Caw!

It was 2:03 PM. Atul’s 1.2GB upload had finally initiated. The friendly beep signalling the start of the transfer coincided with the angry grumble of his stomach. His doctor had advised him to eat his meals on time, if he wanted to have a shot at controlling his anxiety, that is. Sure, eat on time. Forget that he’d been given a transfer he didn’t ask for. Screw the fact that the landlord insisted on a 10-month deposit he couldn’t afford. Ignore the fact that he was sharing his house with 3 people he couldn’t stand. Let’s eat on time.

Atul slid towards the edge of his ergonomic chair, his eyes still fixed on the 0% blinking apologetically on the status bar of the file transfer site – it had aborted at 0 previously, thus delaying his lunch by an hour. His eyes momentarily shifted to the ‘modern art’ visage that was the accompanying background for the upload. It vaguely resembled a clay figurine made by a child who decided to eat his masterpiece midway. It didn’t make sense to him. None of it made sense to him. “I’d rather just have an ad selling me something. I can deal with ads. I can’t deal with… ‘art’. Kakka!” Atul had once remarked to Naina, his then cubicle mate in his previous job in his hometown. They had exchanged a chuckle then.

The status bar ticked over to 1% and taking his cue, Atul transitioned from his erstwhile preparatory slide-to-the-edge-of-his-chair to a full-blown lift-off as he exited the cubicle with his Tupperware bag in hand.

The office dining area was a classic neo-kitchen with open seating on the terrace. Open spaces, apparently, build camaraderie. Plus, they are an easy excuse to throw an office party. Atul shuffled up the stairs – usually he’d have to plan in advance to find himself a spot in the corner, away from the crowds. In any case, according to Terrace Culture, The Newbies got the corner spaces by default. This was the dichotomy of distribution between workspaces downstairs and lunchtime seating upstairs – inside, in the offices, corners were coveted. Here, hell was up.

Atul hurried past faces in the corridor and nodded politely towards some. Some replied with the pursed-lips-high-eyebrow expression that meant, “Hey, sorry you have to eat alone”. A pretty and familiar face walked past – that other new girl from the induction. He almost got the “Hi, Rini” out of his larynx before she gave him a cursory glance and breezed past him.

He doubled his pace, climbing up two steps at a time. Strangely enough, the post-lunch drone of his co-workers exiting the terrace seemed to drown out some of his inhibitions. The swimming-against-the-tide nature of his current endeavour seemed to embolden Atul to a point where he almost began strutting past them confidently. No sooner than he could explore this emotion more clearly, his corner had arrived. The caterer Janakan gave him his customary salute and a genial “Adhul cheta!” welcome. To be fair, Janakan seemed distracted by the cash he was counting. Atul waved and began inspecting the tables and chairs around him for lunch suitability.

The first table in the far end seemed to have a generous sprinkling of leftover rice on the surface. The second loosely resembled a satellite map of the Andamans comprised of different sambars and dals. The third one had a dry piece of shunned chappati on it, but that was negotiable – dried up leftovers are easier to deal with. He grabbed a tissue and swatted it aside and proceeded to inspect the chair. That proved to be a wise decision, because otherwise he would’ve missed the morsel of potato fry that would have eventually left a nice starchy impression on his glutes, neatly superseding the edgy winged logo on the back of his jeans.

Nurdling the tiny potato to the floor like a single in the 23rd over, he sat down. He unlocked the Tupperware and stared at it for a second: it was Chappatis, bhindi and dal. Great. Only third time this week, didi, thanks. He separated the sticky chappati – there was always a moist one stuck to the bottom of the Tupperware – from the rest for it to dry out slightly.

He fished for the spoon from the bottom of the Tupperware bag but didn’t find one. Ugh.

“Janakan cheta! Can I borrow a spoon?”

Janakan merely gestured how his hands were full (of notes) and Atul had to come fetch one himself. Atul begrudgingly lifted himself off the chair and walked to the counter and found a clean enough spoon. His anxiety dialled up another 5% when rewashing the spoon in the sink it duly sent a small gush of water towards his crotch. Spoons are evil. His mojo had now visibly dropped again from doing unexpected preparatory work for a lunch he wasn’t looking forward to at a time he wasn’t used to. His shoes began dragging on the floor a bit more as he walked back to the table and stopped short of the chair. He noticed two black, beady eyes stared bleakly at him.

“Caw!”

A crow had presently made Atul’s seat his own. The creature swivelled towards Atul slightly and crouched down a smidge, almost as if indicating his preference to stay.

“Shoo!” Atul yelled, with a hurried wave of his hand.

The following noise that came out of Atul mimicked the sound his stomach made in hunger-fuelled anguish moments ago. The crow, confused, tilted his head slightly. Atul froze. It was not like he had a phobia or anything. But the fact that his recently diagnosed mental condition and that another crow tried to steal his bicycle helmet from him (while he was still attached to it) a few weeks ago brought about a sudden dread. What if it’s the same bugger?! Atul’s brain loaded up a quick highlight reel of the YouTube video where clever crows with great big memories attacked their tormentor years after they had first encountered them. Atul’s first encounter had only been 22 days ago.

