A
tailorbird may weigh hardly ten grams but its indomitable vocals surely weigh a
ton at least. They can drill a hole in the armor of your patience. Similarly, a
butterfly is almost weightless but doesn’t it carry tones of colors as it
amusedly swerves around. Coming to the tailorbirds, maybe one of their chicks
has jumped out of the nest and is hiding in the flowerbed to get training
before full launch on the stage of life. I’m all for peace and I need just a
couple of square yards in the corner to read my morning newspaper. But they are
unsparing. The angry Papa almost crashed into my face. Given their situation, anyone’s
presence in the yard is an offense to them. Taking me as a threat to its kid
getting trained in the cluster of flowers, the angry bird flew into my face
with furious yells of sippi-sippi-sippi
in hateful plentitude.
Well,
that makes it sound very close to my mispronounced nickname. My father, surely
the most read person in the area, gave me the pet name Sufi. He understood the
mystical liberal chimes emanating from the sect so named in Islam. The liberal
philosophy of Sufism was close to his heart. But to the work-broken tongues of
the farmers such soft cultural nuances hardly make any sense. Scarcely anyone
had any clue to the exact pronunciation and meaning of the word ‘Sufi’. Most of
them started calling me Suppi, Soopi, Sopi, or anything for that matter except
Sufi. It just didn’t fit with the bucolic tongue. One tauji had firm belief that my name is ‘Sukhi’ meaning someone happy
and peaceful. Well, that came nearest to the real word, at least in meaning. And
now the tailorbird has devised a rapid-fired version in its own birdie
language.
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