senior officer in the Income Tax Department.

The raid came the next Saturday afternoon.

According to the media, it was the largest search of its kind in Cochin till then. The bank premises and the three Koottil residences were combed simultaneously. The operation lasted well into the night.

Front page headline in next morning’s Cochin Chronicle summed up the exercise, “Koottil Bank Raid – MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.” The only unaccounted money the tax sleuths unearthed was the former Chief Minister’s contribution. I couldn’t claim my share of Rs.20.20 even if I wanted to because the officials had ignored the find.

The aftermath of the raid was tumultuous. People from all walks of life, banker’s associations, and trade unions protested against what was generally considered as an unwarranted offensive action against a financial institution with an impeccable record.

Newspapers and TV channels picked up the story. Suddenly Koottil Bank was in the national limelight. A prominent analyst wrote an Op-Ed article in Economic Mirror titled “Koottil – A Rock Among Smaller Indian Banks.” Speculative reports about Koottil going public, international banks approaching them with tie-up proposals and so on were published almost daily. The financial community developed a sudden interest in local banks and big players began buying available shares on the quiet.

I was on fear mode. On couple of nights I dreamt of my mutilated body floating around in the Cochin backwaters. Now even the Income Tax people were unhappy with me.

Days dragged on and nothing happened.

Koottils might have let me go, I felt, because they hadn’t lost anything. Or had they taken a hit and kept quiet about it? Some one could have cleaned up the ‘special safe’ ahead of the raid. There were other possibilities as well. A tip off from the Income Tax Department couldn’t be ruled out. May be Dead Man had given his sons a ghostly warning. Or, perhaps, he had bluffed me in the first place.

On a sudden impulse I went to Neptune on Christmas Eve, not really expecting Dead Man there. But he was at my table with the same body he had on at our first meeting, and greeted me warmly.

“You are,” I said suspiciously after the orders were placed, “having the same body. I thought they came from the top of the pile.”

Dead Man laughed. “Money,” he said, “can do wonders. Now I have three bodies reserved for me at the cemetery. A small problem is that the clothes on them can’t be changed. They’re pre-fixed.”

He went on talking. In two months he had practically become the boss of St. Patrick’s cemetery. That very night a dozen souls including the supervisor were in town enjoying at his expense. He had the freedom to go out whenever he wanted. But he was unhappy.

“Why?” I asked.

“I visited home in the morning,” he said. “As a spirit, of course. The fight between my daughters – in – law has flared up sooner than I expected. My wife is too simple to handle them. The sons would succumb to their wives and the Bank will be wrecked.”

“That’s the problem with several family business establishments,” I said sympathetically.

“I’m planning to tell the boys to sell out and go their separate ways. Now we’re getting fantastic offers.”

“Tell them?”

“There’s a method of communication.”

“Fourth generation bank, and doing very well,” I said. “Aren’t you sentimental?”

“Sentimentality without discipline is dangerous.”

We drank in silence for a few minutes. Then I asked, “Didn’t you bluff me about the ‘special safe’?”

“I told you once,” the reply came with vehemence, “that I’m an honest dead man. The money was there and I needed it. The day after we met I found an accomplice. We took what was required and I warned my sons to clean up. I knew you would squeal.”

“Look here-”

“OK, I’ll rephrase it – I knew your patriotism would overcome particularly with the twenty per cent reward.”

I looked away.

“Have you found the money for your project?” he asked.

“No.”

“Thought so. Tell you what. Apply to our bank for a venture capital loan. Say 1.5 millions. New players have a tendency to underestimate project cost. Employ a consultant the bank recommends.”

“But,” I expressed my doubt, “will they help me after what happened?”

“Oh,” Dead Man was exasperated. “You’re a technician, not a businessman. Do you know how much market value you’ve added to the Bank? They’ll give you the money all right. Of course, the project has to be good.”

The project was excellent. Perhaps, I thought, I should follow his advice.

“Are you really a dead man?” I asked suddenly.

“An entrepreneur who cannot decide things by himself, is unlikely to succeed,” he stated and ordered another round of drinks.

Ends.

œ

DEAD MEN IN TOWN - Part 2.

(If you missed the first part, click on the title.)

He had turned around, studying the crowd. “Oh, no,” he exclaimed suddenly and looked at me. “He’s here.”

“Who?”

“Our supervisor. The one in blue checked shirt at the bar counter. He’s drinking water because he doesn’t have money.”

I saw the chap who had a faint resemblance to Frankenstein.

“You’re bluffing,” I said. “How can he identify all the bodies stocked at St. Patrick’s?”

“Look, I’m an honest dead man. There is some kind of a hologram on these bodies with the home cemetery code. He can read that.”

“But how -”

He interrupted me saying, “These are highly technical matters. I’m not competent to explain. But help me now. Apart from the main entrance is there any other door?”

“There’s one from the side street. I don’t think they allow exit that way.”

Our bearer was serving at the next table. Dead Man told him to get the bill.

“Is the supervisor looking this side?” he asked after some time and drained his glass.

“No.”

“Tell you what. I’ll wait by the side door. The waiter is taking too long. When he comes, direct him there. That’ll also help me to exit that way. See you.”

He moved away quickly before I could respond.

When the bearer came, I sent him to the side door. He returned after a while to report that the ‘gentleman’ couldn’t be found. You’re a gullible ass, I told myself and ordered anther drink.

‘Frankenstein’ was still at the bar counter as I was leaving. I had half a mind to tell him that an AWOL from his cemetery was with me till a short while back.

When I came out there was a hushed ‘pssst.’

It was Dead Man.

Not again, I whispered to myself and said aloud, “Thought you were gone.”

