Hello again, Mutiny peeps! For this first post I’m going to get a little experimental, and hit you with an original short story (all borrowings are unconscious and unintentional, etc.). If it’s not to your taste, no problem; I will be regularly posting on more traditional bloggy topics. Incidentally, the following is part of a little series I’m doing — postmodern Sadhu stories; see another effort here.
Sadhu liked to sit on the porch of his son’s new house and write poetry, but lately he was finding it difficult. The problem was a group of noisy birds that lived in the trees behind their house. They gathered in the trees and bushes and seemed to do nothing but chatter, not in quiet, birdly chirps, but angry squawks. Most of the time Sadhu couldn’t even see the birds, as they seemed never to move from their respective perches in the trees, so merely sitting on the porch was a little like diving into a pit of greasy wrestlers. Sometimes this pleased the Sadhu, as it reminded him vaguely of India — the loud voices of the street hawkers arguing with customers over a few paise in his home town of Maramari. But he had heard that type of argument rarely since leaving India fifteen years ago, and now it had begun to seem abrasive and somewhat troubling. And anyway, that type of marketplace arguing usually ended in a sale, and the restoration of good will. But these birds squawked and squawked with an endless amount of stamina, which was almost mechanical in its regularity.Every so often (mainly at dawn and dusk), Sadhu would see the barking birds making small movements in the trees behind the house. Some birds, he saw, had bright saffron beaks, while others had a sort of greenish hue. A few, he noticed, had little blue feather tufts on the tops of their heads and a black crop below the lower mandible that looked almost like beards. Quite a number of birds had pronounced red and blue feathers on their breasts, graced with small white flecks. Most strangely of all, some of the birds seemed to be confused, and wear different colors depending on the time of the day or month. But even with their myriad differences, as far as Sadhu could tell, the birds all emitted exactly the same type of sound: a loud, angry, and utterly tuneless squawk.
As a young man, Sadhu had had aspirations of becoming a famous writer, like R.K. Narayan. In his school-days, he and his friends had been fiercely competitive in sending their poems and stories to literary magazines and the local newspaper, The Maramari Daily. Some had been successful, and one or two had actually tried to pursue the writing life, but in vain. Eventually, they had all grown up, gotten regular jobs, and married. Sadhu himself had worked as an Inspector (eventually Chief Inspector) for the State Government of Jagrah for nearly twenty-five years. Upon retiring, he came to live in suburban Shpilkes, Pa., with his son and his daughter-in-law. They had recently moved to a house with a porch, which Sadhu happily claimed for himself.
Now Sadhu was an old man, and all his old writerly aspirations were gone. What remained was simply his love of language, and the pressing need — which grew more acute as he grew older — to record his experience of the world. He felt he wanted to write to make the life he had lived meaningful, to tell his story. He didn’t think at all of publishing any of his poems, only of the pleasure of writing them.
The first poem he wrote on the porch of this new house was the story of his childhood and the frightening death of his older sister in the famine of 1943. It was so beautiful to him, so strange and true, that he almost couldn’t believe it had come from his own pen. (The birds were still relatively quiet then, and didn’t impinge on his thinking.) In a strange fit of elation at his accomplishment, he tore it out of his speckled notebook, and threw it into the grass. And he was surprised to find that a bird came out of the trees almost immediately, looked at it for a moment, and then pecked at it. Then another bird came out, and another. Soon, a half dozen birds were inspecting the now tattered page, pecking it with their beaks and tearing it with their sharp little claws. Sadhu was aghast, but strangely excited at the ruckus his poem had created.
From that day on, to spite the birds in the trees and perhaps also to challenge them, Sadhu had gotten in the habit of writing his poems and then simply reciting them to the trees in a loud voice. Though it was a relief to have a kind of audience for the poems, each of which was precious to him, the practice of reciting only seemed to excite the birds and make them more and more angry. At first it was exciting (if slightly odd), but now Sadhu felt he couldn’t write at all, because of the deafening din it would almost certainly provoke.
On one particularly frustrating Saturday morning, his grandson came out with his little video game toy to “hang out” with his “grandpa” outside (surely he had been encouraged to do so by his mother, who worried too much).
“What’s the matter, grandpa?” the boy asked.
“It’s just my ‘shor’ birds, beta.”
“Shore birds? Like, they’re from the ocean?”
