by Ruskin Bond
He discovered I’d been making off with the occasional egg from the egg basket on the veranda, and one day, without my knowledge, he made a substitution.
Right on top of the pile I found a smooth round egg, and before anyone could shout, ‘Crow!’ I’d made off with it. It was abnormally light. I put it down on the lawn and set about cracking it with my strong beak, but it would keep slipping away or bounding off into the bushes. Finally, I got it between my feet and gave it a good hard whack. It burst open, and to my utter astonishment, there was nothing inside!
I looked up and saw the old man standing on the veranda, doubled up with laughter.
‘What are you laughing at?’ asked the Memsahib, coming out to see what it was all about.
‘It’s that ridiculous crow!’ guffawed the Colonel, pointing at me. ‘You know he’s been stealing our eggs. Well, I placed a ping pong ball on top of the pile, and he fell for it! He’s been struggling with that ball for twenty minutes! That will teach him a lesson.’
It did. But I had my revenge later, when I pinched a brand new toothbrush from the Colonel’s bathroom.
The Junior Sahib has no sense of humour at all. He idles about the house and grounds all day, whistling or singing to himself.
‘Even that crow sings better than Uncle,’ said the boy.
A truthful boy; but all he got for his honesty was a whack on the head from his uncle.
Anyway, as a gesture of appreciation, I perched on the garden wall and gave the family a rendering of my favourite crow song, which is my own composition. Here it is, translated for your benefit:
Oh, for the life of a crow!
A bird who’s in the know.
Although we are cursed,
We are never dispersed—
We’re always on the go!
I know I’m a bit of a rogue
(And my voice wouldn’t pass for a brogue),
But there’s no one as sleek
Or as neat with his beak—
So they’re putting my picture in Vogue!
Oh, for the life of a crow!
I reap what I never sow,
They call me a thief,
Pray I’ll soon come to grief—
But there’s no getting rid of a crow!
I gave it everything I had, and the humans—all of them on the lawn to enjoy the evening breeze, listened to me in silence, struck with wonder at my performance. When I had finished, I bowed and preened myself, waiting for the applause.
They stared at each other for a few seconds. Then the Junior Sahib stooped, picked up a bottle opener, and flung it at me.
Well, I ask you!
What can one say about humans? I do my best to defend them from all kinds of criticism, and this is what I get for my pains.
Anyway, I picked up the bottle opener and added it to my collection of odds and ends.
It was getting dark, and soon everyone was stumbling around, looking for another bottle opener. Junior Sahib’s popularity was even lower than mine.
One day, Junior Sahib came home carrying a heavy shotgun. He pointed it at me a few times and I dived for cover. But he didn’t fire. Probably I was out of range.
‘He’s only threatening you,’ said Slow from the safety of the jamun tree, where he sat in the shadows. ‘He probably doesn’t know how to fire the thing.’
But I wasn’t taking any chances. I’d seen a sly look on Junior Sahib’s face, and I decided that he was trying to make me careless. So I stayed well out of range.
Then one evening, I received a visit from my cousin, Charm. He’d come to me for a loan. He wanted some new bottle tops for his collection and had brought me a mouldy old toothbrush to offer in exchange.
Charm landed on the garden wall, toothbrush in his break, and was waiting for me to join him there, when there was a flash and a tremendous bang. Charm was sent several feet into the air, and landed limp and dead in a flower bed.
‘I’ve got him, I’ve got him!’ shouted Junior Sahib. ‘I’ve shot that blasted crow!’
Throwing away the gun, Junior Sahib ran out into the garden, overcome with joy. He picked up my fallen relative, and began running around the bungalow with his trophy.
The rest of the family had collected on the veranda.
‘Drop that thing at once!’ called the Memsahib.
‘Uncle is doing a war dance,’ observed the boy.
‘It’s unlucky to shoot a crow,’ said the Colonel.