“How could I? You were to have drinks on me but end up paying. That’s not the done thing.”

Very correct, I said silently.

“That stupid bearer took too long and I couldn’t go on waiting there. How much was it?”

“Never mind.”

“You have to tell me,” Dead Man said. “Come, let’s go.”

“Where?”

“I’ve to pass your car en route to the cemetery.”

That’s it, I thought; five hundred meters and I can be rid of this creature.

“At the bar,” he said as we were walking, “I could have signed. Now how will I pay?”

“Forget it.”

“Of course not." Koottils always pay up and also collect what is due to them. Tell you what. We meet here on Christmas Eve. Then I can relax. We’ll have cocktails and dinner and I’ll foot the entire expense.”

Not again, I thought. “Christmas is still two months away,” I said.

“Oh! Then how about the day after tomorrow? I’ll sneak out again.”

“No,” I protested. “Let’s keep it Christmas Eve. Tentative.”

“You won’t turn up.”

I didn’t deny that. We carried on in silence for a minute or so. Then Dead Man stopped abruptly and I followed suit automatically.

“We’ll settle the account tonight itself,” he said. “If you need more money I can arrange that also. I mean big money.”

“How big?”

“Say, half a million rupees provided you have a good project. It’ll be an interest-bearing loan. Amortization on easy terms.”

Strange coincidence, I thought. Or, had he selected me after doing a background check? “What I need,” I said, “is something like a million rupees.”

Dead Man considered that for a moment and said, “OK. That would mean more interest inflow than I require. May be I’ll give the excess to charity.”

I was almost sure that it was all a joke. “Why do dead men need money?”

“Signing in my son’s name would be exposed sooner or later. I must be able to pay directly. You’ll deposit the interest with restaurants I stipulate in the names I tell you. We meet once a month to review.”

He pulled me to the outer edge of the footpath and went on to explain. He would allot amounts to the cemetery supervisor and others according to the cooperation they extend; they could sign till the credit runs out. Kind of Dead Man’s Debit Card. Possibly the area supervisor for cemeteries and his boss would be covered as well. Thus Dead Man would buy freedom to roam around at will. “Money talks even in cemeteries,” he concluded.

“But,” I expressed my doubt, “how’ll you manage the money in the first place? You’re dead.”

“Yes, I’m a dead banker who walks, talks and drinks. Often, apparent reality is the relevant one. You drive me to Koottil Bank HQ and en route sum up your project in five minutes. If I’m convinced that the project is viable, you wait in the car and I deliver the cash. In either case drop me back at St. Patrick’s.”

My strange companion went on to explain that he knew all the security passwords and safe combinations of the bank. He could easily get in to the building at any time by the executive lift, which could be operated either by smart card or punched ID. He was the only one who knew the double code of their special safe; his two sons were privy to only one each.

‘Special Safe’ was where all their unaccounted money was kept. His grandfather had bought it when he started the bank. It was decommissioned after a new strong room was built. My ‘friend’ had it transferred ceremoniously to the reception area as a memento and placed a photograph of the founder on top of it. The much-publicized function was presided over by the then Chief Minister of Kerala who kept one hundred and one rupees inside it saying that a bank safe should never be empty.

“Why didn’t you keep your father’s picture also?” I asked.

“That would have diffused the focus. My photo won’t be there either.”

The reception was apparently a low security area and nobody paid any attention to the safe. That was precisely the effect, which had been planned for. All the black money was shifted into it. This included funds of politicians, business tycoons and other important personages. There was lending of unaccounted funds too. Ten percent of the profits from that operation went to charities.

“But won’t the missing money be noticed?” I asked.

“Because of secrecy concerns, the infrequent physical verifications are quick and not very accurate. The last one was a month before I died suddenly. Damned cardiac arrest. My sons won’t know how much I had drawn during that period.”

I was flabbergasted. Shortage of one million rupees may not even be noticed!

“What about documentation?” I asked.

“No-fuss loan,” he answered and started walking again. “I hand over the cash tonight if your project sounds good. No papers. Conditions apply, though. But no small print, no hidden costs.”

“How can you,” I asked, “evaluate a project on the basis of a five minute verbal presentation?”

“That’s all it takes for a good lender to decide on an expression of interest. The rest are details.”

“How can you be sure of repayment?”

“You would be surprised. We have one of the best recovery rates among all banks in the country. Several factors are involved. Basically, most people want to repay loans. We are careful in lending. Funds utilization is closely monitored. We also give necessary guidance and timely assistance. In fact we walk a client through his project. Main thing is to ensure that debt servicing capability is maintained.”

After a brief pause he continued, and in the process answered a question that was in my mind, “Like some of the modern banks, we too are a bit goon-tech on the rare defaulters. Now I can even send a few spooks after them. For those who squeal on us the treatment is more severe.”

I had to make a quick decision. Funds were offered without hassles to implement my dream project. But I had to deal with a dead financier and in black money.

We reached the car. “Without papers,” I said, “the source can't be shown. Don’t want to be in trouble with Income Tax. Thanks anyway.”

Dead Man looked disappointed. “Apparently, your accountant isn’t very smart,” was his rejoinder. As I started the car he added, “Do keep the Christmas Eve date.”

To be continued.

DEAD MEN IN TOWN. Part 1.

The evening rush was on. I found a parking space about five hundred yards away from my favorite restaurant and started walking along the crowded pavement.

“Excuse me, sir,” someone said from behind.

Turning around I saw a middle-aged person who quickly caught up with me. “Have they opened the Neptune?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Good,” the man sounded pleased. “Do you happen to know how the place is?”

“Nice ambiance, tasty food, clean liquor. Prices are a bit steep though.”

“Well,” the stranger responded, “there’s always a premium on quality.”

