As I opened the window to bring more light and fresh air into my study, my eyes stood riveted on the carcass of a crow.

The window overlooked the flat concrete roof of a first floor room. A large neem tree cast dancing shadows upon the roof that served as a sort of playground for squirrels, sparrows and crows. In daylight, the tree smiled through bunches of yellow ripe fruit and lured many a winged traveller to rest awhile on its branches and parted of its hospitality.

The tree never grudged when the crows broke its twigs to build their nests or when the squirrels found their dreys. Innumerable birds sought the help of the tree for a good night’s sleep and sang encomiums on it at daybreak before they took off. They were birds of passage. Some birds loved the tree to its core and made it their permanent abode. But for their search-for-food errand, they rarely left their bosom-friend, the tree.

Sitting in my snug study, I feasted my eyes on the youthful and therefore energetic small furry animal with a long bushy tail chasing its mate playing, dancing, cuddling, cooing sweet nothings and finally making love. And then as if tired and exhausted, they stretched themselves on the bed of yellow leaves, harping on the joyfully spent few minutes.

My present research, of course, kept me busy in going through the pitch dark letters scribbled on semi-white papers that have yellowed through years. And I had to pull my eyes out now and again from the world of letters to the unduly pleasant world of nature. A real solace to my tortured eyes!

It is good to have trees and climbers facing one’s study for they give a green comfort. Quite often the leaves wave to me, blessing me with a whiff of fresh air. At times the flowers wink at me, perhaps craving for a masculine touch.

I became accustomed to pulling my eyes out of my work to give them a bit of rest and after a couple of minutes or so pushing them back to work.

On one such occasion, when my work was demanding the physical presence of my eyes and when I had helplessly and reluctantly put them back to work, they simply refused. It was all because of a dead crow.

At first sight, the carcass very much resembled Christ on the Cross… of course, in a miniature form. Lying on its back with its wings spread eagled, the bird could not trigger any other image in my mind.

As there was no access to the terrace, I began to wonder how I could get rid of it. In a day or two, my study would become a veritable gas chamber. The forefinger and the thumb on my right hand moved up with a startle to tightly hold my nostrils to prevent the fowl air to get into them.

I snorted. No sturdy stick, no matter how lengthy it is, would ever come to my rescue. Will the tireless wind that swept clean the terrace, ever lift the carcass and carry it to the nearby sea and bury it at its depth? Perhaps the carcass would be too heavy for the wind. A simoom would be alright. But nobody knows its whereabouts to employ it for this purpose.

Just then a lonely sparrow, a male, chirped from the tree, then hopping on to the terrace, developed fast feet and stood quite close to the dead crow.

The sparrow sang… perhaps an elegy on the dead bird, all the time thinking of its lost she-sparrow. Or was it a dirge? Only an ornithologist like Salim Ali would be able to say. Seconds later, the sparrow flew back to the tree. Hopping about on its perches, the bird began to twitter. As my mind got entangled in the idea of finding the ways and means of doing away with the carcass, a raven from somewhere made its appearance. It perched on a slender branch of the tree and cawed once.

Perhaps it wanted to know if the crow was lying in such a position in an inebriated mood. The voice of the raven did not evoke any response from the crow. The raven cawed twice increasing its voice a few decibels more.

There was absolutely no response from the crow. Only the wind brushed aside the dead leaves and the fallen twigs that were partially covering the carcass. The little soft feathers that covered the lower part of the crow ruffled in the wind, exposing the dead bird’s body outlet.

I understood for the first time in my life that the crow is not completely black.

Caw…   caw…   caw…   The raven incessantly shouted. I was not sure whether the raven was performing a sort of ritual to resurrect the dead.

The raven jumped from the branch to the terrace with a thud and walked very majestically towards the corpse. In silence it stood, neither turning its head to its right nor to its left.

As if coming back to its normal self, the raven pecked at the head of the dead crow and waited for a second. Finding no response, it repeated the process, this time in a fit of fury, like an angry mother trying to pull out her unconscious son from the clutches of the god of wine.

The raven lost all hopes of bringing the crow back to life. Or perhaps it understood the truth of the matter. It gave a disappointing look before it took to its wings.

I began to ruminate over the enviable fraternity of crows. In spite of all that we have heard from storytellers about their notorious habits and hundreds of proverbs that talk very ill of the black birds, they do not seem to me birds of hatred. They certainly are loveable for they love everyone in their clan, which is unusual of mankind.

Very rarely can we come across good-natured people who have the heart to help others. An accident on the road may pave way for the victims to reach their grave. But how many of us get down from our speeding vehicles to give timely help?

Crows are better than humans in that regard.

I was voicing my opinion, though there was none around to hear me, when the raven returned. It was followed by another, perhaps the former’s mate.

Both the ravens straightaway landed on the terrace and stood on either side of the carcass. While one took a closer look at the dead bird, the other kept vigil by turning its head at different angles and directions as if propelled by its beak.

Seconds later, both the ravens moved sideways till they bumped into each other. Their beaks half-open they whispered to each other in an undecipherable language that spoke only in syllables like kir… bir… gur… tir… etc.

I couldn’t make out a thing. This is not to say that I understood all that they spoke in long sentences. But as usual I have tried and as usual I have failed. And that pushed me to the lower level of the silent spectator, who could only helplessly watch.

And so I watched. It was more of a human drama than a bird drama. I mean birds with a human heart.

The ravens with quick steps moved around the carcass, a few times and then called a halt. One stood to the left of the dead and the other to the right, very close to the claws looking heavenward. Oh! That reminded me of a roasted chicken on a China plate in a dirty restaurant.

Ghar… cried a raven. The other reciprocated by producing the same sound. With very quick movements one stretched its claw and clutched at the dead bird’s claw. It tightened its grip before the second one in the opposite side simply imitated the first one and held the other claw as tightly as it could.

Ghir… ghir… said one raven. The other got ready.

Caw… caw… cuck… cuck… caw… I heard the sound and before I could decipher its meaning, the two ravens took off. Along with them went the carcass.

It was a pleasant sight to see all three picking up speed and disappearing without a trace. The scavenging habits of these black birds are quite amazing. I thought amidst a sigh of relief.