Post by Siddhar on Apr 11, 2013 2:46:38 GMT -5
Siddhar sat on the ground, hunched over a short, old table. Made from wood, old and rotted, the table held a long, rectangular instrument with seven strings. Marked at increments, under the strings, were little white dots, like frets on a lute. When Siddhar rested a left index finger on a string, and lined up with dot, and plucked the string with the index finger on his right hand, it produced a harmonic. Pressing down on that string and plucking produced a lower note, but allowed the scaled man to slide his finger to another dot which raised or dropped the pitch of the sound. Still a novice in learning the instrument, Siddhar’s playing was slow and dotted with mistakes. His finger would not be precisely lined with the dot and produce a flat snap or he would slide his finger a little too high or low. When he tried to recite poetry or sing while playing, he would be out of sync with the instrument or he’d pluck the wrong string. Despite his fledgling state of playing, he hopes to garner some gold as a new arrival. As he played, a small cup, left behind from the previous occupants of his shack, sat in front of him, to collect any money from generous passerbies.
“The f-farmers s-son reaps his father’s crop,
and laments his l-life.
H-he looks to the s-sky,
and d-dreams of riches.” Siddhar stutters reciting the poetry. Each time he stumbles, he plucks a wrong string and quickly corrects himself.
“He sees a frog in the paddy,
h-hungry for the flies above him.
The frog j-jumps, and an eagle g-grabs him.
The farmer’s s-son sighs,
and reaps.”
Resting on his lap, however, was a naginata – the blade covered in a leather covering. The pole lay balanced, most of the pole suspended left of his lap while the blade occupied the right. The weapon’s weight no doubt affects his playing, causing his finger to drift too far or not far enough. His hands are clumsy, sometimes plucking too hard. Beneath the cowl that covers all but his eyes, Siddhar silently curses to himself at particularly noticeable mistakes. He swallows and continues.
“The fisherman stands on… on…”
Siddhar’s eyes narrow and his playing stops.
“On…”
How does the poem go?
“The fisherman stands on…”
Siddhar’s fingers lightly shake over the strings. His heart beats fast and he swallows, trying to remember how the poem continues. His eyes look left and right, yet they see nothing as the scaled man sifts through his memories. Each second passing seems hours long, and Siddhar cannot remember the poem. Taking a deep breath, he hums how he thinks the poem sounds and continues playing.
“The f-farmers s-son reaps his father’s crop,
and laments his l-life.
H-he looks to the s-sky,
and d-dreams of riches.” Siddhar stutters reciting the poetry. Each time he stumbles, he plucks a wrong string and quickly corrects himself.
“He sees a frog in the paddy,
h-hungry for the flies above him.
The frog j-jumps, and an eagle g-grabs him.
The farmer’s s-son sighs,
and reaps.”
Resting on his lap, however, was a naginata – the blade covered in a leather covering. The pole lay balanced, most of the pole suspended left of his lap while the blade occupied the right. The weapon’s weight no doubt affects his playing, causing his finger to drift too far or not far enough. His hands are clumsy, sometimes plucking too hard. Beneath the cowl that covers all but his eyes, Siddhar silently curses to himself at particularly noticeable mistakes. He swallows and continues.
“The fisherman stands on… on…”
Siddhar’s eyes narrow and his playing stops.
“On…”
How does the poem go?
“The fisherman stands on…”
Siddhar’s fingers lightly shake over the strings. His heart beats fast and he swallows, trying to remember how the poem continues. His eyes look left and right, yet they see nothing as the scaled man sifts through his memories. Each second passing seems hours long, and Siddhar cannot remember the poem. Taking a deep breath, he hums how he thinks the poem sounds and continues playing.