“True,” I agreed.

The man followed me into the bar and seeing the crowd, said, “There’s no place to sit.”

“I’ve a reservation,” I responded without thinking. I went to Neptune occasionally and did some problem solving over dinner and three whiskies. Tonight’s agenda was the one million rupees I still had to raise as part of the promoter’s equity for my ambitious biotechnology project.

“If no one is joining you may I use your table?” the stranger requested.

I couldn’t say no. After we settled down my new found companion said, “You’re right. The atmosphere’s good. They were planning to open by Independence Day when I died.”

“Oh,” I whispered absentmindedly, looking for a bearer. All of them were busy. Finally, one carrying a tray of drinks noticed. He smiled and nodded.

When I turned to the chap sitting opposite, something clicked inside my brain. “What did you say?” I asked.

“Sorry it slipped out. I said when I died -”

“You mean that you are a ghost?”

“Not technically. Ghosts are shapeless spirits. Don’t you see that I’m bearing a body? It would be more appropriate to say that I’m a dead man.”

May be he was putting me on. Nevertheless I took out my handkerchief and wiped off sweat that had appeared suddenly on my forehead and neck.

“Don’t be frightened,” Dean Man said. “We’re quite harmless compared to many of the living.”

Perhaps. But I was counting my options. There was none, really. If I left he might accompany me. I would rather be at a known place with real people than outside on the street with a dead man, friendly or otherwise.

The waiter came. That was a relief till he asked me, “Sir, are you all right?”

“Looks as though,” the being sitting across the table said, laughing, “he saw a ghost.”

I gave him a dirty look and told the bearer, “Get me vodka on rocks. Double large.” If the chap was surprised at the change from my usual he didn’t show it and turned to Dead Man who ordered, “Grand Old Parr. Large. Cold water, no ice.”

The ‘fellow’ has taste, I thought.

“Sorry, sir,” the waiter apologized. “We’ve no premium Scotch.”

“Red Label?”

“Yes sir.”

“I’ll be signing. Koottil Bank account. Joseph Koottil Jr.”

“Very well, sir.”

When we were alone Dead Man explained, “That’s my elder son. Can easily duplicate his signature. In fact I taught him to sign. He hardly visits this place.”

At least his bill won’t be dumped on me, I thought with a sense of relief.

“Might have heard of us if you stay in Cochin. Fourth generation bank. Low-key operation, but fairly big and high tech. I advanced a bridge loan to the group that owns this place.”

I knew of the bank. It was in the short-list of possible financiers for my project.

Dead Man obviously noticed my continued silence. “Don’t be so concerned,” he said. “Everyday people come across entities like me without realizing it. If I hadn’t inadvertently blurted out my status, you wouldn’t have known.”

That was true. But the problem was that I knew.

“There are,” Dead Man said, “others like me around. From St. Patrick’s cemetery alone – that’s where I am buried – three of us are out tonight.”

Unconsciously I looked around the bar. Everybody seemed to be living human beings like me.

Drinks arrived and I took a gulp. My companion sipped his whiskey and said, “I’m on pins and needles.”

I looked at him questioningly.

“Sneaked out without permission. The cemetery supervisor may be on the prowl. If caught I’ve had it.”

Warmed with vodka I asked, “Why, what would happen?”

“We’re allowed only two outings per year – Christmas and Easter. First offence attracts cancellation of the privilege for five years. For repeat, the ban would be sine die.” He laughed suddenly and added, “Imagine a dead man using that phrase!”

I didn’t find it amusing. “Why don’t you,” I asked, “return quickly before getting caught?”

He shook his head and answered, “No way. I want to celebrate my birthday.”

“Oh, well, happy birthday,” I wished him, feeling rather stupid.

“Thank you. By the way, the drinks are on me.”

I ignored that and asked, “Shouldn’t you be visiting your family?”

“Thought of that. But the problem is that if they forgot my birthday I would feel bad. If they celebrate also I would feel bad.”

I finished my drink and ordered another. Dead Man followed suit and continued, “There are other problems as well. I can visit the family only as a spirit. That’s faster of course. But to do that now I’ll have to go back to the cemetery and return this body. Then I can’t drink. Spirits can’t have spirits!” He laughed, rather sadly.

“You mean that even when you sneak out they give you a body?”

“That’s how it’s programmed. It’s not case sensitive. Anyone who is leaving is offered a clothed carcass. Take it or leave it.”

“Not one’s own body?”

“No, I think that’s reserved for the Resurrection. This is from top of the stack. It goes by size. I think they are sterilized, micro-shrunk and stored. Some process blows them to actual size before issuing.”

After a couple of minutes Dead Man said wistfully, “I would have been sixty today!”

The body he was sporting didn’t look that old. But then the program matched only the size and not the age.

He had turned around, studying the crowd. “Oh, no,” he exclaimed suddenly and looked at me. “He’s here.”

To be continued shortly.

Click on title for part 2.

THE DEAD AND THE LIVING DEAD.

I’m on my way to see Kiran again. We have met only once, but no other woman has left such an indelible mark in my mind as she did. In spite of the time that has elapsed, every little detail of that meeting is still fresh in my mind.

Maj. Gen. Krishna Marar, a retired Indian Army officer, and I were on his lawn in Munnar, a small hill station in Kerala’s tea country, sipping whiskey and soda and watching a full moon rise over the mountains. After a while I followed the general’s sidewise glance and saw a tall young lady standing a few paces away, dressed in a dark-blue silk sari.

“My only child, Kiran,” the general removed the pipe he was smoking from his mouth and introduced us. “Mr. Samuel Mathai is a writer.”

I stood up chivalrously and said, “Hello, Kiran.”

