by Ruskin Bond
Mr Stock wasn’t going to stand for any rivals, and leaving Mrs Stork to do the fishing, advanced upon Uncle Ken with surprising speed, lunged at him, and knocked the camera from his hands.
Leaving his camera to the tadpoles, Uncle Ken fled from the lily pond, hotly pursued by an irate stork, who even got in a couple of kung fu kicks before Uncle Ken reached the safety of the veranda.
Mourning the loss of his dignity and his camera, Uncle Ken sulked for a couple of days, and then announced that he was going to far-off Pondicherry, to stay with an aunt who had settled there.
Everyone heaved a sigh of relief, and Grandfather and I saw Uncle Ken off at the station, just to make sure he didn’t change his mind and return home in time for dinner.
Later, we heard that Uncle Ken’s holiday in Pondicherry went smoothly for a couple of days, there being no trees around his aunt’s sea-front flat. On the beach he consumed innumberable ice creams and platters full of French fries, without being bothered by crows, parrots, monkeys or small boys.
And then, one morning, he decided to treat himself to breakfast at on open-air café near the beach, and ordered bacon and eggs, sausages, three toasts, cheese and marmalade.
He had barely taken a bite out of his buttered toast when, out of a blind blue sky, a seagull swooped down and carried off a sausage.
Uncle Ken was still in shock when another seagull shot past him, taking with it a rasher of bacon.
Seconds later a third gull descended and removed the remaining sausage, splattering toast and fried egg all over Uncle Ken’s trousers.
He was left with half a toast and a small pot of marmalade.
When he got back to the flat and told his aunt what had happened, she felt sorry for him and gave him a glass of milk and a peanut butter sandwich.
Uncle Ken hated milk. And he detested peanut butter. But when hungry he would eat almost anything.
‘Can’t trust those seagulls,’ said his aunt. ‘They are all non-veg. Stick to spinach and lettuce, and they’ll leave you alone.’
‘Ugh,’ said Uncle Ken in disgust. ‘I’d rather be a seagull.’
A Crow for All Seasons
Early to bed and early to rise makes a crow healthy, wealthy and wise.
They say it’s true for humans too. I’m not so sure about that. But for crows it’s a must.
I’m always up at the crack of down, often the first crow to break the night’s silence with a lusty caw. My friends and relatives, who roost in the same tree, grumble a bit and mutter to themselves, but they are soon cawing just as loudly. Long before the sun is up, we set off on the day’s work.
We do not pause even for the morning wash. Later in the day, if it’s hot and muggy, I might take a dip in some human’s bathwater; but early in the morning we like to be up and about before everyone else. This is the time when trash cans and refuse dumps are overflowing with goodies, and we like to sift through them before the dustmen arrive in their disposal trucks.
Not that we are afraid of a famine in refuse. As human beings multiply, so does their rubbish.
Only yesterday I rescued an old typewriter ribbon from the dustbin, just before it was emptied. What a waste that would have been! I had no use for it myself, but I gave it to one of my cousins who got married recently, and she tells me it’s just right for her nest, the one she’s building on a telegraph pole. It helps her bind the twigs together, she says.
My own preference is for toothbrushes. They’re just a hobby, really, like stamp-collecting with humans. I have a small but select collection which I keep in a hole in the garden wall. Don’t ask me how many I’ve got—crows don’t believe there’s any point in counting beyond two—but I know there’s more than one, that there’s a whole lot of them in fact, because there isn’t anyone living on this road who hasn’t lost a toothbrush to me at some time or another.
We crows living in the jackfruit tree have this stretch of road to ourselves, but so that we don’t quarrel or have misunderstandings, we’ve shared the houses out. I picked the bungalow with the orchard at the back. After all, I don’t eat rubbish and throwaways all the time. Just occasionally I like a ripe guava or the soft flesh of a papaya. And sometimes I like the odd beetle as hors d’oeuvre. Those humans in the bungalow should be grateful to me for keeping down the population of fruit-eating beetles, and even for recycling their refuse; but no, humans are never grateful. No sooner do I settle in one of their guava trees than stones are whizzing past me. So I return to the dustbin on the back veranda steps. They don’t mind my being there.
