Story Of The Day: The Clock and the Crow "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife." Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice It is also true that a man in possession of nothing must be in want of house. A crow who knew them both. He woke with a heavy head. Another night of pretend well-being. He looked around his room. One cup on the nightstand. One plate. The brass jug had gone dull. He had scrubbed everything clean only yesterday. It never stayed clean. There was nobody else to notice. The cage of a room pressed in on him. As always, he peered through the windowpane at the vacant house across the street. Peeling paint. A door that never quite shut. The neighbourhood said it was haunted. It wanted company. So did he. He switched on the coffee machine. It clicked, growled, started. One cup. It had forgotten how to make two. That night, from the corner of his eye, a glimmer of light in one of the windows across the street. Animals. A whole menagerie. A tiger. And a crow, perched atop a grandfather clock. It looked straight at him through the glass and cawed. Come. He pulled on his boots, threw a jacket over his pyjamas and crossed the street. The front door stood ajar. He pushed it open. The floorboards creaked. Birds everywhere, stopped halfway to flight. Some with wings open. Some folded, quiet. The tiger was only a head on the wall. Glass eyes. Taxidermy. The crow sat on the clock, watching him. Then it flew down to an old cabinet and pecked at the lowest drawer. Once. Twice. Thrice. He pulled it open. A key. Ancient brass, heavy, engraved. He rubbed it against his jacket until it shone. When he turned, the crow was back on the clock. Waiting. He wound the clock. The pendulum swung. Tick. Tock. The clock struck ten. It still works. The birds stirred. A rustle of wings. Faint music came from behind a thick door. He opened it. The air was warm here, and moving. Jasmine. His feet began to tap. He knew the steps. Where had he learnt them? A waltz. There was a hand at his waist, light as nothing at all. He danced with his eyes closed. The heaviness lifted. Then a country tune struck up and he stamped and clapped like a man who had done this all his life. Eleven struck somewhere behind him. He did not hear it. His shirt clung to his back. He was laughing. Someone was laughing with him. The clock struck twelve. The crow gave one loud caw. The music stopped. The hand was gone. The birds froze mid-flight. Only the jasmine stayed a moment longer. He walked home with the music in his veins. His room was lonelier than he had left it. He stayed awake. In the morning he went back to ask who owned the house. The door stood ajar. A woman was inside, opening the shutters. Grey at the temples. Dust on her sleeves. "It was my grandmother's," she said. "I've come to sell it." She turned back to the window. She was humming. The waltz. Jasmine in her hair. The clock was ticking. On top of it, the crow cawed once. Neither of them spoke of the night. He had come in want of a house. She smiled, and after a long time, so did he.

The Story Of The Day: The Suno Ji Chair Lahore, before the Partition. Lala ji’s haveli. The men sat in the baithak. The women sat in the verandah behind it, in purdah. Nobody ever said it aloud, but everybody knew. Like Noor Jahan with Jahangir, it was the wife who pulled the strings. Lali ji was the queen bee. She never announced it. She never had to. Cotton and silk, and never once did her dupatta slip from her head. In the verandah the talk was of rishtas, of the next trip to the jeweller, of whose bahu had said what to whom in the neighbourhood. Lali ji talked along with the rest. But one ear stayed glued to the baithak. Someone would come asking for help. A sad story, and Lala ji’s heart already melting, his hand already reaching for the pocket of his kurta. “Suno ji.” The hand stopped. Unless it was her favourite jeweller. Then the hand could reach the pocket, but only after Lala ji had promised to have him make bangles for his wife. Bangles no one had ever seen. Every night she counted every penny, and noted down what Lala ji had earned. When someone important was to be invited, the menu was decided in the verandah, never in the baithak. Lala ji only said who was coming. Lali ji decided what he was worth. A clerk from the kachehri got khus sharbat and a good, honest thali. A Rai Bahadur got badaam sharbat, the silver thali, and the kheer with kesar. The guest ate, and understood exactly where he stood. Lala ji thought it was just dinner. The Rai Bahadur had a daughter. Lali ji had a son. The Rai Bahadur’s daughter came home as the bahu. Simla-educated. Lali ji had won. Or so she thought. Within a week the girl had sniffed out the Machiavelli in her. She understood one thing: whoever held the kitchen would hold the suno ji chair. So she took the kitchen first. It became modern. A new cook came, one who had cooked for the angrez. The badaam sharbat gave way to squash and Coke. Then a gora sahib was invited for high tea. Lali ji ordered samosas. “Mata ji, the sahib won’t eat samosas.” The bahu struck them off. Cucumber sandwiches instead, and a chintz bone china tea set with matching cake stands. Time had moved on. Lali ji retreated, like an old relic pushed behind a curtain. Then the Partition came knocking. Lali ji’s sixth sense had already made them set up a business in Amritsar. It flourished, and when the time came, the move was seamless. In Amritsar the purdah went. The bahu wore chiffon, and sleeveless. When the talk in the baithak turned to business, she would discreetly disappear. Then, from somewhere, “Suno ji.” It was not Lali ji’s voice. The hand stopped. The mother-in-law’s reign was over. Suno ji ruled. Lala ji and Lali ji grew old. Lali ji could only watch her alter ego. Cut to now. Mumbai. No haveli. A gleaming penthouse overlooking the racecourse. No purdah. No verandah. The son is a builder. The bahu is as much a social climber, club by club. Now she has a bahu of her own. America-returned. The kitchen is new and shiny. Champagne, where once there was squash and Coke, and before that, badaam sharbat. The America-returned bahu calls her Mom. She herself had said Mummy ji. Lali ji was Mata ji. The bahu wears a backless choli. Her America-returned bahu, a Chanel dress. Lali ji would have fainted. Mummy ji would have raised an eyebrow. Nobody faints now. Nothing is said between the two women. Nothing ever was. Nobody says suno ji anymore. A contractor sits across the table, the son’s pen over the cheque. “Give me a minute, darling.” The pen stops. The America-returned bahu puts down her glass, and watches. It remains. The words change. The call passes on.