Kiran came forward with great poise, giving me a charming smile. After making her cosy on a cane chair she addressed me, “I’ve never met an author before. What do you write?”

“Well,” I replied, “articles mostly. A few short stories. This time it’s a novel.”

“That’s great,” Kiran responded enthusiastically. “Of late Indian authors have been doing very well.”

“Do you like novels?”

“Yes. The better ones.”

“She reads a great deal,” the general pitched in.

“What’s your novel about?” Kiran asked. And, looking at the moon, added,

“Not one of those moonlight and roses stuff, I hope.”

I laughed and answered, “Oh, no. Romance isn’t my genre. It’s about a young army officer.”

“That’s interesting. A war story?”

“Not really. There’s some action of course. But it’s mostly about the young man’s life. His loves and his hopes. The sacrifices. The pitfalls.”

Kiran nodded. “War,” she said, “is a terrible business. Think of people dying, getting maimed. The misery endured by their families.”

“But it’s a fact of life.”

“True.”

“You don’t seem to like war novels.”

“Some are great. All Quiet on the Western Front, Across the Black Waters. Naked and the Dead was good too, but a bit raw for me.”

“You’re nursing your drink” My host’s statement was almost a command. I smiled and took a sip.

Kiran was staring at the horizon, lost in thought. Her shoulder length hair that was parted on the side shimmered in the moonlight.

“Actually,” I said, “I came to consult your father on certain aspects of the book. I’d sent him a copy of the manuscript in advance.”

Kiran nodded and turning to her father asked, “How’s it, daddy?”

Gen. Marar took a quick puff on the pipe. “Good,” he answered. “In fact, very good, I would say. But some corrections and polishing are required. After all, it’s only an initial draft.”

Kiran had a serious expression now. “But a general’s view alone,” she said to me, “wouldn’t give sufficient dimension to a war story. You should know about the junior officers and the jawans. They are the army, really.”

“All generals were junior officers once,” my host said.

“Okay, daddy,” Kiran said laughing.

“You’re right,” I concurred with her. “I’ve covered that as well. In fact, a great deal of research has been done.”

“Good,” Kiran approved. “That’s essential. But what about soldiers’ wives, like me? They form a silent force behind every army.”

Did I feel a tinge of disappointment that she was married? I wasn’t sure. “That’s an area,” I admitted, “I haven’t really looked into. Thanks for the advice.”

“My husband, Maj. Mohan Nair….”She stopped abruptly and looked with concern at her father who had choked on his pipe and went into a fit of coughing.

“Daddy, you’re smoking too much these days. Are you alright?”

The general took out a handkerchief, removed his spectacles and wiped his brows. His face was flushed and his eyes blinked. He smiled with some effort and nodded.

After a few seconds Kiran asked me, “Where was I?”

“Your husband,” I reminded her.

“Oh, yes,” she said with a smile, “Before retiring daddy was his Div. Commander. That’s how we met, at a garden party on a moonlit night like this.” She paused and a faraway look came into her eyes."He’s coming on leave next month," she added.

Mist was beginning to rise from the valley in soft, woolly streamers. It floated around in the gentle breeze.

“We should go in now,” the general said. “It’s getting chilly.”

Kiran suddenly woke up from her reverie. “No, daddy, please,” she pleaded. “It’s quite pleasant, really. Let’s sit here a little while longer.”

“Mr. Mathai is a city dweller. He may not be used to it.”

“I’m fine, sir".

After a thoughtful moment Gen. Marar said, “Okay,” and poured fresh drinks.

“I could,” Kiran addressed me, “provide you some material from the wives’ angle.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I responded. “I’ll take down notes.”

“Shall I, daddy?”

“Later. We haven’t finished our discussion.”

Kiran could, I felt sure, furnish useful information that could be worked into the story.

“May I request you,” I asked, “to go through the manuscript and send me notes? If necessary, I’ll come back for a discussion after that.”

“Fine. I’ll be happy to do that.”

The suggestions and anecdotes she sent are still with me. In fact, I’ve acknowledged her contribution in my book.

“Oh, my!” Kiran exclaimed with a start and got up. “The baby’s crying. I have to go.”

I couldn’t hear any child cry and wondered about the invisible mechanism by which a mother could monitor her little one. I stood up to bid goodbye.

“I hope,” Kran said with a smile, “that your book turns out to be a bestseller.”

“Thank you.”

“You must send me an autographed copy.”

“I certainly will.” I did, and her well-composed letter of congratulation is carefully preserved at home.

“Please excuse me,” Kiran continued. “Mine’s a spoilt child. Daddy pets her too much. I suppose all grandfathers are like that. Now I have to play the piano to put her to sleep. Good night, Mr. Mathai, and good luck. See you daddy.”

I said good night and the general waved to her affectionately.

Kiran moved away quickly but gracefully. I watched till she disappeared inside the bungalow.

There was emptiness about the scene now. My host began the procedure of refilling his pipe. I sat looking at the moon, which was clear above the Western Ghats.

A few minutes later, strains of piano drifted over to us. Soft, captivating. Trained fingers caressing the keys. The notes lingered in the air.

“That’s beautiful,” I said spontaneously. “Kiran?”

Gen. Marar looked up and nodded. “She’s very good. Her music teacher used to say that she hadn’t come across any one better talented.”

“Not surprising,” I said. “The way Kiran plays is fascinating. It’s a pity - ”

“That such a gift is being wasted,” the general completed the sentence for me. “Yes, it’s sad. She even composes. But army life isn’t the best platform for a musical career.” He put the pipe to his mouth to light.

What Kiran had said about the army wives made more sense now. “Yes, I understand,” I commented.