One of my cousins shares the bungalow with me, but he’s a lazy fellow and I have to do most of the foraging. Sometimes I get him to lend me a claw; but most of the time he’s preening his feathers and trying to look handsome for a pretty young thing who lives in the banyan tree at the next turning.
When he’s in the mood, he can be invaluable, as he proved recently when I was having some difficulty getting at the dog’s food on the veranda.
This dog, who is fussed over so much by the humans I’ve adopted, is a great big fellow, a mastiff who pretends to a pedigree going back to the time of Genghis Khan—he likes to pretend one of his ancestors was the great Khan’s watchdog—but, as often happens in famous families, animal or human, there is a falling off in quality over a period of time, and this ugly fellow—Crazy, they call him—is a case in point. All brawn and no brain. Many a time I’ve removed a juicy bone from his plate or helped myself to pickings from under his nose.
But of late he’s been growing canny and selfish. He doesn’t like to share any more. And the other day I was almost in his jaws when he took a sudden lunge at me. Snap went his great teeth; but all he got was one of my tail feathers. He spat it out in disgust. Who wants crow’s meat, anyway?
All the same, I thought, I’d better not be too careless. It’s not for nothing that a crow’s IQ is way above that of all other birds. And it’s higher than a dog’s, I bet.
I woke Cousin Slow from his midday siesta and said, ‘Hey, Slow, we’ve got a problem. If you want any of that delicious tripe today, you’ve got to lend a claw—or a beak. That dog’s getting snappier day by day.’
Slow opened one eye and said, ‘Well, if you insist. But you know how I hate getting into a scuffle. It’s bad for the gloss on my feathers.’
‘I don’t insist,’ I said politely, ‘but I’m not foraging for both of us today. It’s every crow for himself.’
‘Okay, okay, I’m coming,’ said Slow, and with barely a flap he dropped down from the tree to the wall.
‘What’s the strategy?’ I asked.
‘Simple. We’ll just give him the old one-two.’
We flew across to the veranda. Crazy had just started his meal. He was a fast, greedy eater who made horrible slurping sounds while he guzzled his food. We had to move fast if we wanted to get something before the meal was over.
I sidled up to Crazy and wished him good afternoon.
He kept on gobbling—but quicker now.
Slow came up from behind and gave him a quick peck near the tail—a sensitive spot—and, as Crazy swung round snarling, I moved in quickly and snatched up several tidbits.
Crazy went for me, and I flew freestyle for the garden wall. The dish was untended, so Slow helped himself to as many scraps as he could stuff in his mouth.
He joined me on the garden wall, and we sat there feasting, while Crazy barked himself hoarse below.
‘Go catch a cat,’ said Slow, who is given to slang. ‘You’re in the wrong league, big boy.’
The great sage Pratyasataka—ever heard of him? I guess not—once said, ‘Nothing can improve a crow.’
Like most human sages, he wasn’t very clear in his thinking, so there has been some misunderstanding about what he meant. Humans like to think that what he really meant was that crows were so bad as to be beyond improvement. But we crows know better. We interpret the saying as meaning that the crow is so perfect that no improvement is possible.
It’s not that we aren’t human—what I mean is, there are times when we fall from our high standards and do rather foolish things. Like at lunch time the other day.
Sometimes, when the table is laid in the bungalow, and before the family enters the dining room, I nip in through the open window and make a quick foray among the dishes. Sometimes I’m lucky enough to pick up a sausage or a slice of toast, or even a pat of butter, making off before someone enters and throws a bread knife at me. But on this occasion, just as I was reaching for the toast, a thin slouching fellow—Ken they call him—entered suddenly and shouted at me. I was so startled that I leapt across the table, seeking shelter. Something flew at me and in an effort to dodge the missile I put my head through a circular object and then found it wouldn’t come off.
It wasn’t safe to hang around there, so I flew out of the window with this dashed ring still round my neck.
Serviette or napkin rings, that’s what they are called. Quite unnecessary objects, but some humans—particularly the well-to-do sort—seem to like having them on their tables, holding bits of cloth in place. The cloth is used for wiping the mouth. Have you ever heard of such nonsense?
