Another excerpt that got excised from the book

This section:

Comedy and tragedy are thought of as opposite experiences. These are old words in the Greek language, from where they have entered so many languages of the world. Their second halves both refer to singing – the word ‘ode’ in English is of the same kind. But the first halves of these words are thought to come from two sources which are difficult to think of as simple opposites.

The first half of the word ‘comedy’ is believed either to mean having fun, or to mean the entire village. Thus, comedy together can mean raucous singing by everybody around. An entire village sings with joy. That sounds like much fun. But as for tragedy – the first part is believed to mean the bleating of a goat. Nobody knows why this is so – indeed, nobody fully knows if this is even true!

Long ago, I spoke directly to you and said that if we failed to understand the pain that Budhani carried from one life into the other, this would fail to become a story. When you began reading the story of the fierce little crow, you gave me your patience as keepsake. If you didn’t throw the book away in disappointment when Budhani’s heartbreak broke her so utterly that she became a diminished, woundable baby, you gave me your trust. If you are reading these words now, be assured that I have kept your patience and trust safe and close to my own heart. I have not mislaid them.

Budhani’s story, as it is told traditionally among the Tharus of a certain place, is a comedy – it is an ode, a song of strength, a celebration of their girl children and the women they grow up into. It is the story of a people who have lived in the bosom of the natural world, taking from it just enough to enrich their lives, and giving back with the gift of harmonious living. When a baby depends upon its mother for care and sustenance, it hurts her just enough to win over her attention and love. Have you seen a newborn calf insist at its mother’s teats?

The folktale celebrates Budhani’s cleverness. Through a series of riddles, she shows that her wit is sharper than that of the king against whom she is pitted. When asked for a rope made of ashes, she burns a rope and leaves the ashes undisturbed and asks the king to put it to use. When asked to satisfy the king’s craving for a curry of a gourd that has grown to fill up the inside of a pot, she grows a pumpkin and warns the king that he may not break the pot to get to the fruit. When asked to build a palace in the air, she tricks the king into listening to a flock of a particular kind of bird whose call, in the language Budhani and the king shared, sounds like a team of masons and carpenters urgently asking for bricks, mortar and wood to be sent up to the skies where the aerial palace would be built. Many animals, birds, insects who received help from Budhani come to her aid when she needs them the most. By untying the knots of these apparently impossible riddles, she forces the king to accept defeat.

And, sometimes, she murders the king by sealing him off in a tunnel. Then she becomes the wife of his son.

 But I – as your blameless refabulator – won’t trick you with so much dazzling wit and perfect plotting. I will not bore you with just the light and soaring laughter of a village rejoicing the triumph of a daughter who has become a queen, who has abandoned the hut for the palace, republic for fiefdom.

With your kind indulgence, I will also drag my goat along, bleating its protest at how life treats it. A little bit of this, a little bit of that, like a satisfying khaja.