“But she practices every morning. My wife – she died two years back – and I used to look forward to those sessions. I still do. They are so soothing.”

“Where’s Kiran’s husband posted?” I asked.

“He’s been dead five years.” My host stated bluntly.

"Oh," I exclaimed.

The general recharged his glass, pushed the bottle towards me, and continued, “Got it on an unnamed hill at the border. Officially, a peacetime casualty. It was one of those days of sporadic firing across the line.” After a momentary pause he added, “Half his face was blown off. It was an awful mess.”

A strange kind of heaviness seemed to have permeated the atmosphere and the mood changed tangibly. The music sounded distant, hardly audible. But I could visualise Kiran at the piano – beautiful, talented.

I helped myself to a stiff peg.

“He was,” the general went on, “the son I didn’t have. Handsome. So full of life. And a good soldier as well. They had made an ideal couple.” He began lighting his pipe.

Mist was getting thicker and made an eerie haze in the moonlight. The mountain range could be hardly seen. The tmperature had dropped and I shivered slightly.

The pipe-lighting ritual took time. Finally that was done. The old soldier let out the smoke and stared at the horizon.

The music was back. A different tune. We were quiet for a while, listening. Then the general drank more whiskey and said, almost in a whisper, “Cradle Song by Johansson Brahms. The lullaby is meant for my granddaughter. Well, a rag doll, really. The one that was Kiran’s favourite when she was a child. When the news about Mohan came, she lost the baby she was carrying. But her mind hasn’t accepted that.”

There was heavy silence for a few moments. Then Gen. Marar said, “She’s almost normal in everything else.”

I looked away from him towards the house. Diffused light could be seen from the front door, like a lantern marking some distant grave.

That was four years earlier. This morning’s newspaper carried Gen. Marar’s obituary, which concluded with the sentence, ‘Survived by daughter, Mrs. Kiran Nair.’

Ends.

A Crow in the Bonnet

I used to think that crows were creatures of no consequence till the problem started one morning as I was leavening for the office. A crow was sitting on the hood of my Honda City, staring at me. It didn’t move when I tried shooing it away. When I swung my brief case the bird stepped back a little and started making noises as though it was trying to communicate with me. I ignored the creature and drove away. For a moment I noticed it follow my car, flying low.

At the office my assistant, Shani, was ready with drawings of the prestigious shopping-cum-office complex that was to come up at a prime location in the South Indian port city of Cochin. The meeting with the promoter of the project was at noon. We went over the details once more. The job was good. Actually most of the credit was due to Shani who had developed very well with us. I made a note to mention her to our CEO again.

When we came down to the car park, the crow was on the roof of my vehicle.

“That’s him again,” I said.

“Who?” Shani asked.

“The crow,” I replied. “Come, let’s take your car.”

My assistant gave me a curious look but said nothing.

The builder liked the job we had done. For the umpteenth time since we started working on the project he repeated the story about the new town hall at his native place. It was a beautiful plan but when the structure was completed they found that there was no elevator or staircase to the balcony. Everybody laughed once more.

“I’m,” the promoter said, “approving the plan. Hope no detail is left out.”

“Except perhaps a birdbath,” I blurted out.

The client looked at me a little puzzled. Then he chuckled and a moment later my assistant and the others joined in.

“Ram,” Shani said on our way back, “why don’t you buy me lunch? Some quiet place.”

We stopped at a lakeside restaurant, ordered pizzas, vodka for me and Coke for Shani. It was nice being there with her, sitting at a table by a window that overlooked the backwaters. She was slim and tall and was always good company. Of late I had been seriously thinking of proposing to her.

After I had a few sips of the drink my companion said, “Ram, they took the birdbath business as a joke. But I know you didn’t mean it that way.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well?”

“It just came out.”

Shani was nibbling at a piece of cheese pizza. I took a swig of the vodka, feeling a little foolish.

“What was that about the crow?” Shani asked. “When we were leaving for the client’s place?”

“You saw him,” I replied, “on the roof of my car. He was sitting on the hood when I was leaving home and followed me.”

My assistant was silent for some time; she seemed to have forgotten the food. I ordered a second drink.

“Ram,” Shani finally broke the silence, “half the crows of the world live in this city. Can you make out one from another?”

“No,” I replied. “But this was the same one. I’m certain. And he’ll come again.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Because,” I stated vehemently, “he’s trying to tell me something.”

“You really believe the crow wants to talk to you?”

“Yes.”

Shani nodded slowly as though she understood.

When we reached back there was no crow on my car or anywhere near it. In fact there was no crow for the next few days except the ones that flew about in the city. The first thing I did every morning was to look out for my bird.

Work was routine. Shani didn’t bring up the subject of the crow but it surfaced nevertheless. I sketched a logo for Eagle Educational Trust and showed Shani. She took one look and said, “Unacceptable,” and handed it back to me.

Instead of the eagle that was intended, the image that I had drawn was of a crow. Suddenly I felt a deep, piercing fear. What was happening to me? I looked at Shani. Her face was blank.

Now the crow was back. Everywhere. Even in my dreams. In the middle of the night I would wake up sweating, wondering what the bird that was sitting on my bed a moment ago was trying to tell me. Why did it fly off in anger leaving me awake and afraid to wait for the morning? Why did the bird follow me wherever I went? Would it physically attack me?

Shani soon found out about the pebbles. While walking into my office room with me one morning she said suddenly, “Hey, your right pocket is bulging. Too much money?”

I smiled sheepishly, took out the stones and kept them on my table. There were quite a few.

“For the crow?” my assistant asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

Shani spoke to my secretary on the intercom, “Mr. Ram Kumar and I have something important to discuss. We don’t want to be disturbed. Thank you.”

