Looking for Miss Sargam: Stories of Music and Misadventure

by Shubha Mudgal

He chose a seat in a corner of the room, where he hoped he could remain unnoticed; he did not wish to be a participant, only an observer. But the chair he had selected wanted only to be left alone. The moment he lowered himself into it, the chair let out a long, complaining fart. Startled and deeply embarrassed, he shot up, looked around and was grateful there was only one other person in the hall, an attendant at the other end of the room, polishing a door handle, who appeared not to have heard. Mrigo was reminded of a grand uncle, a safari-suited eminence who, in the middle of a conversation, would casually lean sideways on the sofa, lift an enormous buttock and release a loud and surprisingly tuneful fart. No one ever seemed to notice and the conversation continued without interruption. The one time that young Mrigo had giggled, the eminence had looked at him, laughed and said, ‘It is uttom baatkorm. Uttom sreni, my child. The highest category of farts, no smell at all. It is an art, comes with practice.’ Mrigo wasn’t sure people in this board room would appreciate the art. He walked to the opposite end of the room and found himself another chair. But this one complained in exactly the tone and register of the previous chair. ‘Uff!’ said Mrigo, and shot up again. This won’t do, he thought. He would just stand in his corner. Then two office assistants entered the room with piles of cushions and proceeded to place one on every rexine chair. ‘Bosho,’ said one of them to Mr...