The Storyteller. Anitas Story

I am the local storyteller. When I sit in my verandah every evening, the children playing in the open lawns in front of my house come running after their game of hop scotch and seven tiles, and look at me with shining eyes, waiting for a story to start. Sometimes they even leave the game halfway and come, if they see my story is about to begin. They also bring their friends to hear a good story. 

There are so many times when their mothers or elder siblings also join in for the storytelling; and then it becomes a big deal for me, because my story has to awaken their interest also and evoke empathy. You see, empathy is important to make my story real. They have to feel my story. 

I have never learnt to tell stories. I have not been to literary seminars and educators’ symposia. I do not know how I became a storyteller- maybe people made me one. All stories are not true- and so sometimes I fabricate on the spur of the moment. If I feel the need to make someone smile, my story just goes in that direction. 

I am surprised I can fabricate because I am not a convincing liar. I have never been able to lie effectively even to save my life- my nervous eyes give me away. In school, whenever I tried, I got caught. But I can imagine; and articulate whatever I imagine. It all started when, once in school, we were given homework to write an essay on “My Pet”. Now, I had no pet! A number of my friends came back with glowing accounts of their pet dogs and cats and even budgies. I drew a total blank- I had no pet! My language teacher gave me grace time, but I had to rustle up an essay on “My Pet”, she insisted. At my wits’ end, I asked an older friend to help out and all the “would have liked” and “could have been” and “wish I had” and “if I had” made me go crazy with confusion. My grammar became so complex that when I had to read it aloud in school, I lost all sense of syntax and the whole thing was a biggish mess.

Hard lessons learnt about writing truthfully and confusing the reader, versus improvising and making it easier to understand. In turn, over the years as I grew up, I helped a few children in the neighborhood with their essays and their grammar texts and assignment write-ups, and presto!  I found myself transported into the role of a storyteller. So now, my mind works overtime to craft delicious stories, my old passion of cooking forgotten in the acquired bliss of a less messy, less cumbersome and totally inexpensive role of a storyteller.

In fact, often I try to weave in an experience with a tweak here and a tweak there just to ensure that it does not expose me. When my audiences are young children who crowd around me after cycling and even tri-cycling around in circles, the experiences have to be drawn out from my childhood. Then when the teenagers come to me after a game of volleyball, I have to narrate stories from my soul- because I have learnt that the soul is open and really amenable in the early teens- the thoughts then shape the destinies of the soul owners.

Once in a while, on a pre determined day, we play “Chinese Stories” akin to Chinese Whispers. We often have a houseful on the verandah and the garden surrounding it is also full of flowers and children. At times there is no place to sit, and the children sprawl on the lawns and have been telling me to get a mike so that they can all hear me. Some of them come with a burning desire to give their inputs- its usually something that has moved them deeply. Some of them come to listen, and glean some truth from the story contributions so that they can tease their buddies about something – some secret girlfriend or heartbreak or even a spanking by their dad or gymnastic instructor at school. Then there are others who come to understand what life is all about, from all the experiences in the story. “It cannot be so bad, after all”, they say. Yet others like to listen and know that what happened to them also happened to somebody else. Same same. Perhaps it gives them solace.

 I start the story speak for a minute, then the person next to me takes the story forward; then the next one builds the next rung, and then the next- the last three have to conclude…. And believe me that’s the toughest job. There have to be no lessons learnt, no preaching, just a soulful musing leading to a better understanding of life. That’s the rule. The other rule is no one can use offensive language- nothing unparliamentary. Just two rules we have. Sometimes on such evenings, a story grows up into something so intense, that I feel worried. And when I am alone, it plays on my nerves. Of late, I have been scared of being alone because the phantoms of my stories haunt me. 

One day not so long ago, in fact three months ago, there were twelve of us, and we all wanted to make a story. A mixed age group made it richer. And the way it panned out it became one of my best, oft repeated in different fora, tweaked accordingly for different impacts.

The excited participants started talking all together as soon as we completed the round. Many iterations and suggestions later, the story session ended and then I got up and walked into my home. “Its so lifeless and lonely in here, it would have been good if the story had gone on for a bit longer,” I thought. 

“Come on, old storyteller, you have your thoughts and words to keep you busy. The pen is mightier than the sword, they say. Why are you worried about being alone?” someone whispered.

I introspect again, today.

I peep out of my window and see clouds tinged with red on the horizon. Its dusk and I hate this part of the day… everything looks so gloomy and so mixed up for a while. Even the red tinge doesn’t help. I think of the story we wove three months ago and wonder what would have transpired had it started raining? Somewhere in the back of my mind, *Child 1 beckons. Why did she select a situation so melancholy? The piquant little voice saying “…..and she is all I have” does not leave me. I must meet her again and maybe talk to her some, to know her sadness. 

I try to escape from my role as storyteller and become a real old man for a while. But I realize I have forgotten how to do that. I only seem to be fabricating for the benefit of everyone and somewhere in the process, creating moments of happiness for myself too. Do I have my own story to tell? Where do I begin, where do I end it? Will anyone understand? Let me try. Think about it tomorrow.  I have to stash away the idea of rain for the next round whenever that happens. Melancholia mixed with rain; my mind has already started spinning a story. Its beginning and I am writing my epitaph: “words never die.” 

Maybe that’s why I am a storyteller. So young at heart, though old in years.