“Hey, I thought I’m still the boss.”

“You are,” Shani said. “Unless you let that crow takeover.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Ram,” Shani said sitting down. “Going around with stones to defend against a crow just doesn’t seem normal.”

“You don’t understand,” I said rather irritated. “If he attacks me other crows also might join him.”

“Shades of Hitchcock. The Birds!”

“Shani, it isn’t a joke.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

“Crows can be ferocious. You’ve no idea what they can do to me.”

“But Ram,” Shani protested, “just think. Why should the birds gang up against you? In the first place, why should that crow attack you?”

“Because it’s trying to communicate and I can’t understand.”

“Crows don’t talk to people.”

Now I was angry. “Many things you don’t know about do exist. Some of the other creatures interact with people. Why not a crow?”

Shani nodded and changed the subject.

Work went on as usual. Every few days the crow would appear, sitting on the car or perching at a window, staring at me. Its bloodshot eyes were frightening. I still carried the pebbles, but fewer than before so that they wouldn’t be too obvious.

A week later came a surprise meeting with the big boss. Just Shani and me. The CEO came to the point straight away. “You’ve been,” he told me, “complimenting Shani so much that I have decided to promote her.”

“She deserves it.”

“Thank you,” Shani murmured.

The boss continued talking to me. “She’s taking your place from next Monday. My plan is to promote you as VP, Commercial Constructions. You know the incumbent is retiring in about four months. Go on leave till then.”

“But I …”

“In the last five years,” the boss cut me short; “you haven’t taken more than one week’s leave at a stretch. You must be aware that we have a generous holiday scheme. Have a good time.”

The meeting was over. Shani followed me. When we reached my room I said, “You manipulated it.”

“Not the promotion part.”

“Why the leave?”

“You need it.”

“Perhaps I won’t have a job when I come back.”

“That,” Shani responded, “depends on the crow.”

I gave her a nasty look. “May be,” I said, “I’ll spend a few days with my mother.” In spite of my repeated requests to stay with me, she continued living with an old servant lady in our ancestral house near Guruvayoor, the famous temple town. The place was ideal for a short holiday.

“Don’t,” Shani immediately killed the idea. “It’ll only upset her. Just phone and tell her you are going away on an advanced management course. Look Ram, you need professional help. I’ve made arrangements at a rest house in the hills. They say it’s the best.”

“I see,” I said, thinking how easily I was being maneuvered. “So it’s all planned out. May I ask why you are bothering so much?”

“Because,” Shani replied, “I don’t like having around me colleagues with crows in their bonnet.”

The rest house was beautiful, situated at an elevation of about five thousand feet in a beautifully manicured tea garden that looked like a green carpet spread on the hill slopes. A psychiatrist couple ran the place. Accommodation, food, and the ambiance were excellent. There was an arrangement with the tea company by which the guests could use the planter’s club facilities. The climate was invigorating. I rather liked the place and started enjoying the holiday.

I was given a thorough physical check up to start with. Subsequently the routine was quite simple. There would be about an hour’s session with the senior psychiatrist every morning. I was free after that. The planters were a friendly lot and I spent a great deal of time at the club.

There were crows around the area, of course, but they didn’t bother me.

When I asked the doctor what kind of problem I had, his reply was, “We don’t give labels to the conditions our guests are in.”

“Have you,” I asked, “ever come across any case like mine?”

“No. But once I had a patient who thought he was a crow.”

“What happened to him?”

“When I last saw him he was still a crow.”

I couldn’t help laughing.

“C’mon,” the doctor said seriously, “it’s not funny. The poor chap had totally lost touch with reality. Your case is different. You’re young and healthy. There may be some reason behind your present problem that we don’t know about yet. Let’s work together and see.”

The sessions were not particularly interesting. The doctor dug deep into my past, covering all kinds of subjects. To the best of my knowledge, none of my blood relatives ever had any psychiatric problems. Mine was a normal childhood except that my father who was in the army was reported missing at the border in 1971 and was never heard of again. But it didn’t really affect me. I was only four years old when he left home for the last time. That was shortly after my grandfather died. I had only a faint recollection of all those events.

We were at it for over a month when the doctor felt that I was better and said that I could take a break. A matter that bothered me was that Shani hadn’t telephoned even once while I was at the rest house. She might have been busy with her new assignment. She didn’t have as good an assistant as I had. But she could have found the time to make a short call. I didn’t phone her because there was some hesitation, perhaps a lack of confidence. After all, she was sitting on my chair and I was in a glorified mental hospital.

As I was leaving, the doctor said, “Remember, you’ve seen dozens of crows here but there hasn’t been any problem.”

“Yes, but my crow is back in the city,” the words came out of my mouth without any conscious thought. I noticed a shadow of disappointment on the psychiatrist’s face. He asked me to meet him again after one month.

Back at home I was having a nightcap when I heard the crow. That was strange. These birds normally flocked together in their nesting place after sunset. I tried to locate the creature by beaming a torch through the windows but that was futile. The ‘cawing’ went on from time to time. I didn’t go out to chase off the offender. All the doors were locked and there was no means for the bird to enter the house.

In the morning I thought of telephoning Shani but decided against it. My next destination was home and mother. She was overwhelmed by the surprise visit. As we sat chatting about many things, mother said, “A girl from your office visited me couple of weeks back. One called Shani.”

Now it was my turn to be astonished. “Why?” I asked.

“Said she had to make an offering at the temple. She knew I stay here and dropped in.”

“I had mentioned you to her.”

“You seem to have,” mother commented, “told her quite a lot. She spoke as though she knew us closely. Even asked questions about your father and grandfather.”

“We’ve worked together for seven years.”