I thought it was time to take a hand in the proceedings and let everyone know that the right crow—the one and only Speedy—was alive and kicking. So I swooped down the jackfruit tree, dived through Junior Sahib’s window, and emerged with one of his socks.
Triumphantly flaunting his dead crow, Junior Sahib came dancing up the garden path, then stopped dead when he saw me perched on the window sill, a sock in my beak. His jaw fell, his eyes bulged; he looked like the owl in the banyan tree.
‘You shot the wrong crow!’ shouted the Colonel, and everyone roared with laughter.
Before Junior Sahib could recover from the shock, I took off in a leisurely fashion and joined Slow on the wall.
Junior Sahib came rushing out with the gun, but by now it was too dark to see anything, and I heard the Memsahib telling the Colonel, ‘You’d better take that gun away before he does himself a mischief.’ So the Colonel took Junior Sahib indoors and gave him a brandy.
I composed a new song for Junior Sahib’s benefit, and sang it to him outside his window early next morning:
I understand you want a crow
To poison, shoot or smother;
My fond salaams, but by your leave
I’ll substitute another;
Allow me then, to introduce
My most respected brother.
Although I was quite understanding about the whole tragic mix-up—I was, after all, the family’s very own house crow—my fellow crows were outraged at what had happened to Charm, and swore vengeance on Junior Sahib.
‘Corvus splendens!’ they shouted with great spirit, forgetting that this title had been bestowed on us by a human. In times of war, we forget how much we owe to our enemies.
Junior Sahib had only to step into the garden, and several crows would swoop down on him, screeching and swearing and aiming lusty blows at his head and hands. He took to coming out wearing a sola topi, and even then they knocked it off and drove him indoors. Once he tried lighting a cigarette on the veranda steps, when Slow swooped low across the porch and snatched it from his lips.
Junior Sahib shut himself up in his room, and smoked countless cigarettes—a sure sign that his nerves were going to pieces.
Every now and then, the Memsahib would come out and shoo us off; and because she wasn’t an enemy, we obliged by retreating to the garden wall. After all, Slow and I depended on her for much of our board if not for our lodging. But Junior Sahib had only to show his face outside the house, and all the crows in the area would be after him like avenging furies.
‘It doesn’t look as though they are going to forgive you,’ said the Memsahib.
‘Elephants never forget, and crows never forgive,’ said the Colonel.
‘Would you like to borrow my catapult, Uncle?’ asked the boy. ‘Just for self-protection, you know.’
‘Shut up,’ said Junior Sahib and went to bed.
One day, he sneaked out of the back door and dashed across to the garage. A little later the family’s old car, seldom used, came out of the garage with Junior Sahib at the wheel. He’d decided that if he couldn’t take a walk in safety he’d go for a drive. All the windows were up.
No sooner had the car turned into the driveway than about a dozen crows dived down on it, crowding the bonnet and flapping in front of the windscreen. Junior Sahib couldn’t see a thing. He swung the steering wheel left, right and centre, and the car went off the driveway, ripped through a hedge, crushed a bed of sweetpeas and came to a stop against the trunk of a mango tree.
Junior Sahib just sat t
here, afraid to open the door. The family had to come out of the house and rescue him.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the Colonel.
‘I’ve bruised my knees,’ said Junior Sahib.
‘Never mind your knees,’ said the Memsahib, gazing around at the ruin of her garden. ‘What about my sweetpeas?’
‘I think your uncle is going to have a nervous breakdown,’ I heard the Colonel saying to the boy.
‘What’s that?’ asked the boy. ‘Is it the same as a car having a breakdown?’
‘Well, not exactly… But you could call it a mind breaking down.’
Junior Sahib had been refusing to leave his room or take his meals. The family was worried about him. I was worried, too. Believe it or not, we crows are among the very few birds who sincerely desire the preservation of the human species.
‘He needs a change,’ said the Memsahib.
‘A rest cure,’ said the Colonel sarcastically. ‘A rest from doing nothing.’
‘Send him to Switzerland,’ suggested the boy.
