The cell phone rang disturbing my Sunday afternoon siesta. “Hello!” I tried to conceal the irritation in my voice.
“Hey it’s me Sujatha! Remember me?” My best friend was in a playful mood. But I had not heard from her for more than a month. “What happened to you? Went to Mars or something?” — now curiosity replaced irritation. “No, no. I was busy attending a storytelling workshop,” she replied happily.”
“A what?” my mind started spinning. I had never imagined storytellers can be produced through workshops like Chinese goods! “Valmiki and Ved Vyas did not attend any workshop to tell about Rama and Krishna!” I protested weakly. “They did not have the need to recite the Ramayana and Mahabharata to children, right? It is not easy to make kids sit and listen to you unless you have professional help,” came the reply immediately.
Even after the conversation ended I could not digest the idea of a workshop for storytelling. Maybe things are changing around me and I am not aware of it. Or it was due to the way I was brought up. Ours was a big joint family.
I was the eldest daughter with two younger sisters. Our family revolved around our paternal grandmother who was a wonderful storyteller. “Paati, paati, please tell us a story” — the request would be heard in our house the morning till we went to sleep. Some 30 years ago, there was no television. Radio was the only source of entertainment and it was under the control of the house elders. So whenever we feel bored, we would turn to our grandmother for stories. She was always a bulky sari-clad woman with sacred ash on her forehead. We never thought she would have had a childhood, teenage or middle age. For us she was born as grandma. She would sometimes sigh, “How much hardship my son had to face to marry off you three?” She always longed for a grandson but she never showed it to us. Since we were kids, we used to have dinner early, served by grandma. If it was served by our mother, grandma had to sit beside us and tell a story. We would listen with food in our hand and our mouths agape. Often our mother had to nudge us to eat. Even at bedtime, we would wait for grandma to finish her story, never once questioning her.
As we grew up, story books replaced grandma. When TV came to our household even grandma sat with us for her evening entertainment. Tuesday dramas and Oliyum Oliyum became her favourite pastime. Even films like Anathai Ananthan was watched with zeal.
When I got married and had kids, I didn’t even open my mouth to persuade them to eat. They had Cerelac with ad jingles, idlis with Spiderman and rice with daily news. Homework, playtime and outings were planned in tune with TV programmes. But when I watch TV, I sorely miss the excellent storyteller who did not have the opportunity or need to attend a workshop.