I learnt the art of story telling from my grandmother!
Every summer holidays in my formative years was spent in my grandparents' house. I did not really enjoy it!
My grandfather had a strict disciplinarian approach in dealing with grandchildren where demonstration of grandfatherly love was probably seen as a sign of weakness. He himself was a strong man with strong views. The only place where his strength turned to jelly was in front of my grandmother, my Thamma. He loved her dearly and pampered her endlessly. I always felt that it was misplaced. If anyone had to be pampered it should be me, his grandchild ! But that did not happen and therefore I hated my annual summer sojourns.
In this gloomy atmosphere there was only one ray of light. My grandmother's stories!! It was not that my Thamma was made of any less sterner stuff than my grandfather, but it all transformed when she started telling stories. She was a voracious reader and every day, three times a day, I would sit next to her as she used words to weave a magical world for me. All the stories and sub stories of the Ramayana and Mahabharata were relayed to me with proper build up of tension in each of them. By the time I was ten, I knew all the plots and sub plots of the epics. The next summers were spent reveling in the magic of Scheherazade and her 1001 nights. Even Arthur Hailey found a place in our summer trysts. The story of his novel Airport, was serialized for my benefit over a period of a few weeks. A different Arthur's creation, Sherlock Holmes was introduced to me on a balmy summer evening and kept me delightful company for many years after that. Edgar Rice Burroughs and his ape-man were also part of my growing up diet, thanks to my Thamma. Bankim Chandra and Sarat Chandra also found space in my consciousness through the stories that my Thamma told me.
She would also very successfully retell the stories of her life, my grandfather or my father's life in way, that they felt like a grand technicolor movie with Dolby sound effects. Every story she told would remain with me for days and months. The characters would be introduced with details that would provide depth to their personality. Each layer of the story would be built painstakingly and conflict introduced at the right moment and just when it would feel that nothing could be worse than what is happening to the protagonist, things would change so that happy endings were inevitable.
Thamma, your stories will not find voice anymore! On the 2nd of July at 3 am you left us to go away to live in your world of stories! I can picture you there, with a candle kept near you, telling one story after another, each more magical than the one before!!
Every summer holidays in my formative years was spent in my grandparents' house. I did not really enjoy it!
My grandfather had a strict disciplinarian approach in dealing with grandchildren where demonstration of grandfatherly love was probably seen as a sign of weakness. He himself was a strong man with strong views. The only place where his strength turned to jelly was in front of my grandmother, my Thamma. He loved her dearly and pampered her endlessly. I always felt that it was misplaced. If anyone had to be pampered it should be me, his grandchild ! But that did not happen and therefore I hated my annual summer sojourns.
In this gloomy atmosphere there was only one ray of light. My grandmother's stories!! It was not that my Thamma was made of any less sterner stuff than my grandfather, but it all transformed when she started telling stories. She was a voracious reader and every day, three times a day, I would sit next to her as she used words to weave a magical world for me. All the stories and sub stories of the Ramayana and Mahabharata were relayed to me with proper build up of tension in each of them. By the time I was ten, I knew all the plots and sub plots of the epics. The next summers were spent reveling in the magic of Scheherazade and her 1001 nights. Even Arthur Hailey found a place in our summer trysts. The story of his novel Airport, was serialized for my benefit over a period of a few weeks. A different Arthur's creation, Sherlock Holmes was introduced to me on a balmy summer evening and kept me delightful company for many years after that. Edgar Rice Burroughs and his ape-man were also part of my growing up diet, thanks to my Thamma. Bankim Chandra and Sarat Chandra also found space in my consciousness through the stories that my Thamma told me.
She would also very successfully retell the stories of her life, my grandfather or my father's life in way, that they felt like a grand technicolor movie with Dolby sound effects. Every story she told would remain with me for days and months. The characters would be introduced with details that would provide depth to their personality. Each layer of the story would be built painstakingly and conflict introduced at the right moment and just when it would feel that nothing could be worse than what is happening to the protagonist, things would change so that happy endings were inevitable.
Thamma, your stories will not find voice anymore! On the 2nd of July at 3 am you left us to go away to live in your world of stories! I can picture you there, with a candle kept near you, telling one story after another, each more magical than the one before!!
