“My favourite tale was about the tragedy of a mouse. She was
asked by her husband to make khichree, she made it so well, morsel by morsel,
she ate it all up. Home came the mouse, mouth salivating, to find his little
wife resting. He looked everywhere in the kitchen she asked him to look – in the
cooking pot, the frying pan, the mortar and even under the small pestle used
for pounding spices – but found nothing. In anger, he threw the pestle at her
and her ear lobe fell off. Bleeding, the detached piece of flesh in hand, she
went crying to the tailor and asked him to stitch her ear whole.
asked by her husband to make khichree, she made it so well, morsel by morsel,
she ate it all up. Home came the mouse, mouth salivating, to find his little
wife resting. He looked everywhere in the kitchen she asked him to look – in the
cooking pot, the frying pan, the mortar and even under the small pestle used
for pounding spices – but found nothing. In anger, he threw the pestle at her
and her ear lobe fell off. Bleeding, the detached piece of flesh in hand, she
went crying to the tailor and asked him to stitch her ear whole.
The tailor asked her to get him some thread from the
threadmaker woman, who sent her to the cotton-carder man. And thus she went
from one artisan to another, and even to the cotton tree that would yield the
cotton and the bullock that would plough the field for the tree to flower. Finally, she reached
a mound asking it for some earth, which she would take to the potter, who would
make her a charcoal brazier and, step by step, back to the blacksmith who would
provide her with a sickle with which she would cut some grass from a ridge to
feed the bullock, and thus onward. With thread in her hand she would go to the
tailor who would repair her ear. Then she would wear her gold earrings and
leave her cruel husband to go back to her parental home. Alas, that was not to
be. Giving of itself to her, the earth mound fell over her and crushed her to
death. The story, told in a sing-song style, ended with a song of lamentation
by the bereaved mouse. It made me sad but I wanted to hear it again and again,
knowing all along that it was just a tale.”
threadmaker woman, who sent her to the cotton-carder man. And thus she went
from one artisan to another, and even to the cotton tree that would yield the
cotton and the bullock that would plough the field for the tree to flower. Finally, she reached
a mound asking it for some earth, which she would take to the potter, who would
make her a charcoal brazier and, step by step, back to the blacksmith who would
provide her with a sickle with which she would cut some grass from a ridge to
feed the bullock, and thus onward. With thread in her hand she would go to the
tailor who would repair her ear. Then she would wear her gold earrings and
leave her cruel husband to go back to her parental home. Alas, that was not to
be. Giving of itself to her, the earth mound fell over her and crushed her to
death. The story, told in a sing-song style, ended with a song of lamentation
by the bereaved mouse. It made me sad but I wanted to hear it again and again,
knowing all along that it was just a tale.”
From the essay ‘Growing up in a Kashmiri Hindu Household’ by
T.N. Madan (The T.N.Madan Omnibus)
T.N. Madan (The T.N.Madan Omnibus)
Between me and T.N. Madan, our childhood memories are separated by a gap of at least seven decades and yet we share a common favorite in ‘tales our grandmothers told’. After reading the description of story in this essay, I knew he was talking about ‘Gagri-Gagri’. But in my story the wife was hit by mortar not pestle (Kajwot and not Wokhul). I asked my grandmother if she remembers the story and if she would sing it again. She had no idea what I was talking about. She couldn’t remember it. But after nagging her for a couple of days, I was able to get her to recount some of the bits. But not the main song. My Chachi too threw in bits from her childhood memories – an alternative ending in which the wife is reunited with her repentant husband. Yet the main bit eluded me. The favorite part. The tune. It was frustrating. I even came to doubt if the story was ever told to me by my grandmother, maternal, paternal or if was sung to me by some grandaunt, maternal, paternal. How can I forget? It’s the part where the wife asks the husband to look for Khichree all over the kitchen. And then he hit her out of tune.What was that tune?
In the Kashmiri section by Ali Mohammad Lone presented in ‘Children’s literature in Indian languages‘ (1982), I found reference to this story. Indeed, in ‘The Mouse’s Ear’ the wife was hit by mortar. That was about it. No further leads. No actual Kashmiri version of the story.
Then, about a year later while listening to my grandmother sing a Kashmiri ditty for an ancient spring ceremony. I remembered it. The two share almost the same sing-song tune. I remembered not the entire story but just my favorite part. I believe it went something like this:
He Mouse: Gagri, Gagri! Kyet chey Khetch’er
She Mouse: Bohganas tal.
He Mouse: Yet’che na keh
Gagri, Gagri! Kyet chey Khetch’er
Wokhulas tal
Yet’che na keh
Gagri, Gagri! Kyet chey Khetch’er
Kajwatas tal
Narrator: Tyem tul Kaajwot ti la’go’unas Kanas.
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