CONTENTS1. POEM2. SUMMARY OF THE

POEM3. INTRODUCTION OF

THE POET4. MY SLIDE5. END SLIDE

Once upon a time a frogCroaked away in Bingle BogEvery night from dusk to dawnHe croaked awn and awn and awn Other creatures loathed his

voice,But, alas, they had no choice,And the crass cacophonyBlared out from the sumac treeAt whose foot the frog each nightMinstrelled on till morning night

Neither stones nor prayers nor sticks.Insults or complaints or bricksStilled the frogs determinationTo display his heart's elation.

THE POEM

But one night a nightingaleIn the moonlight cold and palePerched upon the sumac treeCasting forth her melodyDumbstruck sat the gaping frog

And the whole admiring bogStared towards the sumac, rapt,And, when she had ended, clapped,Ducks had swum and herons wadedTo her as she serenaded

And a solitary loonWept, beneath the summer moon.Toads and teals and tiddlers, capturedBy her voice, cheered on, enraptured:“Bravo!” “Too divine!” “Encore!”

So the nightingale once more,Quite unused to such applause,Sang till dawn without a pause. Next night when the Nightingale

Shook her head and twitched her tail,Closed an eye and fluffed a wingAnd had cleared her throat to singShe was startled by a croak.“Sorry – was that you who spoke?”

She enquired when the frogHopped towards her from the bog.“Yes,” the frog replied. “You see,I'm the frog who owns this treeIn this bog I've long been knownFor my splendid baritone

And, of course, I wield my penFor Bog Trumpet now and then”“Did you… did you like my song?”“Not too bad – but far too long.

The technique was fine of course,But it lacked a certain force”.“Oh!” the nightingale confessed.Greatly flattered and impressedThat a critic of such noteHad discussed her art and throat:“I don't think the song's divine.But – oh, well – at least it's mine”.

“That's not much to boast about”.Said the heartless frog. “WithoutProper training such as I- And few others can supply.You'll remain a mere beginner.But with me you'll be a winner”

“Dearest frog”, the nightingaleBreathed: “This is a fairy tale –And you are Mozart in disguiseCome to earth before my eyes”.“Well I charge a modest fee.”“Oh!” “But it won't hurt, you'll see”

Now the nightingale inspired,Flushed with confidence, and firedWith both art and adoration,Sang – and was a huge sensation.Animals for miles aroundFlocked towards the magic sound,And the frog with great precisionCounted heads and charged admission.

Though next morning it was raining,He began her vocal training.“But I can't sing in this weather”“Come my dear – we'll sing together

Just put on your scarf and sash,Koo-oh-ah! ko-ash! ko-ash!”So the frog and nightingaleJourneyed up and down the scaleFor six hours, till she was shiveringand her voice was hoarse and quivering.

Though subdued and sleep deprived,In the night her throat revived,And the sumac tree was bowed,With a breathless, titled crowd:

Owl of Sandwich, Duck of Kent,Mallard and Milady Trent,Martin Cardinal Mephisto,And the Coot of Monte Cristo,

Ladies with tiaras glitteringIn the interval sat twittering –And the frog observed them glitterWith a joy both sweet and bitter.

Every day the frog who'd sold herSongs for silver tried to scold her:“You must practice even longerTill your voice, like mine grows stronger.In the second song last nightYou got nervous in mid-flight.

And, my dear, lay on more trills:Audiences enjoy such frills.You must make your public happier:Give them something sharper snappier.We must aim for better billings.You still owe me sixty shillings.”

Day by day the nightingaleGrew more sorrowful and pale.Night on night her tired songZipped and trilled and bounced along,

Till the birds and beasts grew tiredAt a voice so uninspiredAnd the ticket office grossCrashed, and she grew more morose -

For her ears were now addictedTo applause quite unrestricted,And to sing into the nightAll alone gave no delight.

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 nightingaleHeard him out in silence, tried,Puffed up, burst a vein, and died.Said the frog: “I tried to teach her,But she was a stupid creature –Far too nervous, far too tense.Far too prone to influence.