“Nice girl. She has to visit the temple a couple of times more. I asked her to come here again.” After a short pause she asked, “Do you like her?”

“Yes.”

“Ever thought of marrying her?”

“I did,” I admitted. “But not any more.”

“But why? She seems to be the type for you.”

I changed the subject. How does one tell one’s mother that women don’t like men with crows in their bonnets?

And the crows arrived by the hordes in the afternoon.

It was mango season and they came for the ripe ones on the trees. They made a big racket, cawing and flying about and fighting among them. And in that ungainly crowd was the one from Cochin as well. He flew past the verandah a few times, staring at me angrily. The home visit turned out to be a nightmare. Mother probably didn’t notice. I would have liked to take her back with me for a few days, but was afraid that she might get to know about my problem.

Once back at Cochin I telephoned and thanked Shani for looking up mother. That was all. There was no talk about crows or the rest house or the office.

It was a miserable, lonely life. There was nothing to do. I hardly moved out of the house during daytime, but the bird came there on a few occasions. In the evenings, after the crows had returned to where ever they spent their nights, I would go to my club for a while. I was playing so badly at Bridge that my regular partners avoided me. It was difficult to concentrate on books or even TV.

Then one day the crow got inside the house.

The maid who came in the mornings to clean up and cook must have left a door open against my strict instructions. I was listening to music when the bird flew directly at me like a dive-bomber. He would have pecked me, perhaps at my eyes, if I hadn’t tilted the chair back and it toppled. The servant rushed in with a broom and chased off the intruder. When I berated her for being careless she said rather casually, “Sir, it’s only a crow and not a cobra.”

Now the moment of reckoning arrived. Suddenly there was the awareness that I couldn’t go back to the office again; it would be impossible to do any work. Perhaps some private practice was possible later on. When I told Shani my decision on phone, her matter-of-fact comment was, “I was expecting something like this.” After a brief pause she asked, “When do you plan to put in your papers?”

“May be soon,” I replied curtly. “But it won’t help you to get another promotion.”

There was silence at the other end.

“Sorry,” I apologized. “That was unfair on my part.”

It was a while before my colleague responded. “I would suggest,” she said, “that you wait till the leave is over. Anyway you have to see the doctor next week.”

So Shani and perhaps the entire office knew about that. But what really surprised me was her insisting on coming along with me to the rest house. When I introduced her, the psychiatrist said with a smile, “We speak on the telephone quite often.”

After the preliminaries the specialist started a brief lecture. “We are,” he said, “affected by things that happen to us, to others, and around us. And our background as well. Words, images, events stick in our subconscious mind. Children are more impressionable. Sometimes there is a carryover from youth. Your case has been quite a baffling one for me. But now, a rather unusual line of thinking has evolved.”

I was all attention.

“What happens to people when they die?” the doctor asked and without waiting for an answer, continued, “Many Hindus believe that there is a series of rebirths before the soul finally blends with God. The surviving relatives have funeral rites performed to make the transit of the departed smoother. If that is not done the soul wanders aimlessly without salvation. Being a Hindu you must be aware of these.”

“Yes.”

“There is also a conviction that wandering souls possess the bodies of crows. To put it in another way, many people think that at least some of the crows represent souls of the deceased. That is why after the final rites, a ball of rice is left out in the open for the crows to eat. Mind you, only the crows.”

I nodded.

“Now,” the doctor said, “we come to the crux of the matter. For all these we have to thank your colleague.”

“Shani?” I asked in surprise. “I thought she is an architect, not a psychiatrist.”

“Perhaps she’s in the wrong profession,” the specialist said. “ She spent a great deal of meaningful time with your mother.”

“That’s what the visits were for?”

“Yes,” Shani said rather shyly, and then the story emerged.

Even at the age of four I had keenly watched my father perform the last rites for my grandfather and had asked many questions. When the report came that father was missing, there was talk about the final religious function for him. Nothing was done at that time because it was not certain that he was dead. After seven years when he could have been legally surmise to be dead, the topic came up again.

“Yes,” I interrupted the narration. “I remember that clearly. In fact I was keen on the ceremony being performed. But mother refused to accept that father was no more. She believed that he was living at some holy place in the Himalayas. He was a pious man.”

The doctor nodded.

“I was,” I continued, “a young boy then and couldn’t insist.”

“Have you ever felt,” the psychiatrist asked, “bad about not carrying out your responsibility as a son?”

“Not really. But sometimes I’ve thought about it.”

“Perhaps the crow is a manifestation of a dormant guilt feeling.”

“Are you suggesting,” I asked rather impatiently, “that the bird is my father asking help for his salvation?”

“I’m presenting,” the doctor replied patiently, “a possible reason for your condition.”

“Let’s,” Shani intervened, “look at it from a different angle. Your father’s final rites haven’t been performed yet. As a son, it’s your duty to do that. It’s the normal custom that our community follows. Your mother also agrees now.”

It was a small function by the bank of the Periyar River, which was molten silver in the early morning sun. Only mother, Shani, a priest and I were present. After the rituals were over we clapped hands for the crows to come and eat the rice ball but there were no birds in view. Mother suddenly looked worried. It was a bad omen if the offering was not picked up.

Then it came. Just one crow.

“It’s the same one,” I blurted out. Everyone looked at me for a moment and then back at the bird. It finished eating and flew away.

“I hope,” I said with a sense of relief, almost in a prayer, “the crow doesn’t bother me again.”

“If it does,” Shani responded, “we can easily handle that, together. If you like.”

I gave her a stunned look. She smiled and nodded.

Ends.

A Vodka Story.