‘We can’t afford that. But we can take him up to a hill station.’
The nearest hill station was some fifty miles as the human drives (only ten as the crow flies). Many people went up there during the summer months. It wasn’t fancied much by crows. For one thing, it was a tidy sort of place, and people lived in houses that were set fairly far apart. Opportunities for scavenging were limited. Also it was rather cold and the trees were inconvenient and uncomfortable. A friend of mine, who had spent a night in a pine tree, said he hadn’t been able to sleep because of the prickly pine needles and the wind howling through the branches.
‘Let’s all go up for a holiday,’ said the Memsahib. ‘We can spend a week in a boarding house. All of us need a change.’
A few days later the house was locked up, and the family piled into the old car and drove off to the hills.
I had the grounds to myself.
The dog had gone too, and the gardener spent all day dozing in his hammock. There was no one around to trouble me.
‘We’ve got the whole place to ourselves,’ I told Slow.
‘Yes, but what good is that? With everyone gone, there are no throwaways, giveaways and takeaways!’
‘We’ll have to try the house next door.’
‘And be driven off by the other crows? That’s not our territory, you know. We can go across to help them, or to ask for their help, but we’re not supposed to take their pickings. It just isn’t cricket, old boy.’
We could have tried the bazaar or the railway station, where there is always a lot of rubbish to be found, but there is also a lot of competition in those places. The station crows are gangsters. The bazaar crows are bullies. Slow and I had grown soft. We’d have been no match for the bad boys.
‘I’ve just realized how much we depend on humans,’ I said.
‘We could go back to living in the jungle,’ said Slow.
‘No, that would be too much like hard work. We’d be living on wild fruit most of the time. Besides, the jungle crows won’t have anything to do with us now. Ever since we took up with humans, we became the outcasts of the bird world.’
‘That means we’re almost human.’
‘You might say we have all their vices and none of their virtues.’
‘Just a different set of values, old boy.’
‘Like eating hens’ eggs instead of crows’ eggs. That’s something in their favour. And while you’re hanging around here waiting for the mangoes to fall, I’m off to locate our humans.’
Slow’s beak fell open. He looked like—well, a hungry crow.
‘Don’t tell me you’re going to follow them up to the hill station? You don’t even know where they are staying.’
‘I’ll soon find out,’ I said, and took off for the hills.
You’d be surprised at how simple it is to be a good detective, if only you put your mind to it. Of course, if Ellery Queen had been able to fly, he wouldn’t have required fifteen chapters and his father’s assistance to crack a case.
Swooping low over the hill station, it wasn’t long before I spotted my humans’ old car. It was parked outside a boarding house called Climber’s Rest. I hadn’t seen anyone climbing, but dozing in an armchair in the garden was my favourite human.
I perched on top of a colourful umbrella and waited for Junior Sahib to wake up. I decided it would be rather inconsiderate of me to disturb his sleep, so I waited patiently on the brolly, looking at him with one eye and keeping one eye on the house. He stirred uneasily, as though he’d suddenly had a bad dream; then he opened his eyes. I must have been the first thing he saw.
‘Good morning,’ I cawed in a friendly tone—always ready to forgive and forget, that’s Speedy!
He leapt out of the armchair and ran into the house, hollering at the top of his voice.
I supposed he hadn’t been able to contain his delight at seeing me again. Humans can be funny that way. They’ll hate you one day and love you the next.
Well, Junior Sahib ran all over the boarding house screaming: ‘It’s that crow, it’s that crow! He’s following me everywhere!’
Various people, including the family, ran outside to see what the commotion was about, and I thought it would be better to make myself scarce. So I flew to the top of a spruce tree and stayed very still and quiet.
‘Crow! What crow?’ said the Colonel.
‘Our crow!’ cried Junior Sahib. ‘The one that persecutes me. I was dreaming of it just now, and when I opened my eyes, there it was, on the garden umbrella!’
‘There’s nothing there now,’ said the Memsahib. ‘You probably hadn’t woken up completely.’
