When I was a kid, homework and studies were some of the chores that irritated me. I always found some excuse to postpone or delay it. These tasks spoilt my otherwise blissful days. So, what didn’t irritate me? You guessed it right! Freedom, sports, unusual games and stories. Reads like a typical ‘boy’ vices, isn’t it?
Anyway, my parents pleaded and prayed but to no avail. I simply refused to finish my homework in time or allocate decent number of hours for my studies. Other family members also failed in this mission in spite of their exciting rewards and innovative enticements. Even my neighbours tried to straighten me out. Boy, did I shock them with my antics! Tired, my parents used their last and the most lethal weapon – my grandmother.
She would walk into my room and declare, “No storytelling sessions this summer or for that matter winter.”
The harsh announcement not only pushed me towards my desk but forced me to go one step further; pass my exams with flying colours. After every unit test and semester my teachers experienced abrupt fits. The reason was my unbelievable performance.
Come summer and the joy of listening to my grandmother’s mystical, magical, mythological and meaningful stories sent my young mind on a roller-coaster ride of a world bubbling with exciting characters – where humans, fairies, magicians, Gods, Goddesses and demons fought, protected, plotted and deceived with amazing weapons, on stunning landscapes, sporting unmatched bravery and skills. At the end of each story I would offer my views, ask questions about certain characters and debate on several crucial aspects. As usual my grandmother clarified with her impeccable reasoning and deep insight which came only with experience.
Grandmothers’ bedtime storytelling expertise needs no introduction. To me the wrinkles on her face appeared like timelines of individual stories; compelling, intriguing, fascinating and evocative. I actually saw time-lapse in those wrinkles – as centuries flew by in a short span of time. Epiphany? I don’t know. I only know that her timely pauses, modulated voice, lucid language and flawless dialogue delivery stunned me then and have turned into beautiful, unforgettable memories today. She literally built vivid images with her words. And her stories not only entertained but inculcated good values.
Although she is no longer alive I feel she sowed the seeds of writing in me. If I am a writer today it is because of her. While her stories reflected social, religious and cultural message, mine offer unadulterated fun and entertainment. She used immaculate oratory skills and vast knowledge to narrate tales I use written words and flowery prose to convey mine.
Alas, those nights are dead today, buried under the debris of changing times, nuclear families and a myriad of technologies, and with it we have lost one the most precious facets of life. Maybe there are a lucky few who slip into blissful slumber amidst her soothing words but the fact is bedtime storytelling is in dire straits.
P.S – The storytelling tools may change because of cultural and social differences, but its essence, and more importantly its purpose remains the same. While mothers and grandmothers in the Western world consider “Reading to children” a healthy practice, and a way of bonding with kids, back home the same is achieved through spoken words, although this trend is fast changing.
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