Sharada worked around the nishad in the lower octave with as many variations as she could think up, and was about to touch the komal dhaivat note, when a cacophony of cawing exploded outside. She turned her head. Frantic crows zigzagged across the window. Her komal dhaivat was lost in their cawing. Sharada stopped singing. Shantanu half opened his eyes. The crows continued to caw. Sharada watched. Shantanu's lips puckered. Sharada patted him, held him close. The cawing continued. It would soon stop, she thought. ‘Come, sweetheart, let's get you your milk.’ Shantanu was watching the crows, his eyes fixed on the window in a fearful stare. The crows zipped right and left and circled dementedly. Shantanu began to cry.

Sharada laid the tanpura down and held him tight to her chest. She rose, still holding him. With her free hand she put milk and sugar in his tumbler. She tried sitting him down next to her at the table, but he wouldn’t loosen his little arms from around her neck. He wouldn’t even sit in her lap. She was desperate. The cacophony of cawing rose and fell. Just when it seemed to be subsiding, it rose again. It was as though all the crows in the city had gathered around her home.

When Shekhar returned from his walk, he said crows were falling dead under the old rain tree. He stepped out on to the veranda. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. They are falling from the sky, dead.’ Sharada carried Shantanu out on to the veranda. Shantanu broke into hysterical weeping. Another crow fell from the sky. Sharada pushed back the scream that rose to her lips and ran into the bedroom holding Shantanu to her. Shekhar stood in the veranda watching the sight. Each time a crow fell, the others’ cries reached a crescendo. Blinded by fear and grief, they dashed against the veranda. One came flapping in. Shekhar cried out and quickly slid the windows shut. He hurried into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him. But the lament of the crows continued to pierce through the heavy wooden door.

Sharada and Shekhar sat frozen on the bed. Images of Hitchcock's Birds rose before Sharada's eyes. The revenge of the birds against humankind—entering their houses through doors, windows and chimneys, tearing lumps of flesh out of their bodies, gouging out their eyes. Mauled bodies lying around. Sharada shivered.

At last it grew quiet. Shantanu stopped whimpering. Only the helpless cawing of an occasional crow was heard. Shekhar returned to the veranda. The bodies of the dead crows had vanished from the street. Only a scatter of feathers was left. A few crows tiptoed around them, their cawing guttural, as if gargling blood.