‘He is having illusions again,’ said the boy.
‘Delusions,’ corrected the Colonel.
‘Now look here,’ said the Memsahib, ‘you’ll have to pull yourself together. You’ll take leave of your senses if you don’t.’
‘I tell you, it’s here!’ sobbed Junior Sahib. ‘It’s following me everywhere.’
‘It’s grown fond of Uncle,’ said the boy. ‘And it seems Uncle can’t live without crows.’
Junior Sahib looked up with a wild glint in his eye.
‘That’s it!’ he cried. ‘I can’t live without them. That’s the answer to my problem. I don’t hate crows—I love them!’
Everyone just stood around goggling at Junior Sahib.
‘I’m feeling fine now,’ he carried on. ‘What a difference it makes if you can just do the opposite of what you’ve been doing before! I thought I hated crows. But all the time I really loved them!’ And flapping his arms, and trying to caw like a crow, he went prancing about the garden.
‘Now he thinks he’s a crow,’ said the boy. ‘Is he still having delusions?’
‘That’s right,’ said the Memsahib. ‘Delusions of grandeur.’
After that, the family decided that there was no point in staying on in the hill station any longer. Junior Sahib had completed his rest cure. And even if he was the only one who believed himself cured, that was all right, because after all he was the one who mattered… If you’re feeling fine, can there be anything wrong with you?
No sooner was everyone back in the bungalow than Junior Sahib took to hopping barefoot on the grass early every morning, all the time scattering food about for the crows. Bread, chapattis, cooked rice, curried eggplants, the Memsahib’s homemade toffee—you name it, we got it!
Slow and I were the first to help ourselves to these dawn offerings, and soon the other crows had joined us on the lawn. We didn’t mind. Junior Sahib brought enough for everyone.
‘We ought to honour him in some way,’ said Slow.
‘Yes, why not?’ said I. ‘There was someone else, hundreds of years ago, who fed the birds. They followed him wherever he went.’
‘That’s right. They made him a saint. But as far as I know, he didn’t feed any crows. At least, you don’t see any crows in the pictures—just sparrows and robins and wagtails.’
‘Sure. We ought to make him the patron saint of crows. What do you say, fellows?’
‘Caw, caw, caw!’ All the crows were in agreement.
‘St Corvus!’ said Slow as Junior Sahib emerged from the house, laden with good things to eat.
‘Corvus, corvus, corvus!’ we cried.
And what a pretty picture he made—a crow eating from his hand, another perched on his shoulder, and about a dozen of us on the grass, forming a respectful ring around him.
From persecutor to protector; from beastliness to saintliness. And sometimes it can be the other way round: you never know with humans!
Harold: Our Hornbill
HAROLD’S MOTHER, like all good hornbills, was the most careful of wives. His father was the most easy-going of husbands. In January, long before the flame tree flowered, Harold’s father took his wife into a great hole high in the tree trunk, where his father and his father’s father had taken their brides at the same time every year.
In this weather-beaten hollow, generation upon generation of hornbills had been raised. Harold’s mother, like those before her, was enclosed within the hole by a sturdy wall of earth, sticks and dung.
Harold’s father left a small hole in the centre of this wall to enable him to communicate with his wife whenever he felt like a chat. Walled up in her uncomfortable room, Harold’s mother was a prisoner for over two months. During this period an egg was laid, and Harold was born.
In his naked boyhood Harold was no beauty. His most promising feature was his flaming red bill, matching the blossoms of the flame tree which was now ablaze, heralding the summer. He had a stomach that could never be filled, despite the best efforts of his parents who brought him pieces of jackfruit and berries from the banyan tree.
As he grew bigger, the room became more cramped, and one day his mother burst through the wall, spread out her wings and sailed over the tree-tops. Her husband was glad to see her about. He played with her, expressing his delight with deep gurgles and throaty chuckles. Then they repaired the wall of the nursery, so that Harold would not fall out.