Anyway, there I was with a fat napkin ring around my neck, and as I perched on the wall trying to get it off, the entire human family gathered on their veranda to watch me.
There was the Bada* sahib and his wife, the memsahib; there was the scrawny Chhota sahib or Ken (worst of the lot); there was a mischievous boy (the Bada sahib’s grandson) known as the Baba; and there was the cook (who usually flung orange peels at me) and the gardener (who once tried to decapitate me with a spade), and the dog Crazy who, like most dogs, tries unsuccessfully to be a human.
Today, they weren’t cursing and shaking their fists at me; they were just standing and laughing their heads off. What’s so funny about a crow with its head stuck in a napkin ring?
Worse was to follow.
The noise had attracted the other crows in the area, and if there’s one thing crows detest, it’s a crow who doesn’t look like a crow.
They swooped low and dived on me, hammering at the wretched napkin ring, until they had knocked me off the wall and into a flower bed. Then six or seven toughs landed on me with every intention of finishing me off.
‘Hey, boys!’ I cawed. ‘This is me, Speedy! What are you trying to do—kill me?’
‘That’s right! You don’t look like Speedy to us. What have you done with him, hey?’
And they set upon me with even greater vigour.
‘You’re just like a bunch of lousy humans!’ I shouted. ‘You’re no better than them—this is just the way they carry on amongst themselves!’
That brought them to a halt. They stopped trying to peck me to pieces, and stood back, looking puzzled. The napkin ring had been shattered in the onslaught and had fallen to the ground.
‘Why, it’s Speedy!’ said one of the gang.
‘None other!’
‘Good old Speedy—what are you doing here? And where’s the guy we were hammering just now?’
There was no point in trying to explain things to them. Crows are like that. There’re all good pals—until one of them tries to look different. Then he could be just another bird.
‘He took off for Tibet,’ I said. ‘It was getting unhealthy for him around here.’
Summertime is here again. And although I’m a crow for all seasons, I must admit to a preference for the summer months.
Humans grow lazy and don’t pursue me with so much vigour. Garbage cans overflow. Food goes bad and is constantly being thrown away. Overripe fruit gets tastier by the minute. If fellows like me weren’t around to mop up all these unappreciated riches, how would humans manage?
There’s one character in the bungalow, the Chhota sahib or Ken, who will never appreciate our services, it seems. He simply hates crows. The small boy may throw stones at us occasionally, but then, he’s the sort who throws stones at almost anything. There’s nothing personal about it. He just throws stones on principle.
The memsahib is probably the best of the lot. She often throws me scraps from the kitchen—onion skins, potato peels, crusts and leftovers—and even when I nip in and make off with something not meant for me (like a jam tart or a cheese pakora) she is quite sporting about it. Ken looks outraged, but the lady of the house says, ‘Well, we’ve all got to make a living somehow, and that’s how crows make theirs. It’s high time you thought of earning a living.’ Ken’s her son—that’s his occupation. He has never been known to work.
The Bada sahib has a sense of humour but it’s often directed at me. He thinks I’m a comedian.
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 bouncing off into the bushes. Finally, I got it between my feet and gave it a good hard whack. It burst open. 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 sahib, 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 sahib’s bathroom.
This Ken 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 Ken 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. Ken’s popularity was even lower than mine.
One day Ken 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 se
en a sly look on Ken’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 brother, Charm. He’d come to me for a loan. He wanted some new bottle caps for his collection and brought me a mouldy old toothbrush in exchange.
Charm landed on the garden wall, toothbrush in his beak, 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 Ken. ‘I’ve shot that blasted crow!’
Throwing away the gun, Ken 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 Bada sahib.
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 Ken’s window and emerged with one of his socks.
Triumphantly flaunting his dead crow, Ken 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 sahib, and everyone roared with laughter.
Before Ken could recover from the shock, I took off in leisurely fashion and joined Slow on the wall.
Ken came rushing out with the gun, but by now it was too dark to see anything, and I heard the memsahib telling the sahib, ‘You’d better take that gun away before he does himself a mischief.’ So the sahib took Ken indoors and gave him a brandy.