Crow of a soul

Mother always did such things. She worshipped animals-the dog, cow, snakes and elephants; deified the plants and trees-the Peepul, neem, basil and prayed at every shrine she ever passed. Her faith was touching, her ignorance embarrassing and the persistence irritating. She too failed to recognize that she had raised a rationalist despite or rather because of her orthodox ways. For the love of her and for fear of hurting her, I remained silent, not clashing with her ways. Now, this once, for the last time, I had agreed to do what she would have wanted...

            Mother always thought about her life after death. She had wished that after her death, she be accorded all the right rites that would enable her to attain redemption from the cycle of birth and death. Much as I lacked faith in such ceremonies, I was obliged to perform them. I owed it to her-as an acknowledgement for single handedly struggling to make me the big man I was today. Being her only son, I was determined to say the goodbye the way mother had wanted.

            The last lap of the ceremonies involved feeding the crows. A ball of cooked rice, mixed with til was offered as food to the crows. It is a belief amongst us that crows impersonate the souls of the ancestors. If they fed on the offerings, it was presumed that the ancestors were contented and happy with their scions. I had scant belief in this.

            The balls of rice waited patiently for the crows. I was amused. I had never imagined that I would one day spend long hours waiting for that humble crow! There were times when I had to shoo tens of them off from my roof when they came pecking at the pickles that were being dried on wicker mattresses. The believers were beginning to murmur. “Did we do something wrong along the way? Is the soul not propitiated?” they began to wonder, noting the absence of the crows.

            That was when I saw her. A woman in rags with a baby hoisted on her waist, standing at the gates with a begging bowl. I hated them. Begging was another form of laziness. These people would rather beg than sweat it out....That was an unresolved argument I had with mother all too often. “If you don’t want to give alms, then don’t. However, don’t admonish a beggar. Don’t give them unsolicited advice on employment when they come begging for a morsel. Just be grateful that we are on the other side of charity.   We can never fathom the lack of self-confidence and battering of ego these people go through. So desperate they are, selling their souls to quench their basic needs...What right have you over their bankruptcy?” She would gently sermon giving away alms generously.

            About to send away the beggar I recalled mother’s words. What would she have done now? Fed and clothed the duo. Not worrying that the beggar would return for more the next day, making it a habit. She would be ready with alms! “We are all beggars, albeit of different wants, in the eyes of God,” she would smile. I did not want to disappoint her on her last journey.

            I ordered some alms to be given to the miserable woman in rags. Even as the beggar, beaming at the haul, turned away, a large group of cacophonic crows swarmed down on the rice offering, devouring it in no time.

Dramatis persona (water color on paper)