The Good-Hearted Gardeners by Namjoshi Suniti

Author:Namjoshi, Suniti [Namjoshi, Suniti]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Spinifex Press
Published: 2023-11-30T00:00:00+00:00

8

Bad things happen in fairy tales

That evening we work hard. Sybil has instructed me to write a flattering poem about a crow, or a fable in which the crow comes off best. She’s researching what they like to eat, their habits and habitats, their peculiarities. I’ve moved in with Sybil. We’re not sure we’re making a commitment, but living together will be cheaper. We’re all going to have to think about how to manage. Sybil has her job at the dictionary project. I can always teach a course or two. Jack has an independent income. So has Kams. Ludo is quite rich. Juniper has her benefits, and probably Sav has as well. I’m not sure about Connie, but I don’t think she’s poor. I have a feeling that with the help of most of the other species we might save the planet, but I don’t think MI5 will pay for it.

Sybil has been scouring the internet. I kiss the top of her head. She says I can’t have any kisses until I’ve produced a poem.

“Why?” I demand. “Do you think a poem will help?”

“Don’t know,” Sybil replies. “But Juniper let drop that the only thing they like about us is our stories and poems – the ones in which they figure as heroes.”

I sit down and try. It’s not always possible to come up with something.

“In the crow family there are common crows, hooded crows, jays, magpies, choughs, daws, rooks, ravens and many more species the world over,” she complains wearily.

“Let’s stick with the common or carrion crow,” I tell her. “That’s the one we’re likely to meet. I don’t know if this fable will do.” I offer her an old one.

“Read it,” she commands.

I read aloud.

VIHAAN AND THE CROW

The crow looked at Vihaan. ‘I,’ said the crow, ‘am more beautiful than the wells of sullen darkness at the rim of the universe. But you, Little One, wouldn’t understand that. Your mind is a blank, a field of snow. I could walk across it and leave cuneiform marks, and you wouldn’t even be able to read what had happened. And yet, I would find it worthwhile to know exactly what I look like to you, and when the sound of my voice impinges on your ears, what, if anything, you understand.’

Vihaan looked at the crow. Though only a baby he knew about colours, and he knew about light, but Lack Light on the windowsill was like nothing he had ever come across. Out of something Lack Light had made nothing. He had cut out light and he had cut out colour and out of the cut-outs he had made a shape that talked at him. Vihaan stretched out a friendly hand.

The crow flounced. Vihaan crowed. He liked what had happened. ‘Listen,’ instructed the crow. ‘I am not nothing and I am not Lack Lustre. Look harder. I am subtle, I am shaded. I have texture and tone. And my black eyes shine without the aid of external light. I am wonderful!’

This last sentence was punctuated with such a loud squawk that Vihaan squawked back.

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