Well, poor bird – she should have knownThat your song must be your own.That's why I sing with panache:“Koo-oh-ah! ko-ash! ko-ash!”And the foghorn of the frogBlared unrivalled through the bog.

SUMMARYOnce upon a time there lived a frog under a Sumac tree in a

fictional place called the Bingle Bog. Under the false pretense that he was a sensational and melodious singer, he “blessed” his fellow creatures with his voice day after day. His crass cacophony was despised by others. They tried very hard to get rid of him, but all the sticks and the stones failed to shatter the presumptuous frog’s illusion. He went on singing to his heart’s content.

One fine moonlit night, a beautiful nightingale came and perched on the sumac, casting forth her melody. Every single life form in the Bog, including the frog, sat flabbergasted, amazed by the sheer excellence of the bird’s talent.

SUMMARYAbsolutely entranced by the song, all the creatures gazed at her.

Captivated and enthralled by the utterly divine melody, they urged her to keep going on. They moved closer and applauded and the flattered bird went on until dawn. The following night, she perched on the sumac tree once more and was setting up when right out of nowhere the cunning frog croaked.

He presented himself to be a fairly eminent personality. He rolled his glib-tongue on and on. He claimed to own the sumac tree, to be far-famed for his “splendid baritone” and a music critic who wrote for the Bog Trumpet.

SUMMARYBlandished to be conversing with such a superior personality, the

nightingale asked him how he had liked her song. To answer this, the frog put all his role-playing into effect and started nitpicking. The simple-minded bird contended with just the fact that a critic of such a note had discussed her singing, became flustered and remarked that at least the song was her own. But the harsh and envious frog ruthlessly discarded her. He offered to train her and convinced that without his guidance, she wouldn’t ever be anything more than a novice.

Hearing this, the nightingale became ecstatic and referred to the frog as “Mozart in disguise”. But in reality, the crafty frog couldn’t have cared less about her hopes and dreams. He charged her a high fee for the training too .

SUMMARYThe gullible nightingale, now flushed with confidence, sang with

all her heart and grew to be a sensation. Many creatures from the vicinity of the bog constellated towards the charming sound. The wily frog exploited her talent and minted money for himself by charging admission.

The next morning, although the weather was unfavorable, the wicked frog slyly convinced the bird to come out of her house and made her practice vigorously up and down the musical scale for six long hours. Though the nightingale was incredibly fatigued, in the night, her voice revived. A titled crowd flocked the sumac tree. The frog watched them, joyously charging them money, but also with a nagging feeling of envy, wishing that it was him they appreciated.

SUMMARYEven after all this, the frog did not stop depreciating the

helpless bird. He incessantly scolded her harshly and insisted on making her song fancier, jauntier. He provided all sorts of destructive criticism and rendered her helpless by pointing out how he was obliging her by his exclusive training. The nightingale followed his words like quotes from the Bible and turned her song and her singing into something so banal that it could no longer involve the audience. This led to her meltdown as she was now addicted to applause.

The frog went berserk with rage now. He lashed out at the poor bird. He asked her to renew her song. Terrified to fail, the nightingale tried her best, but the training taking a toll on her, burst a vein and died.

SUMMARYThe evil frog turns out to be more vicious than we

had once thought. Even after the nightingale’s tragic death, just to throw off the suspicion that had naturally landed on him, he dismissed her as “Far too nervous, far too tense, far too prone to influence”. He sarcastically remarks that she should have not listened to him and should have known the power of originality and goes on to blare his own pain of a voice unrivalled through the bog.

INTRODUCTION OF THE POETVikram Seth is an Indian poet, novelist, travel writer, librettist, children's writer, biographer and memoirist. Vikram Seth was born to Leila and Prem Seth in Calcutta (now Kolkata). His family lived in many cities including the Bata Shoe Company town of Batanagar, Danapur near Patna, and in London. He has received several awards including Padma Shri, Pravasi Bharatiya Samman, WH Smith Literary Award and Crossword Book Award.

AAYUSH SHARMAXTH – A

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