The Crows of Deliverance: Stories by Nirmal Verma

Author:Nirmal Verma
Format: epub

The Morning Walk

He took his walking-stick and stepped out right foot forward, down the stairs. He believed that if he began the day by putting his right foot foremost, he was less likely to run into trouble. In the morning he got out of bed by rolling over to his right. If his left eyelid twitched, it reminded him of his son who had settled abroad years ago.

Swinging his stick, he set out towards the nu llah . In fact, the nu ll a h could no longer be seen: it had been covered over three years ago by the municipality. But the residents of the district still called his house “the nulla h wa ll a house”. His friends still wrote to him at the address: Col. Nihalchandra, Nullahwalla House; and the postman never made a mistake in delivering these letters to him.

He kept on walking until he reached a culvert, its whitewashed parapets gleaming in the sun. He stopped here; this was the first stop on his morning walk. He leant his stick against the parapet and hung his shoulder-bag from its crook. Then he stood stiffly erect, as if at attention. He took a breath; he inhaled the air deep into his lungs, gathered it into a tight little blast and blew it out. After a pause, he took another breath, his muscles tensing to control the rush of air... Did he derive some relief from the act? Nobody knew; he never asked any questions of himself, nor was there anyone else who could have asked him any.

To all appearances, he was not bothered about the schoolboys who had stopped below the culvert and, amazed, were staring up at him -- at his tall spare frame, sucking the air deep into himself, shaking like a reed.

“Colonel Sa’b! Colonel Sa’b!”

“Where’s your gun?”

“An’ where’s your sword?”

The boys jeered, screamed, scattered. Their feet splashed in the rain-water as they ran away.

The grass rustled in the wind.

The children’s voices buzzed in Nihalchandra’s ears, but before long it was quiet again. He filled his lungs one last time with air which eventually surged from his nostrils in a misty gush. He picked up his walking-stick and cleaned its crook with a handkerchief before blowing his nose and wiping his eyes. He slung his bag over his shoulder. His throat pricked from dryness. He could just make out that there was an uneasiness in him, a vague discomfort which he dared not identify yet as thirst. He lived in a fog in which all discomforts remain anonymous. To try to identify and define any one of them would have taken the lid off the Pandora’s box -- and that was dangerous. No, he was better off with the fog that blurred alike all definitions and the need to define.

Further ahead, beyond the culvert, was a large stretch of level ground. A part of it was being used as a washing-place by the d hobi s and the rest was clad with trees. The nul l ah , hidden in the town, flowed breezily out here in the open.

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