The Crow Eaters Read Online Free PDF Page A

speak for fear of touching off a revolution. Her statement that she feared even to drink water in his house stung him. Wheezing with subdued rage he said, ‘Of course you don’t drink water … a drop of water wouldn’t know where to lodge in your stomach – not with all that port wine, milk, sherbet and cognac you’ve pumped into it …’
    He would have carried on but for the glacial, wide-eyed glower from Putli. Shrivelling hopelessly beneath her look, head downcast, he slunk down the stairs.
    And his stars, not content with the domestic havoc they wrought, struck blow upon bewildering blow on his business as well. He lost a contract to retail wine to the Lahore Gymkhana Club. An army canteen suddenly switched over to a store in the cantonment for its weekly provision of sugar and wholewheat. His daily inflow of customers dwindled, preferring stores where the salesmen, not having to contend with mothers-in-law, were free to dance attendance on them. A deal to get sole agency for Murree Brewery’s beer, on which Freddy had set his despondent heart, fell through at the very last moment.
    Then Freddy made a weird discovery. The intransigence ofhis luck was directly related to his squabbles with his mother-in-law. Her hatred for him was palpable and there was no doubt in his mind that she wished him ill. When he discovered that her curses and lachrymose scenes coincided with set-backs in his business, he grew fearfully alarmed. Languishing beneath the gargantuan weight of these conjectures he became desperate.
    It was five years since Freddy had come to Lahore.

Chapter 3
    HOLLOW-CHEEKED, glazed-eyed, a shadow of his former self, Freddy decided to consult a Mystic.
    Late one chilly afternoon (Lahore can be as cold in winter as it is hot in summer) he slipped out of his store and shivering in his overcoat, walked dismally to the seedy tenement in which the Mystic was known to dwell. The Fakir was reputed to be in touch with spirits and well-versed in the arts of his esoteric profession.
    Freddy walked through the dingy corridors of the building, too dispirited even to ask directions. He climbed an unlit flight of steps to the first floor. Wandering at random, he finally located the Mystic through the open doors of his dwelling. Wild-haired and long-bearded, he sat cross-legged in his loin cloth upon a grimy mat on the floor.
    Covering his head with a handkerchief, Freddy stood deferentially at the threshold of the small, bare room which reeked of incense.
    The Mystic was in a yogic trance. Freddy studied the dusky, ash-covered, strong-featured face with its closed eyelids. The Mystic’s upper arms were decorated with silver bracelets and his chest bristled with an assortment of amulets and colourful beads. He sat within a semi-circle of vials, pounding-bowls and scraps of parchment marked with astrological signs. Impressed by what he saw, Freddy drifted into a reverie.
    All at once the Mystic opened his huge black eyes. His face gathered itself into a ferocious scowl and glaring at Freddy he thundered:
    ‘Come in you murderer!’
    Freddy’s constitution was in no condition to withstand this greeting. Nearly jumping out of his overcoat, springing erect and bumping his head against the doorpost, he stumbled into the room.
    Freddy crumbled to his knees and touched the divine’s dirty toe. The Fakir shied back like a nun pinched by a drunkard. Retracting his toes, fastidiously placing a disturbed tatter of parchment back into line, he shooed Freddy back with a rapid flutter of his fingers.
    Freddy staggered back and settled trembling on his haunches. The semi-circle of vials and pounding-bowls stood like a wall, sternly demarcating their territories.
    ‘Well, murderer?’ asked the Mystic, graciously inviting Freddy to speak his errand.
    Freddy blanched and cowered. A thousand thoughts clamoured in his mind. Was the man clairvoyant? No, he thought. The thought of murder had not as much as crossed his mind. Maybe the Fakir