Raju Korti
When you have precious little to do with a mind desperately seeking to go into an overdrive, your eyes look for something that you have been seeing ever since you can remember but never actually registered. It is better to have a fair intellect that is well used than a powerful one that is idle. |
| (Pic representational) |
I am pretty sure that those who look down on crows as intellectually-challenged birds have had a lost childhood and since my adulthood makes for no concession of my kid years, I will recommend crows like I am their hired attorney.
My respect for crows grew when as a growing kid I first read the meandering stories of Pandit Vishnu Sharma's celebrated work Panchatantra where he dedicates one full technique of existentialism and life to the philosophy and intelligence of the crows. In my prime stage of youth, I read writers who often compared the hair colour of beautiful women with that of a Raven.
Wittingly, I became more conscious of the ubiquitous presence of this bird with a petite 7-inch frame and it became a hobby of sorts to try and look at it straight in the eye. It was both knowledge and revelation that it had many feathers in its smooth pate visible only to the discerning like me.
Mark Twain took my esteem for crows to the next higher level although his famed eulogy has frills of derision to it. I will reproduce his words to allow you to draw your own conclusions:
"In the course of his evolutionary promotions, his sublime march toward ultimate perfection, he has been a gambler, a low comedian, a dissolute priest, a fussy woman, a blackguard, a scoffer, a liar, a thief, a spy, an informer, a trading politician, a swindler, a professional hypocrite, a patriot for cash, a reformer, a lecturer, a lawyer, a conspirator, a rebel, a loyalist, a democrat,, a practitioner and propagator of irreverence, a meddler, an intruder, a busybody, an infidel, and a wallower in sin for the mere love of it. He does not know what care is, he does not know what sorrow is, he does not know what remorse is, his life is one long thundering ecstasy of happiness, and will go to his death untroubled, knowing that he will soon turn up again as an author or something, and be even more intolerable capable and comfortable than he was ever before."
Quite a hefty package that! Twain has actually used "he" in place of "it", which to my understanding is an indirect admission of the crow's ability to stand heads and shoulders above the man with the love-hate traits that he so profoundly describes. And mind you, the icing on the cake comes when you realize that it is the Indian crow, not the American crow that Twain is at pains to labour over. You can decide finally which is the variety that eats the crow.
In my kindergarten days I learnt it through a simple but lasting legend of a thirsty crow who stumbles upon a pot of water at its bottom. Unable to draw water, "he" puts pebbles to make the water level rise and then quench his thirst. Crows have travelled beyond the cliques attributed to them to deserve their place under the Sun. In my flight of fancy, the crow emerges as an anti-hero who can seamlessly change his feathers as a hero or villain with all the trappings of intrigue, authority, brashness, dare-devilry, gate-crashing and conspiracy. Not for nothing I am told that a decade back almost 100 poets in US came together to create an anthology about crows and ravens to reiterate how the corvids have a strong grip on human imagination.
The crow needs to be deciphered beyond the antiquated belief that they they have no sense of shame -- that they caw at 6am, expect a response from windows reflecting the overcast skies and then cap it with a solitary call that croaks 'is anybody there?' and takes off before you can muster any answer. Nobody can individuate and leave you with an apologetic smile like the crows do. The raucous, impertinent caw packs a vocal punch enough to make you feel smaller than a crow -- in every sense.
In the midst of the political uncertainty in state when elected leaders quietly slinked away to the cooler climes of north-east a couple of months back, I had drawn a tangential connection with the crows as the most reachable beings in Mumbai, quite easily their most adopted host. With a scary reputation that accrues from the scriptures as living incarnations of your dead ancestors, they have adapted themselves to changing times without losing their sense of commandeering demeanour and disposition.
The Kawwa Chalisa that I have been promising myself to write is finally taking shape in Black. As an avid watcher, I have been witnessing the subtle yet noticeable appreciation of their chicanery that defines their dubious reputation. Crows in Mumbai are a league ahead of their counterparts in other parts of the world. They have almost stopped flying. They would rather conserve their energies travelling on top of four-wheelers. Being status conscious, high-end cars are preferred and lesser brands are looked at with disdain.
Since the very idea of flying is repugnant to their authoritative senses, flying if at all necessary, happens at just 5 to 6 feet which makes you a dangerous obstacle in their gradient. If you think they will change navigation to skirt you, perish the thought. They will not hesitate to dash you, their pointed beaks ready to drill a hole. You stay crow-hit because dare you not call it just a bird. In their considered wisdom and superiority, they are convinced they are 24x7 essential service. Do not be startled or put off by their collective caws in the hush between midnight and wee hours.
There is a unanimous opinion among Mumbaikars that there is no underestimating the collective force of crows in groups. You shoo off one or pelt a stone at them, they will attack you so violently that you will carry the fear each time you think of stirring out of your house, The crows neither forget not forgive. You won't remember which crow you tried to offend but the guy in black suit has a photographic memory to single you out from hordes. So stay out of their way, When you see them approaching, make way for them politely.
Sitting in my balcony, I watch them flitting by as if they own the title deed of the land they walk on or the airspace above. One crow looking at me from its perch seemed to tell me:
Mr Whoever you are,
You have a flawed view of my skin
Don't be hypocrite racist
Blacks, you said?
Its a question of degree.
We don't cause dark circles
under your eyes but you
pride on your raven black hair
Black is beautiful, we're sure
You are the ones who fuss
We don't abuse metaphors
Such as eating human
You are vile to eat crow
Stop this blatant drivel
We are as much His creation
My response:
When you come cascading
Utterly black against the
Contrasting white skies
Your wings obscuring the Sun
Your caws drown other sounds
Again and again your lithe
figure shuttles between the
ground and trees around
Your gleaming feathers
ready to blanket the celestial
When the mountains far away
With evening haze engulfing,
See you fly in ebony spread
Heading towards a secret roost
You become harbingers of night.
At the break of the dawn
Your caws are sharp prods
That I have duties to do;
And I concede in humility
You're a phenomenon in yourselves.