“No, beta, shor, meaning noisy. These birds are very noisy. See, listen.” He pointed to the trees, and the birds, obligingly, squawked a little louder. But the boy looked nonplussed.
“So why don’t you go inside?”
“I can’t write my poems inside.”
“So why don’t you get an Ipod?”
“What is “Ipaad”? Is that your toy, beta? I don’t think…”
“No, grandpa. An Ipod plays music so you don’t have to listen to those birds! Here, Dad made me put some Indian songs on it for the car…” The boy pulled a little white toy out of the pockets of his very baggy pants. He showed Sadhu how to use the device, and fitted the earbuds in his ears.
The mellifluous sound of Jagjit Singh’s voice filled Sadhu’s ears, and as he stared at the trees, containing those now barely audible birds, he exhaled in deep relief. It wasn’t silence, but it was beauty, and it would be enough: he could think; he could write. This little toy (for he could not think of it as anything but a toy) would help him leave behind the pointless squabbling of the multi-colored birds in the trees.
It was far from perfect, but Sadhu was confident he had the space he needed to write his poems, and tell the story that was his alone to tell. To whom they would be addressed he still did not know.
Hey, are you a permanent Head Mutineer now? How exciting!
Enlightenment through technology, eh?
Amardeep,
If Sadhu ji grew up in Maramari, then I in Bhasard. Interesting story.
Shouldn’t we also ask Alberto Pinto Ko Kussa Kyo Hata Hai.
Weren’t you supposed to give me bollywood iPaad music one these days?
Shri 420
Welcome!
and sent the kids to the outhouse i presume.
Deepa, there’s more to it than enlightenment through technology. Hint: this story is actually about blogging.
Kush, glad you noticed some of my tricks! I forgot all about the music thing… I’ll email you.
Nice short story, Amardeep.
Hey look! Two more guys! How original.
Yes, because male bloggers are unoriginal, right?
I was teasing earlier – a blog doesn’t need to be 50:50 male:female. This isn’t an equal-opportunities employer, it’s a blog. Just as inane as people attacking Manish for being liberal; a blog doesn’t need to be conservative.
I liked the story Amardeep and the concept of a postmodern Sadhu, I shall definitely check the rest out soon. I just wrote an idea I had here, which was related to yours, but deleted for fear of third party internalisation.
No one’s saying it has to be 50:50, but it’s interesting that while the only woman blogger is contemplating stepping down, “the mutiny” adds two men as permanent bloggers. And before anyone accuses me of trying to change the subject, I would have posted this in Abhi’s announcement, but it was closed for comments.
c’mon. at least they have A N N A representing the “women’s voice.” Because, of course, we all speak with one voice.
Yes I also read Anna’s thoughts but nothing’s concrete and again, the bottom line is that blogs are under obligation to no one. This isn’t a paid service. At least SM produces posts you (I assume) like, it could be propagating shit. Who’s telling lgf to be more representative? Extreme example perhaps, but SM staff are free to do what they want on their own blog. They’ve been quite successful so far.
yes… rhiana got it… i think
sepia mutiny = penis amity U. , a fraternity of the sausages
but… yea… i was just thinking over this the other day – it isnt about EO/EA – i am reading two novels right now – depending on what i’m doign in the bathroom – one is by delillo, the other is by ane-marie macdonald – interesting contrasting their perspectives on love, sex and war… we do need more women on the forum. thx for lissenign.
I don’t believe I said anyone running this blog is under any obligation, legal or otherwise, to do anything. I was just pointing out that this blog is run by a lot of men.
Oh yeah! Somehow I didn’t make the connection. Good job. Though blogging is also about enlightenment through technology 😉
OK, cool. But bear in mind that the top blogs like Boing Boing, engadget, DailyKos etc are also mostly men 😉
BB: Thanks, I had no idea.
Welcome senor Great introduction: just like Sadhu wants to record his experience to the world
are all the noisy birds supposed to be all our noisy, diverse voices on this and other blogs? is it about KV’s plagiarism controversy?
Whose God,
Not the noise of diversity (which is good), more like the noise of squabbling, snark, and “blogfight.”
Perhaps if I revise this down the road I will add in some lines to indicate that there are also birds in the tree of a more moderate hue, who actually seem to have something to say. Their voices are drowned out by the clamor produced by their neighbors, who only know how to squawk and peck.
