The English syllabus upto class 10th is always peppered with boring poems but I enjoyed Vikram Seth’s “The frog and the nightingale” the most for its comic tone. But poems are forgotten as soon as the exams are over. However this particular poem hit me when I heard it being enacted at my neighbors house, a self-professed Carnatic music teacher.
“Once upon a time a frog
Croaked away in Bingle Bog
Every night from dusk to dawn
He croaked awn and awn and awn
Other creatures loathed his voice,
But, alas, they had no choice,
And the crass cacophony
Blared out from the sumac tree
At whose foot the frog each night
Minstrelled on till morning night”
Such was the scenario. In the morning, while leaving for the office, her tape recorder would be blaring as if it was a tea-shop and while returning, sa, ri, ga, maaa would find me as I neared the parking lot. Some old mami, two blocks away, called her M.S. and that flattery catapulted her to asura sadhakam. Steady inflow of kids ensured constant blaring till 8 p.m. And during the weekends, she would be on with “never say die” attitude. With morose and long face, kids came and tried to match her pitch. There would be a parade of varsais, alangaram, geethams and some tukdas, all in a pitch so high, enough to lead to a pre-mature deafness. Maithreem bhajatha was promptly included in the curriculum after the receipt of the M.S. flattery and shreyo bhuyat sakala jananam in terrible pitch was icing on the cake, to say the least. Kids, at least on week-ends should be left by the parents to play and explore the dirt and rainbows in the sewer. But parents being parents, force upon the kids uninteresting swaras, all with the hope that he/she would become future sanjay or sudha. And to send the tottering kid to a music teacher or a piano class or a slokam class is a fashion statement as well.
"But one night a nightingale
In the moonlight cold and pale
Perched upon the sumac tree
Casting forth her melody
Dumbstruck sat the gaping frog
And the whole admiring bog
Stared towards the sumac, rapt,
And, when she had ended, clapped,”
Sunday mornings brought partial delight to my ears for a middle-aged man came for his classes; any change in the routine is a welcome. He was in an advanced stage; music, of course. Major krithis were sung and his voice was so soothing to the ears. The krithis proceeded on two level; she blaring at top-notch level and he, at his comfort level, and mine too. Soon I noticed his faltering voice for he was attempting to raise his pitch to match her. I heard her commenting, “you are not singing well” and it was at this point I recollected “The frog and the nightingale” and I could visualize the result.
“Every day the frog who'd sold her
Songs for silver tried to scold her:
"You must practice even longer
Till your voice, like mine grows stronger.
Now the frog puffed up with rage.
"Brainless bird - you're on the stage -
Use your wits and follow fashion.
Puff your lungs out with your passion.
"Trembling, terrified to fail,
Blind with tears, the nightingale
Heard him out in silence, tried,
Puffed up, burst a vein, and died.”
As luck would have it, the chap did not end up bursting his vein for the frog flew for foreign land.
