The Crow Bath
“The crows must be taking their bath,” thought Haji Liaquat, lying motionless and staring at the ceiling. He heard the chirping of birds outside. He closed his eyes to appreciate his comfortable mattress underneath him and the cozy kambal covering most of his body, save for the little draft of cool morning air that touched the soles of his feet through the hem of the blanket. He wouldn’t move even if his ghar wali had offered him a hot cup of chai. A gloomy reminder of the day ahead shattered his comfort. “I wish this day hadn’t dawned!” he muttered. goosebumps pierced his body like needles. He was 65, but this worry made him feel older. Haji didn’t move. He tried to regain tranquility by thinking of utter darkness, an exercise he usually practiced when trying to sleep. A deep dark well surrounded by silence. A sudden ringing of his cell phone startled him but he didn’t pick up. Every recurring rhythm of the tune sickened him, and though it was chilly, beads of sweat appeared on his large forehead. He wished to sink within the folds of his blanket. He wanted to be invisible, to be negligible. After a minute of continuous ringing, the phone fell silent but then started ringing again. Just then his wife burst into the room, drawing the curtains open, beating the almari with her duster.
“Pick up the kambakhat phone Haji!” she shouted.
“Why are you so loud? Ahem, hello,” he blurted into the phone, sitting at the edge of the bed. The wrinkles on his forehead expressed his nervousness, “kon?”
His plump wife kept nagging and cleaning, making the room dusty. The morning sunlight fell on Haji’s back, throwing a long shadow in front of him.
“Shh! I’m on the phone, woman!” He called out, covering the mouth piece of his cell phone with his sweaty palm. The voice at the other end eased some tension. It was his employer for whom he worked as a driver. In his gentle voice he regretted his unavailability that day. He had to go to Sachal for an important business. He was not lying.
He heaved his lanky body out of bed. His knees creaked. The phone rang again which made his legs wobble. He replied at once, “Hello, hello! Jee Saeen… Jee, I’ll be there. I’m sorry I couldn’t pick up before. Jee I will bring it along. Yes I still have the packet.” And just as abruptly the conversation ended. The phone slid out of his hand that dropped limp to his side, and tumbled to the floor. He lost all strength and sat himself back on the bed.
Haji’s wife noticed his distress from the corner of her eye and asked him if he was ok. He just mumbled to avoid a conversation. It was better that his wife knew nothing about this. “Are you sick? You don’t look too good.”, she inquired in Sindhi. She stopped working and peered at him with her gentle eyes.
“I’m fine,” he replied. He wanted her to focus on her work and not get any ideas, “Go iron my blue shirt that Sahab gave me.”, she got back to dusting.
“Will you drop me off to my sister bef…” she wanted to ask before he cut her short.
“No I can not! I have an important day today. I’ll take you tomorrow.” He said.
He dyed his hair and mustache and shaved. His wife was concerned at his meager breakfast of a slice of toast with tea, but he replied he wasn’t hungry. She inquired about the contents of the packet that lay wrapped in a crumpled brown paper bag but he hushed her up by saying that it was some one’s amanat that needed to be returned and that he had no clue about the contents. This was not true. Five years ago, when he used to drive a taxi, someone had left this package in his car. His eyes had widened in surprise as he looked into the paper bag. This package was carefully concealed in the small attic in his house. Honesty prevented him from even touching what was in the bag. Only once, when he had lost his job did he use a very small amount from the bag to make ends meet, but this guilt became a burden on his existence. The owner of this package, after tracking Haji down, had called him up. Haji recognized him instantly and told him that he had kept it and had never even looked at what was inside. This lie and the guilt made him feel like a criminal.
He bade his wife goodbye, but she didn’t catch the trace of sorrow in his voice. He felt it was his last farewell, and rightly so. Once the owner of the packet found out that he had stolen from him, he might even kill him. He had assumed that this person must be a powerful and a dangerous man who dealt out swift justice regarding his possessions. It was with this disquietude that he started his 85 Nissan. Once around the corner, he stopped and carefully opened up the bag one last time. Just a last tiny peek. The sunlight reflected from the contents in the bag cast a golden glow on his face. He quickly folded up the paper bag and shoved it under the passenger seat. The day was turning warm and his sleeveless sweater started to itch. On the way he found a murder of crows bathing in a dirty puddle in the middle of the road. Crows always fascinated Haji, and he stopped for a few seconds to appreciate their carefree moment. He was entranced and everything appeared to move in slow motion. The crows splashed and hopped in the puddle. Their frenzied movement somehow felt violent. The vivid spectacle and the scorching heat made his vision hazy and made him sick in the gut. The honk of a rickshaw snapped him out of his daydream and he carefully drove through the puddle. The crows cawed and dispersed.
Haji’s cell phone started ringing again. It was the owner of the bag. He sounded frustrated and panicked. “Haji Saeen, where are you? I don’t have all day.”, he shouted in Sindhi.
“Baba Saeen I’m very near. I’m just crossing the highway. I won’t be long.”, replied Haji Liaquat.
“Look, I’m expecting company and I really want to leave here before they arrive. Be here in 10 minutes. I don’t want unnecessary b…”, the call dropped.
“Unnecessary what?" thought Haji Liaquat, nearly driving into a fruit stand. He reached the address behind the illegal water hydrant near Sachal, where the owner of the bag was to meet him. The row of parked trucks and water tankers hid the large ground behind the hydrant. Haji stopped his car in the middle of the ground, and carefully holding the bag in front of him, walked towards a group of four armed men standing next to a bulky white Land Cruiser parked at some distance. At the sight of Haji’s approach the men got alert and raised their guns. A burly man with large mustache got down as Haji got near. All the men were wearing pristine white shalwar kameez. The boss was wearing Ajrak and a Sindhi cap that drooped over his forehead. Sun rays reflected from the tiny mirrors that adorned the cap and made Haji squint. Haji kept walking. The hot sun made him sweat profusely. All of a sudden he noticed the men duck and run behind the land cruiser and the burly man hid behind the open door of the vehicle, cocking a handgun from behind the window. Unexpected gun shots made Haji spin around and he saw a black Land cruiser charging towards the white one. The people on board were firing indiscriminately at the white car. There was a reactionary barrage of bullets from behind the white Land cruiser. The whole action unfolded so fast that Haji froze. Everything appeared to move in slow motion. During the exchange of fire Haji suddenly felt something sharp hit his chest. He clutched his sweater and felt it drenched, his eyesight blurred and he fell. In the darkness his shallow breathing and a faint echo of gunshots resonated distantly in his mind, until he lost his awareness.
The irritating flies settled on his nostrils and woke him up. He sneezed. He slowly sat up and put his hand on his chest. The sweater was damp with his sweat but there was no blood. A small stone had slipped from under the tyre of the moving vehicle that hit him. He coughed and felt sharp pain at the side of his ribs where the stone had hit. Groaning, he heaved himself up and looked around. He clutched his ribs as he coughed again because of the dusty mist. Both the vehicles had crashed into each other and eight men lay dead on the ground, their white clothes splattered with blood. The small Sindhi cap lay crushed underneath the tyre of the black car. The scene reminded him of the crow bath from that morning. The sprawled blood soaked bodies with outstretched arms had a strange resemblance to the wet wings of the crows. The smell of blood made him vomit. He noticed that he was still clutching the paper bag. Everything was intact. For a moment he stood dazed. Slowly he came to his senses and ran to his car and drove home.