The age of story telling

Some of the most cherished memories of my childhood are those of listening to stories from my elders. My grandfather and my maternal grandmother were excellent story tellers. Since most of my life I stayed away from my relatives owing to my father’s transferable job, the short breaks that I spent with them would be highly cherished.

My mama-bari (Bengali for maternal uncle’s house) trips would be real fun. I have 9 cousins on my maternal side, out of which 5 of them are either about my age or older than me. It was with these 5 cousins, I used to sit in the evenings with my grandmother on her big cot and pester her for stories. Our grandmother would only be happy to comply. While she would continue stitching together rugs with small pieces cut out form old clothes (and by god, she used to stitch the most wonderful rugs for us); she would tell us stories, which we kids would listen to, wide eyed, with our imagination running wild. Once in a while, one of us would ask a question or a doubt, which she would very patiently and lovingly answer. One of the elder sisters (she was in high school by then), would sometimes be skeptical about a story and start an argument. At such moments I would use my clout of superiority being the guest in the house, to beat her up and show her the door (Oh I was such a bully). I did not like interruptions in the midst of my grand ma’s stories.

Sitting around her, we used to hear with eyes filled with wonder, stories of Chand Saudagar, of Behula and Lakkhinder, of the Barobhuiyyan of Bangladesh and their heroics against foreigners and many more. I don’t have a count of how many times we made her repeat these stories but she used to tell us these stories with the same zest each time. I have never been to Bangladesh, but in her stories my mind would fly away to her village in Dacca. Her narration would invoke the imagery of the ponds, the tamarind trees, the house, the courtyard, her father who was a zamindar and her step mom who was kind to her. I never understood earlier how somebody could be as patient as to tell these stories over and over again to a bunch of toddlers who may not even understand everything said. My grandmother never really liked having to leave her own home in Bangladesh and come over to India during the Bangladesh war. From being the daughter of a wealthy landlord, to having to start afresh as a refugee was not the easiest truth of life to accept. Now I understand that every time she repeated these stories she actually re-lived those days whose memories she always held so close to her heart.

After so many years, having grown up and living far apart, each busy in his/her own life, I still feel these stories and the time thus spent bind us together at a certain level. It is something that is still common among us cousins. It is these small things in life that I feel keep each one of us rooted. How so ever our life changes, these moments will always remain there, fixed like the pole star.

My grandfather was a different type of story teller. In the day time he would sit on an easy chair on the veranda and would tell stories of olden days when with a char anna (25 paisa) coin he would buy a rickshaw full of vegetables for the entire joint family. He told us about his journey to Kolkata for his studies. He told us about the house where he used to stay and how he used to cook for himself. And then there were the funny ones too. Our favorite among the funny stories was the one in which a shepherd boy, one day meets a tiger and the tiger says, “I want to eat you.” The shepherd takes off his clothes smears oil all over his body and enters into the gaping mouth of the tiger. Thereafter he slides through its stomach and intestines, comes out of its back side and escapes, thus fooling the tiger.  I and my cousin would roll over and laugh our hearts out at the funny way our granddad would narrate the story with his exaggerated expressions. Our granddad, on winter evenings would wrap his favorite shawl all round himself and sit cozy and chat with everyone. But in a short while he had the tendency to doze off. I and my cousin, being the naughty imps that we were, would shake him out of his snooze and ask him to tell the story of the tiger and the shepherd. Then we would laugh ourselves to splits as he would doze off in the middle of the story and we would wake him up again.

My father and uncle are also great story tellers. They tell us stories of their childhood in Bangladesh of their joint family, of the cousins and of all the mischief they committed together and got punished for. They still tell these stories with so much enthusiasm, that I can feel how much they miss those days. I have heard that my grandfather had parted ways with his brothers over property and since then my father and uncles and aunts had had to shun contact with their cousins. Now with the life of the older generation mostly accounted for, my father and uncle are trying to reestablish contact with their long separated cousins.

Recently, I read an article on Paulo Coelho’s blog. It is attributed to a certain Loren Eisley. I found this very meaningful and so I have copied the contents as it is from: 

http://paulocoelhoblog.com/2012/11/29/in-the-plane-between-melbourne-and-los-angeles/

There is also a movie named Big Fish, directed by Tim Burton. It is a wonderful movie telling about the relationship between a son and a father who is a great story teller. It ends with the story teller dying happily and all the characters of all the stories he had ever told his son come alive and come to happily celebrate his passing. The movie ends on the note that,

“A man tells his stories so many times, that he becomes the stories. They live on after him, and in that way he becomes immortal.”

This oral tradition is as old as the Vedas themselves. There have been story tellers in the past, there are now, and there will be in the future. But how long can we keep this tradition alive in our own families. Does our next generation, born and brought up into nuclear families, big cities and more conversant in computers, video games and PSPs have time for these stories? Or for that matter our generation, living our life in such mechanical, competitive and materialistic pursuits; do we have the time in our stressful lives to tell stories to our successors. Well I don’t really know; it is just a doubt that came to my mind. But if the answer is yes to any of these questions, then I guess we need not worry for one more generation.

Wishing everyone a very happy new year 2013…..

Adios