The policeman escorting me stopped at the door of the Magistrate’s chamber and talked to a turbaned peon in hushed tones. He had promised to save me the ignominy of standing in queue along with the accused in other petty cases for the afternoon session of the Court. The shopping bag containing the booty recovered from my car was in his hands.

It had been a pleasant drive from Bangalore that morning. Instead of the direct route to my destination, Calicut via Sultan’s Battery, I happened to pick up a hitchhiker and took the road through Bandipur – Madumalai Wild Life Sanctuary. A part of it was in Tamil Nadu State, which I could have bypassed. But the drive along the route was exhilarating.

We stopped at the check post on the Tamil Nadu side of the border. A squat Head Constable accompanied by his assistant and a politician-looking young man took their time coming to the car.

After checking my driving license and the registration papers of the car, the Head Constable asked, “Are you carrying any alcohol?”

I suddenly remembered that Tamil Nadu State had prohibition those days and thanked my stars for not buying liquor at Bangalore where it was cheaper, to carry home.

“No,” I answered.

“What’s in that?” he questioned, pointing to the bag kept on the car floor.

“I don’t know. It is a present. Haven’t opened it yet.” When I was leaving Bangalore, the friend with whom I was staying had placed it there saying, ‘Here’s something for you’.

The constable opened the bag and triumphantly took out a bottle and examined it carefully. “Vodka,” he said loudly. “There’s one more.”

The Head Constable nodded. “Do you have,” he asked, “a permit to carry liquor in Tamil Nadu?”

“No,” I said. “Look here, I was on my way to Calicut.”

“Should have been on that road, not on this.”

“But I was stopped and told that there’s rouge elephant blocking that road.”

The policeman laughed. “Not a dinosaur?” he asked sarcastically. “Who told you this fib?”

“The man,” I replied, “to whom I gave a lift.” I looked around for him but he had vanished.

“Did he stop you at the turning to Calicut?”

“Yes.”

The Head Constable gave me an amused look. He got into the car and sat next to me. “Drive,” he ordered.

“Where to?”

“The Court,” he replied. “I’ll tell you the way.”

There was a big crowd just off the road half a mile from the check post. “What’s happening?” I asked.

“Cinema shooting. Some of the top stars are there. Your travel companion must be in the crowd”

Bastard, I said under my breath.

“Would you like me to pick him up?” the policeman asked. “Of course it won’t help you. He would deny everything. But I can shake him up pretty bad.”

“No point.”

“Actually,” the cop said after a while, “I would have let you go. After all you’re not a smuggler. But that local politician was there.”

“My bad luck,” I said. “How long will the court procedure take?”

“Depends on the number of cases ahead of yours. May be you’ll have to spend a night in the lockup.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll get you the best as soon as we reach the court. But there’s another way.”

“What?”

“I’ll arrange for the Magistrate to see you in his chambers as soon as the Court adjourns for lunch. He’s fed up of these silly cases. You admit the offence and there’ll be a fine. It’ll be over in less than fifteen minutes.”

That seemed to be the best option under the circumstance.

When we passed a tea stall by the roadside the Head Constable asked me to stop.

“The bottles,” he said, “will be confiscated. Why waste good vodka. Can I have it? A return favour.”

I was silent, thinking.

“If not me,” the policeman continued, “the court peon who seals the bottle will take it. Or someone else. What difference does it make to you?”

“What do you plan to do?”

“Do you have any water bottles in the car?”

“There’s one on the back seat.”

“That won’t do. You go to the teashop and get two bottles of water. Tell them that the engine seems to be heating up and you need to carry water.”

I did as I was told.

I was asked to stop again after a few minutes. Using the third bottle, which was in the car, the policeman executed a transfer trick. When he finished, we had two water bottles filled with vodka, two vodka containers with water, and an empty bottle!

“Smart,” I said. The cop smiled.

The Magistrate was a chubby man. He looked bored. After studying me he announced, “This may appear rather informal, but the Court is now in session.” Then turning to me he asked, “Do you require a lawyer?”

“No, Your Honour.”

“Good. They talk too much and waste the Court’s time.”

The policeman briefly explained the case including my claim that I landed up in Tamil Nadu inadvertently. He took out the bottles and placed them on the Magistrate’s table. After scrutinizing them the Magistrate said, “We haven’t seen this brand here. Must be expensive. Made in Sweden.”

“Only the container, Your Honour,” I said.

The judge gave me a hard look. “And the contents?”

“Water, Your Honour,” I replied without looking at the policeman.

The Magistrate leaned back on his chair and asked me sternly, “Do you know the punishment for perjury?”

“No, Your Honour, but what I stated is the absolute truth.”

“But,” the judge rejoined, “it is written Absolut Vodka on the labels.”

“True, Your Honour,” I said. “But the bottles are filled with water. Your Honour can see that the caps are not sealed.”

The judge examined the bottle caps and frowned. He turned to the policeman and asked, “What do you have to say?”

“Your Honour, I’m sure that what I confiscated was vodka.”

The judge thought for a moment and pronounced, “ Since there is dispute about the contents of the bottles, we shall send them for lab test.”

“But Your Honour,” I protested, “the verdict will have to wait till the results come.”

The judge looked at me sympathetically and nodded.

“Please, Your Honour,” I pleaded, “the test can be done right here. Vodka will burn. Water will not.”

The judge turned to the policeman and asked, “What do you have to say?”

The Head Constable looked pale. “I apologise to the Honourable Court,” he said. “I didn’t think of that test.”

When we started back the cop went into peals of laughter. “You’re a smart one,” he said. “Escaped the fine.”

I nodded and drove in silence. When we reached the halfway point between the court and the check post I stopped the car, told the cop that the rear tyre appeared to be flat and requested him to check. When he was out of the car I banged the door shut and drove away.
–