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'Crows Remember, Don’t They?' by Stuti Srivastava
Badi Dadi lived in an old village-style house with an open courtyard, surrounded by rooms, kitchen, and storage areas on all sides. Any wall I could see was peeling, broken, or reproachful.
Her room was next to the entrance, but she spent most of her time on a wooden cot placed outside her room. The charpai, as we called it, looked like it might give way any moment, but its confidence stared you right in the face.
It was early evening, and I was sitting in the courtyard after visiting the farms and devouring local food at the village square.
Badi Dadi was oiling her long, silvery hair. I asked whether she would oil mine, and her eyes gleamed as she beckoned me to sit on the broken floor beneath the charpai. After pouring oil on my hair parting, she started massaging my head, gently at first and then with a curated pressure. I crumbled into the ground.
“Which oil is this?” I asked.
“Rahat Rooh,” she said. “The younger brat gets it for me from Gorakhpur.”
A quiet minute later, she added, “Whenever she comes, that is.”
I told myself it was the intensity of the cooling oil that was forcing the tears out of my eyes. I looked around to find a witness to this moment but found none except a crow perched on the overhang.
The next morning, I longed for my sunglasses after watching Badi Dadi not just cry but bawl when bidding goodbye. This time, I told myself it was the dust that was hitting my tear glands. As I left, a crow caw-cawed atop a bell hanging above the doorstep.
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Stuti Srivastava is a writer who looks to the earth before calling herself one. She likes to explore themes related to gender dynamics, inner worlds, and inequalities. When not binge-watching grisly crime thrillers, she will be found curled up with a book, lost in her world.