Then, remembering he was armed, he swished his spoon in the general direction of the crow, with a bit more aggression this time. This startled the bird enough for it to fly off and find a safer position on the railing flanking the terrace walls.

A reassured Atul sat down. Fearing the looming presence still, he turned his chair slightly to keep the crow within range of his peripheral vision. He looked around for moral support. No Janakan. No other later-lunchers. It was just him and the beast. 

Atul cautiously opened his box and dipped the spoon into the dal. He scooped some of the floating bits of oil out and proceeded to mix the lentils at a slow, deliberate pace. No sooner than he smothered a piece of chappati with the dal, his phone rang. He glanced towards the screen of the phone, which alerted him urgently that his mother was calling. This lunch is going to be exhausting. As his anxiety up another 10%, he answered.

“Ya, ‘ma. No, just getting lunch. No, had work. Ya, it’s late.”

If he had more monosyllables, he could have an alternate career in beatboxing.

“Ma! How is this the time?” Atul protested. Only mothers could effortlessly weave in the topic of marriage from all manner of tangents.

“But-… No I-… Listen, I have a new job, I just moved to a new fucking cit-…”

Big mistake.

“Sorry! Sorry, I cursed... I shouldn’t have said that word... Yes, it’s from those Hollywood movies... ”

In the middle of rendering this somewhat sincere apology, something caught Atul’s eye. His peripheral vision became more acute to the presence.

“Ma I will have to call you back! What?... no, it’s a…crow. Ya ma, a crow! Bye!” He didn’t pay much attention to his mother’s trailing voice instructing him to go to the nearest temple of the God whose vehicle was a similarly winged creature.

It seemed, The Crow, was back. Or front, and centre, to be precise.

Unbeknownst to Atul, the Crow had mounted the table and was about to dip his beak into Didi’s dal. “Dude, you don’t know what’s about to hit you,” he advised the C under his breath, not wanting to startle his uninvited date.

The Crow seemed to check just an inch before hitting the brim of the Tupperware, to see if Atul tried something with his nervous appendages. Sensing no more immediate twitches, The Crow bravely undertook his first dip. Swallowing Didi’s lentil blandness, C craned his neck upwards and let out a half-caw that seemed to indicate the sort of feeling you get after indulging in a guilty pleasure – like a drag of someone else’s half-finished cigarette in a dark conference room after everyone had left. Since Atul had just quit cigarettes, too, he could relate. He sympathized with The Crow. This surprised him.

C paused, to appraise Atul’s present mood and movements. Atul’s now empathy-induced body language seemed more relaxed, and so the Crow took a small but bold step forward. ‘I am going for the solids now,’ C seemed to signal as he carefully picked a crusty piece of bhindi perched on the edge of the smaller Tupperware box. Atul, strangely, did not object – in fact he sunk lower into his chair and wondered why.

Perhaps it was a continuation of the sympathy he felt. Perhaps it was a function of his mental and physical exhaustion. There was certainly a part of the brain that was fixed on his recently concluded phone call, the same part of the brain that quickly brought up the memory of the dreadful homepage of the matrimony website subservient to his particular caste. It was not the caste-based agenda of the site that irked him – it was just the forced horizontal scrolling that he found appalling. As someone who dabbled in web-design as a teenager, he found the lack of understanding of web browsers and their relationship with computer mice more irritating than the inflammatory nature of the website itself.

His body shuddered back to reality as the tapping of The Crow’s feet upon his table demanded attention. C had just picked up a big quarter piece of the chappati with his beak and seemed to draw Atul’s attention towards it, almost as if asking permission. Surely, this would have been one indiscretion too many. Surely Atul would flail his arms in protest. Surely a ‘shoo’ was incoming. But it never came. Atul just stared back with almost empty eyes. Mission accomplished, C flew to his railing with quarter-piece safely in beak and proceeded to peck away. Atul’s mind continued to wander as he went through the motions of what was left of his lunch.

It seemed an hour had passed as Atul continued chewing cud. He glanced at his watch. 2:23 PM. He sighed like a defeated pressure cooker that had just been pried open. His lunch remained unattended to. He looked around to check if C would still be interested. He wasn’t around. Even crows in this city don’t like me. He then closed the boxes in a manner of disinterest and trudged back to his desk.

