Free In the Shadow of Crows by David Charles Manners Page A

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    â€œMy Grandmother and Priya were the only other people in my life able to recite Tagore!” I stumbled in recognition, astonished to hear their names together on my tongue.
    As I continued to sniff my nose and dry my eyes, Uncle Piyush joined us on the bed and held my hand. The unexpected company of Tagore in our first meeting provided a safe foundation on which to cultivate an association. We compared our favourite poems, preferred passages from his prose, and found ourselves engaging like old friends.
    Mr Mehta sat by, watching us attentively. He then announced, “I shall no longer be calling you ‘Mister David’. You are my own son, we are your family, and this is your home.”
    I suddenly remembered my purpose and turned to my rucksack. I dug deep for two carefully wrapped boxes and hesitantly handed them to Priya’s grandfather.
    â€œThe wedding gold,” I murmured. “I have come to return the wedding gold.”
    He slowly placed the boxes on his lap and stared hard at the unopened lids.
    Again, he took me in his arms.
    Again, we wept.
    ***
    By dusk, Bindra, Jyothi and Jiwan had travelled little distance. They had been unable to climb the steep, forested mountainside, unable to clamber across the deep, rocky gullies cut by monsoon streams. Bindra had felt she had no choice but to return them to the “blacktop” road, despite her trepidation.
    Jiwan had tired quickly, but his exhausted mother had found herself unable to carry him. The new skin across her back and shoulders was still too fragile, too sensitive to bear any weight. As the light had fallen and the traffic had dwindled, she had led the boys back to the ease of tarmac.
    By nightfall, they had reached a promontory, high above the river, designated a “viewing point” by the West Bengal Tourist Board. Where once there had been virgin jungle, now the State offered a pot-holed car park, a pair of dilapidated concrete benches and a roofless shelter for the recreational pleasure of holidaying visitors. The two boys wrinkled their noses as they entered the place. It stank of stale urine.
    They were not the first that evening to settle at the “viewing point”. Two tall, lean roti-wallahs had already lit a low fire and were laying out their bedding. Such itinerant pastrymen were a common sight on these hill roads. They came from the distant Plains to walk between mountain villages with large, metal trunks balanced on their heads. These black cases were filled with such tasty and rare delights that the appearance of the boxies in any hill community remained a source of great excitement as the enduring chill of a long winter slowly began to thaw.
    Bindra drew the shawl close around her face and tucked her bandaged hands up inside, well out of sight. The men stared hard as they approached.
    â€œ Namooshkar ,” they offered in mumbled Bengali greeting.
    â€œ Namaste dajooharu ,” Bindra replied brightly in her own tongue. She indicated towards their small fire with a lift of her eyes. In answer, they both briefly nodded for them to share the warmth.
    Whilst she encouraged the boys to run ahead, Bindra moved closer with caution. Bengali roti-wallahs were well-known for their coarse manner and assertive appetites, and these men were eyeing her with more curiosity than she felt comfortable.
    She crouched down at a distance, taking care to keep her back to the two strangers. The men watched intently as she discreetly unwrapped her food parcel and passed one piece of soft churpi to each of her sleepy boys. The fragile phinni had been reduced to nothing more than flakes and crumbs, but the boys scooped them from the cloth and licked them off their fingers. Bindra held back Detchen Dhondup’s potato aloo dum and sweet sesame til mithai , in the hope that she could make it last until they reached Kakariguri. After that, she had not yet dared to think.
    It was still the custom in these hills to share