 Note: 

Crowdsourcing is quite the trend. The storyteller uses this technique to create a full story.

* The story appended just in case you would like to read in context.

Here, each new para is added by one of the 12 individuals who were together that day. The entire episode is fiction, written in first person. 

Anita’s Story

Storyteller: A flush spread along the dancing rivulet; dawn was breaking. Soon, the people around would start their mornings with a walk along the riverside, breathing in the clean pure air.  I had come out of my improvised tent, just to study the morning activity - I was there on a Project focusing on Rural Lifestyles. I saw a little girl pushing a big trolley and went up to her. “Little one, what are you doing? Where are you going? That trolley is way too big for you. Why don’t you ask someone older to help you?”

Child 1: “But sir, my mother cannot get up for she is ill and she is all I have,” said Anita, for that was her name. “I need firewood otherwise my mother will feel cold. She has pneumonia and the doctor won’t come because I have no money to give him.”

Teenager 1: As we were talking, two boys just hanging around doing some Yoga, sat up and listened intently.” We are learning to be doctors, so maybe we can help you Anita,” they said. I had noticed they were listening and felt uncomfortable. They had no right to do that. But felt happy when they decided to help. “Let’s go see your mother”, they said. I decided to go along with them.

Child 2: The little girl took us home very reluctantly. She seemed very embarrassed about herself and her mother. The home looked really shabby and neglected. We saw the drinking water stored in very old and moss covered earthen pots with a cracked plate for cover. I did not dare ask for water though I was very thirsty.

Child 3: She called out to her mother as we entered….a little puppy came out wagging her tail. “This is Eena” informed the little girl. “Oh my God, that’s really so cute!”. But there’s so much for you to do and then this puppy also……” Arun, one of the two medical students opined. I turned around as his voice trailed off just in time to see little Anita give him a strange look as if to say, “that’s none of your business.” How impressed I was! But Arun did not like her. “We are here to help her, and she is so rude,” he thought.

Child 4: Arun sulked and wouldn’t speak when his friend wanted to discuss Anita’s mother. He just wanted to go away from this rude little girl. But Bobby, the other boy seemed sincere and he took me outside the room and spoke very seriously. “This lady won’t survive for long if we do not take her to hospital immediately. Her infection is acute and contagious too. So, if I have your support I can ask my college hospital to admit her and treat her. But it’s going to be expensive and I honestly don’t have the heart to ask this little girl for money.” I heard a sound and spun around to see Anita, standing there with tears in her eyes- she had heard our conversation. 

Child 5: She ran in and brought out a little box with a bracelet. “Santa got this for me one Christmas when my father was with us. Actually I had many gifts from my father too, but this is my favorite. I would like to give this to you for treating my mother and making her alright. It will bring you a lot of luck. But I do not have money….” Her voice trailed off and she looked blankly at me.

Young Adult 1: I understood that she was too young to figure out the commercial aspect of even saving a life. Before the boys could say something disparaging I ran across, hugged her and told her she needn’t worry. I took her hand, led her to her mother, and insisted that she put the bracelet on her mother’s wrist as a good luck charm. Then we set out on our way to the college hospital. 

Child 6:  There were no taxis because it was all rural. The bus that brought us had gone on to the next village to pick up the group there doing a project on Contribution of Women to Local Society. We realized our handphones were also not receiving signals. What a fix! We stood by the side of the river, praying; nothing seemed to work. Almost at the end of the day, and also at the end of our hopes, we heard a tractor roar in the far distance. As it came closer we saw it was driven by an old man, and had a huge trailer latched on, full of sugarcane. We waved madly, and when he stopped, we asked him if he would take us to the college hospital, about six and a half miles away. 

Teenager 2: He looked us up and down, at the really ill lady who was unable to even sit up properly and thought for a moment. Then he agreed to take us all there if we paid him. I immediately agreed, and after hauling up our patient on the trailer, we kind of managed to hang on to the sides. Our journey began. The old man driving the tractor seemed in a hurry and the way he drove on the dirt roads gave us all such painful bumps! Arun and Bobby just kept snapping at him rudely. The old man continued to drive, unmindful of the rudeness of the two young men. 

 Child 7: We reached the hospital late at night with this very sick patient and the resident doctor in Emergency spent almost three hours doing critical tests and treatment, nebulization etc. I was pleasantly surprised to see the college hospital capable of handling such a critical case. By early morning, we had done all we could and now it was just a matter of time before we would know if Anita’s mother would live.

Parent 1: A stitch in time saves nine! Had we gotten delayed by another day, it would have been difficult to save Anita’s mom. The college hospital kept her in the recovery ward for almost a week and then we took her home. Another happy moment awaited us- the college hospital offered to send us back to the village in their ambulance. I found a phone booth on the hospital premise and asked my Dean at college to remit some money through Netbanking to the Hospital’s Bank Account in a town nearby. The entire episode is etched on my mind as a glowing tribute to humanity and love- money can never be enough for something so precious. And the experience enriched our project on “Rural Lifestyles” and made it look so complete.

Teenager 3: The warmth in my heart reached out and enveloped the two medical students who had overheard our problems and reached out so spontaneously. My  prayers also touched the old man who rattled our bones in the tractor. The doctors at the hospital deserved much more for their selfless dedication to the Hippocratic oath- so I blessed them with my soul. And Anita still believes that the bracelet given by Santa saved her mother.