Short story: A lonely crow at night could be a dear departed friend

It was past nine in the evening when we stepped into the club. The lights were off in the veranda on the first floor, but the bulbs from the compound cast a faint glow on the chairs and the tables.

“Bhabi, Dada,” I said, “please do sit down,” as wife and husband took their seats. They had travelled all the way from Goa and the least that I could do was offer them dinner. We sat facing the railings, with Jiten to my left and Gautam to my right, and the couple to Jiten’s left.

A bird darted into the veranda, circled around and then flew out. I thought it was a bat.

“It’s a crow,” said someone from one corner of the veranda.

I turned around. “Hello,” I said to Rana. Even in the semi-dark I could make out his smile. He had an easygoing charm; and looks that could well have featured in the big screen.

“It’s a crow,” he repeated.

“I see,” I said, and thought, What’s a crow doing in the veranda at night? I looked at Mauzo. “Dada,” I said, “would you care for chicken curry?”

“Anything goes,” he said, smiling. I liked him, not only because he wrote fiction rich in imagery but...

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