**

It was 7:17 PM. Atul’s boss slung his faux-leather laptop bag on his shoulder as he waved an urgent goodbye. The moment the magnetic clamps on the glass doors locked shut, Atul took his cue and began shutting down his computer. He grabbed his belongings in a hurry – if he managed to get a cab in time, he could catch the last few overs of the match. He grabbed his headphones and didn’t give them the usual courtesy of disentanglement and carelessly matched each end to their respective orifices. The live stream began with a customary lag and stutter equal to a drunk attempting an unsolicited speech at the aforementioned office party. Nevertheless, Atul saw enough to glean the score: from a dire state of 160 runs required in 10 overs half an hour ago, they had brought it down to 75 from 5. His franchise team were back in the game. “Manageable,” Atul mused as he entered the elevator and punched the button to the ground floor. Just then, a six! Atul whooped just as the elevator doors opened a floor below. His joyous face awkwardly froze as he realised he had company. It was Rini, again. This time she smiled at him. Atul’s facial features realigned themselves just enough to manage a sheepish smile in return. He fumbled a few verbal syllables acknowledging her presence, and his brain immediately reminded him how he had seemingly lost his social skills in the new city.

As they exited the premises together, Atul lifted his head up momentarily to try and spot his cab. “5664,” he muttered the car’s number under his breath

“Excuse me?” Rini asked, removing her own headphones from one ear.

“Oh. My cab… I guess it’s not here yet.”

The watchmen were flagging off the last few cars from the office building. The main road in front of the office was beginning to well up in the usual Friday evening traffic bubble.

“Ah. Where do you live?” She inqured.

“Wadala”
“Oh, me too! I am sharing with a bunch of girls in Daffodil Elite.”
“Oh, nice. I live in your poorer cousin.”

“Err… ‘scuse me?” Her brows knitted in confusion.

“D-daffodil Premier… the older one? With, um, no amenities…”

She nodded now in acknowledgement, but still slightly confused.

“… and has people with no English speaking skills, apparently.”

She chuckled. Phew! Good save, I guess?

He soon realised the ‘save’ came to naught as the conversation veered into obscurity. Owell.

He went back to his mobile phone resting on his palm. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pinch at his elbow and a shriek that managed to surface over the commentary playing on his noise-cancelling headphones. His head followed the general direction of pain to see Rini clutching his arm, her evidently sharp nails piercing his small-town thin skin. Sensing trouble, his shifted his gaze to match hers.

“I’m scared of birds,” she confessed, as a pointed at a fluttering mass perched on the handlebars of her bike, craning its neck and letting out a triumphant caw!

“Oh, hello, C.” Atul greeted his winged lunch-mate absent-mindedly. His eyes immediately widened in terror as he realised Rini may have caught the act of him greeting a crow.

“Oh.. man… a freakin’ crow! They’re a menace to the public, eh!” He adjusted his stance with a vague chuckle.  I don’t think she heard me. She was too busy.

“Shoo!” She meekly flailed her free hand. C fluttered his wings, but didn’t flinch.

“Caw!” He replied.

Atul tried to calm Rini down while she engaged in an awkward dance in an attempt to free her bike from C’s clutches. It seemed to happen in slow motion, like in those movies, where the hero meets the heroine and the entire thing unfolds at a mellow, romantic pace.

 “Hey you know what…”Atul offered, as he let his laptop bag loose off his shoulder – he had chanced upon an idea.

“…hold this,” he instructed Rini as he handed her his phone. He rummaged through the black hole that was his bag and fished out his lunch box. He opened it with a smile: a quarter piece of chappati still remained.

Atul held this piece in front of C, jiggling it enticingly for effect. Their eyes locked.

Come on, C, you know what this is.

“Caw?” C inquired, cocking his head to one side.

“It’s your favourite eh!” Atul muttered. Rini caught it this time.

“You…know this bird or something?” Rini inquired, her pitch noticeably higher.

“Err… he hangs out at the terrace…” as his voice trailed off, Rini’s face contorted enough for him to clarify.

“…I mean, I am sure he’s one of our terrace crows. They’re not…”

C showed interest in the piece by hopping a step forward. Rini braced herself.

“…not friendly.”

C swooped in, grabbed the piece and flew to the nearest tree. The bike was freed.

Rini’s joy was palpable as she let out a squeak and hugged Atul. She thanked him and tried to put her helmet on, but Atul’s headphones, now entangled with her own, prevented her from doing so. The live stream blared now from the phone speakers: “it’s another six! The Royal Rajas now only need 10 from the last over! This is an amazing recovery.”

“You’re a Warriors fan?” She asked.

“Dear god, no! Rajas fuh lyfe!” He tried to course-correct the lame tone of his expression, but to no avail.

“Ha! Life in prison only! Cheaters all of them!”

“Do all Warriors’ fans eat sour grapes for breakfast?”

“You know what-“

The live stream interrupted them with important news: “he’s been caught! Now we have a match on our hands!”

“Deserve it!” She yelped. He could only grumble.

“Shit! 10 from 3,” he remarked as he slumped on the mini-steps outside his office doors. His hand clasped his forehead in frustration.

“No chance now!” She remarked, looming over him for effect. She then gestured him to move his posterior so she could accommodate herself beside him. He obliged, but his partisan instincts for his team ensured he only gave up so much. They pored into the 6-inch screen together.

“You just watch, Rajas will choke, as always!” She exclaimed.

“Bet?”

“Bet!”

“Caw!”