And actually I wasn’t thinking of KV. But we could add her in too: think of an opportunistic sparrow flying above the rest of her flock on a high wind. The sparrow only knows other birds’ songs: she can impersonate finches, loons, and cuckoos with incredible precision. One day the high wind disappears, and she begins to plummet to earth. But the other sparrows won’t come to help her even though she calls to them. The sparrow has forgotten her own voice, and her friends can only hear are the cries of a sad little finch. It’s too bad, they think — but it’s not our job to help a finch, is it?
SM’s new name should be “Sabji Mandi” rather than “Sepia Mutiny“.
We have haggling/ hard to please aunties amongst us in the bazaar. Char rupee/ kilo Aloo, Nahi, 3 rupee. Rainbow coalition, zindabad. Window dressing, zindabad.
Bhagoo
Amardeep,
i thought maybe the birds pecking at the poem were all of us dissecting KV’s work and the controversy until it is nothing more than shreds and cannot be dissected anymore. guess my imagination ran away with me, but i enjoyed reading your piece. and i like the sparrow example. looking forward to more Sadhu stories. maybe Maramari or post-Maramari can be the new Malgudi (which I miss).
Thanks, Whose God. The Sadhu will probably be a pretty rare visitor, but who knows?
Still, I appreciate your taking the time to read it closely.
And anyway, that type of marketplace arguing usually ended in a sale, and the restoration of good will. But these birds squawked and squawked with an endless amount of stamina, which was almost mechanical in its regularity. Amardeep,
That part of the sentence was a dead give away. Although, I did not connect to blogosphere, KV, etc. at all. I thought more of someone’s (Sadhu ji’s) longing for a bygone era, a different place in a different time. I also thought of someone having a feeling of disconnect in a distant land, and resignation.
I guess it spoke differently to different readers.
Quite well written.
what did obituary section look like. PS Sadhu Aghashe character from ab tak chappan probably loved that paper
The obituary section was very long, and full of images of people who had been murdered. Some were killed in robberies, others in political assasinations, and still others in the city’s frequent communal riots. Almost no one lived long enough to die of natural causes. Interestingly, the editor of the Obits. section was the well-known Anglo-Indian journalist Travis Bickle, who wrote briefly for The Illustrated Weekly of India during Indira Gandhi’s Emergency.
Sadhu somehow managed to miss this part of life in Maramari, which is how he managed to grow up into such a gentle soul.
Amardeep, I want to read your piece in peace and with attention, but in the meantime let me say–huzzah! Fabulous choice, kids!
Hopefully, we will all apply “With malice towards one and all” on blogosphere, like our famous former editor from Illustrated Weekly of India.
Interesting quote, considering the shor :-
His nonfiction history of sikhs (original edition, cant get it india anymore…incidentaly i read it in princeton library) is a must read for those interested in india/punjab. His fiction Delhi is also quite good.(i have my problem with that book too, but i still recomend it) I was disappointed in his autobiography as i really was not looking to lean how he lost his virginity…but what his role was with the remnants of sikh suba movement, which he stayed away from it which is deceiving his readers a bit.
Guru Gulab Khatri, I might well do a Khushwant Singh post at some point. I’ve read his three novels and quite a number of his other books (including the History of the Sikhs you mention). He’s an interesting figure — strongly disliked by many Sikhs for his political views in the 1980s, as well his agnostic/atheistic views on religion. He’s also ‘old school’ regarding his attitudes towards women, which is very troubling to feminists (though he’s also happily married and well-loved by the women in his life, including his children and grandchildren, I hear).
So yeah, I might do a ‘retrospective’ type post on him sometime. Stay tuned!
He’s also ‘old school’ regarding his attitudes towards women, which is very troubling to feminists (though he’s also happily married and well-loved by the women in his life, including his children and grandchildren, I hear).
Amardeep,
I have a great admiration for the man. He is a man of letters and courage – All through 80s, he refused personal bodyguards, at one time he was on a real hit-list, stood up to Gandhis (whom he has been quite close), and spoke of healing and outrage most eloquently in the time it was needed most.
Regarding his sex angle in writings, he is one of the first to talk about it in public sphere in India with no stigma. India Today did a great write-up on him in January and they called him “a sheep in wolf’s clothing” in terms of his bravado – basically a gentle and brave soul who likes to talk about booze and babes. He always been happily married guy.
Blog about his father too – Sir Suba Singh, and his role in making New Delhi. Khushwant Singh was born with a silver spoon but became more than that.
Correction: I meant Sir Sobha Singh, sorry