Flight of Crows

The Flight of Crows:

When Tuan painted crows, hundreds of them hopped along the ground until they disappeared as speckles of black ink in the distant background, or tore out of the paper with eyes peering down hardy beaks, head atilt to examine the painter or the onlooker, each crow differently captured in the acuity of its rodent wile. They always watched you attentively, Tuan's crows, some mid-peck at a dry worm, some treading on the tips of their toes, legs flexed for the upward thrust to safety, but always aware of your gaze. Sometimes he painted them alongside eggplants and gourds and drunk monks acting like fools: the crude twist of a misshapen gourd looked like the fierce knotting on the face of a monk whose loincloth has come undone in his drunkenness and now looks like the crow that understands fiercely the secrets of the world and therefore resents it for being so quick to snatch from it anything beautiful.

I have just finished walking around the four tallest buildings in Kolkata, forty, fifty stories high apartment buildings that are rumored to be slowly sinking back into the pokkur ponds from where they soared aloft. I have followed the flitting and caws of crows to a heap of rubbish, just finished guzzling from a can hidden in a plastic bag, and settled on a worn bench outside a barbershop that is mostly bamboo and tarpaulin. A bald man is getting a shave. Another man is running a hand over his freshly shaved head. The barber sizes me up, sees: balding, greasy, unkempt hair, stubbly chin. I turn away from him and face the crows instead.

Hundreds of crows are speckled over orange and green rags from the recent nationalist celebrations. Because it is drizzling lightly, some crows look up to receive the spray on their faces, but some lift soda-bottle caps and sip in leisure. They have no fear of my stoic presence on the bench: for them I might as well be the crumbling, half-painted, unbaked clay figure grinning in a corner, a god that wasn't lucky enough to be bought for a puja, and now brandishes a sword of foil over a restless, rancid kingdom. I crush the can after lapping up the last few drops of malty wetness around the rim and throw it in a low arc into the midst of the black crowd. Not all heads turn. Most trace the arc with a patient study. A few shuffle an inch or two outwards in a ripple, and a few outright dart from the spot where the can flops to a rest. A novice saunters up to the can, bobbing to his sides like a young man in a spiffy new jacket and affecting a jaunty gait. Novice pinches the can and tilts it, immediately drops it. Another crow comes in for a closer inspection of the can and needlessly pecks Novice. Novice caws once, doesn't sound much of a protest, and bobs away, his gait now carrying the sting of admonition. The pecker knocks the can around a bit, pulls at the plastic bag, lifts one foot as if to crush the can, perhaps changes its mind, because it rushes off towards Novice to land another needless peck on its head.

So the horde pecks and picks apart the detritus of four tall buildings. I have counted seven servants by now who bring garbage tied in a Spencer's bag from the biggest mall in Kolkata that sits adjacent to the tallest buildings in Kolkata. The mall is in its turn built over an evacuated pond, after forcing the closure of a factory that existed there, and after expelling the shantytown around the pond. One bag, thrown from the edge of the pile, spills a riotous palate of orange and curry yellow and shellfish and sequins from the backs of rohu fish from a dinner party. Many crows hop to pick prawn shells, but what is the nutrition in that? A scuffle breaks out over another plastic bag that has remained closed until a Hulk of a crow ambles into the riot, raises its hard black beak to the sky and lets out just half of a caw. Order returns briefly as bobbing heads watch Hulk and me, Hulk and barber, Hulk and three other bags that come as missiles shot from another world. Hulk pecks once, lets others pull apart the plastic bag, rummages, picks a shiny bit of a disposable plate and flies to the top of the barbershop.

Hulk caws loudly and flies off to the branches of a gnarled tree across the bay of trash. A man somewhere between forty and sixty staggers towards us. He steps directly into the garbage and, with a violent jerk of his head, throws off a woven plastic sack twice the size of his body. Another ripple of dark wings ensues, another clamor of caw-caws, and everybody settles down, including the man, who chooses the roots of the gnarled tree for support. Man unravels the gomchha rag tied around his head to support the load, and in the folds finds a chewed-up datiwan twig with which he cleans his teeth. He looks across his kingdom, knows I am out of place there, spits out of the corner of his mouth, looks away dismissively, dozes off, wakes to wipe the beads of moisture that have settled on his hair.

Man startles a crow eying his ankle and lobs a phlegm missile at another. His leathery hands grip the equally leathery trunk of the tree that gives him ribbed shade, and pushes himself up, propelling the body forward. He kicks plastics apart, stoops to pick up metal: a handful of paper-clips, greasy foil, a length of concertina razor wire, a set of TV antenna constructed with aluminum pipes, one whole copper kalash in a sack of empty bottles of foreign liquor. Man stuffs his already bulging sacks with the new finds. He pauses, suddenly aware of the crushed aluminum can under his foot. He picks it, smells it, shakes any remaining liquid out, looks at me as he drops the can to stamp on it with vigor. He presses the can into a small ball and stuffs it into the sack.

Man rolls the gomchha around his head, creating a hollow in the top to cushion the load. Then he pinches the sides of the sack: there is no hold because the plastic sack is bloated, so Man must pinch small folds with his fingertips. He presses upon the load with his head, pushing his buttocks into the sky, grunting. He squats, starts, falters, sighs, takes a pouch of khaini from a fold in his lungi and quickly gets patting and spitting and repeating the squat and start. Man succeeds in throwing the load into the air and receiving it on his head. He is Atlas and he is Shiva. Then Man splays his bony frame like Christ on the cross and staggers over the effulgence of rich homes, every separated muscle on his arms and shoulder registering the squelch and filth underfoot. Man wears his neighbors' sins like a crown on his head and leaves the crows behind after spitting in their direction a mouthful of dark, rejuvenating juice. He staggers, stands still, stretches his arms more to balance the burden, stumbles forward. Man repeats the struggle until he disappears from view.