It took me four decades to realise that the crows were being trained
Suddenly, the many tense groups of mourners you can see at Nashik, all facing one direction, made sense. They were waiting for the crow that would tell them all was well with the departed soul. Representation pic
The second time I saw crows being fed rice was on a Sunday in Matunga, Mumbai's little south India. It was a typical mami - Tamil slang for middle-aged Brahmin lady - doing her morning things. Cooking done, she was forming steaming hot rice into ping-pong sized balls and lining them up along the back wall of her house. Almost on cue, several crows swooped down to carry them away.
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The first time I had seen the same thing was around four decades earlier, as a scruffy boy in knickers playing at my grandfather's house in Coimbatore. My grandmother, a stern lady with a no-nonsense face who had no hesitation in using the rod when entreaties failed, used to ritually place rice balls on the parapet every morning. My brother and I would count the crows as they fought over the rice.
But it was only the third time that I saw crows and rice balls that I finally understood the reason for this seemingly virtuous and kind-hearted practice. The crows were being trained. To understand how I realised this, we must go back to February 8, 1990, the day my father died. He went peacefully while showering, after years of enduring the pains of diabetic neuropathy but eventually being taken away quite quickly by a heart attack. That morning before I left for work, he had asked me what I thought of the changes Gorbachev was bringing about in the USSR with his glasnost and perestroika.
At age 38, it was my first direct experience with the death of a loved one. As the eldest sibling, I knew custom required that I lead in the final rites but I had the long drive from Nariman Point to Andheri to let my tears rage. By the time I reached home, I was composed and on top of things.
We cremated him the same evening at Oshiwara crematorium, according to his wishes, and kept his mortal remains in an urn for the next nine days, as required. Aunts, uncles, cousins descended with much needed advice on protocols and rites. The ashes should be dispersed at the confluence of three rivers - we chose Nashik - and only after three days of prayers and ceremonies starting on the tenth day.
The family priest was a wise, erudite man called Ware, also at Nashik. We reached on the ninth day; the rituals began the following morning some fifty yards from the river.
Ware was articulate in English and my brother and I, both sceptical of rituals, asked him many questions. In one ceremony, he arranged twigs in a tic-tac-toe grid of nine squares with rice balls. After reciting some shlokas, he removed the top row, moved up the remaining two and added three new rice balls to the bottom row. This was symbolic, he explained, of one generation moving on and the next one, mine, moving to take its place. A casual reminder of life's brevity. On the third noon, Ware concluded the last of the rites. He walked up to the riverside parapet and placed a small earthen urn there, balancing a rice ball on its mouth. Then he came back and seated himself, apparently with nothing further to do. His eyes were fixed on the rice ball far away.
After some minutes, my brother asked him, "We're waiting for what?" It seems a crow needed to pick up the rice ball and fly off. The crow, Ware explained, represented my father's departed soul and its acceptance of the rice ball signified that he was happy with the ceremonies and arrangements and had no unfulfilled wishes.
"That's absurd!" I said. "In a crowded city like Nashik, it's a matter of time before a crow, rat or cat would come for the food. How convenient to assign it my father's soul." But that is the belief, Ware insisted, and one should not dismiss what one knows little about. "The crow may not be your father's soul," he agreed, "but we believe that animals sense spirits. If the crow does not take the rice, it would mean your father's spirit is standing in between them. That would mean he has an unfulfilled wish."
This happened, he said, at his own father's funeral, creating great tension among the mourners, until someone realised that his favourite daughter-in-law was at home, nursing a flu. As soon as she was fetched, swaddled in a blanket, the crow flew off with the rice.
Suddenly, the many tense groups of mourners you can see at Nashik, all facing one direction, made sense. They were waiting for the crow that would tell them all was well with the departed soul. And that, I realised, was why south Indians start teaching crows early to go for the rice whenever they see it.
Here, viewed from there. C Y Gopinath, in Bangkok, throws unique light and shadows on Mumbai, the city that raised him. You can reach him at cygopi@gmail.com Send your feedback to mailbag@mid-day.com
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