The Story-Teller

“Once upon a time, there was a little boy born in the heart of jungle. Away from the wild life that preyed upon its opponents for food, he was born into a wilder habitat that preyed upon its opponents for money, power and authority. Life in the jungle was a struggle for existence, while the wild hunted for mere survival, the wilder hunted for power and the wildest hunted for pleasure. His was a jungle of no trees and no river banks. It was a jungle of air conditioned interiors and canned water bottles. Into this concrete jungle was born a boy with a heart, with a story to tell, with a desire to become a story teller. This is his story and hence we can call it the story of the story teller.”

The children were gaping in wonder as the grand-father introduced his new story. “The story of a story teller”, the title seemed to hit a chord within their young hearts. As grand-father took his time to gulp down a glass of water, the kids eagerly waited for him to resume the tale. “So, there in the corporate jungle was born our story-teller and he was named Roshan, which means to shine”.

As grandfather narrated his story, the kids slowly wandered into the land of the story-teller. They were sitting beside Roshan as his mother narrated him his bed-time tales. “Why don’t you listen to my story mama?” they almost heard him say. They waited for him to tell his first story of his life-time; the story of the fish and the fisherman. They saw the tired smile on mother’s face as little Roshan went ahead with his story-telling debut. By the time he was half-way through the story, he could hear a faint snore beside him. Disappointed, he moves to the edge of the bed and turns the bed-light off. In the darkness of the room, in a faint whisper he narrates the story to the walls. The kids on grand-father’s terrace strain their ears to listen to the story as he repeats it through years of solo practice.

Roshan was not the bright-spot of his school as his name suggested. He was a boy who loves to sit alone. He would be mocked by his classmates for murmuring within himself. His heart would be over-flowing with stories but his words knew no ears to fill them with. Stories were meant for kids and his classmates detested listening to one when it came to forgoing their sports hour in return for the same. He thus sat alone for hours and hours creating new characters and carefully weaving a plot around their lives. They were his constant companions, his friends of all age groups, genders, region, religion and race with a story of their own held deep within their hearts to be poured out to anyone who cares to spare a moment for them.

Grand-father stopped to check if the children were listening. But for little Vinay who was already snoring, the rest of them were staring at him with eager eyes. Their eyes showed the thirst for stories that children usually have. “Why couldn’t Roshan find his right audience?” he thought within himself. He adjusted his tone and went back to Roshan’s childhood.

“Roshan was fifteen years old when he had a life-changing discussion with his father. He was sitting on the terrace staring at the stars when father approached him with a disappointed countenance. “Do you know your results Roshan?” he asked him without breaking the ice. The moment he heard the word results, Roshan knew what was coming up. He geared up himself to face the hour long discourse about career planning, responsibilities and future. However, what he heard next made him cry in joy. “I understand that you are interested in stories more than academics. Times have changed and I do realise that passion and profession can go hand-in-hand in coming future. Why don’t you take up writing as a career option and work towards it?” father’s words left Roshan in a state of trance. He sat thus staring at his father unbelieving what he just heard. Finally after what seemed to be a lifetime he said with a gentle smile, “But father, I am not a story writer”.

Father’s benevolent expression has changed to confusion and before he could pose his question, Roshan clarified his stand, “I am a story-teller”.

“What does that mean?” father’s voice was turning impatient.

“That means I can’t write stories. I can only tell them”.

“And how may I know do you plan to fill your belly with this art of story-telling?” the carefully fastened thread of affection has reached its final cut.

“There are lots of people who fill their bellies with stories father. Story is not meant to earn a living. It is meant to teach the art of living”.

“Enough”, that was the first and last time father lost patience to such an extent. “What your mother said was right. You are leaving to a residential college first thing tomorrow morning. And this is the last time I hear the word story from you”, father stormed out of the place in fuming anger.

“But grandpa, was there a difference between story-telling and story-writing?” the kids were surprised beyond belief. Grandfather woke out of his trance of story-telling and answered with the same gentle smile as Roshan, “Story tellers are not literates. They are just the voice of the characters that tend to speak through them. They don’t have limitation and boundaries.  All they have is expression through words, gestures and gaze”.

The kids seemed to envision a sea of emotions in grandfather’s worn eyes. The wrinkles at their ends seemed to smile at the innocence of their childhood. The air was filled with confusion and intellect when someone reminded the rest that the story was not over yet. “What happened next, grandpa?” their question in unison once again took the old man’s gaze towards the sky.

“What happened next? He went to the residential, became lonelier, studied in bargain for his freedom, bagged a job and finally moved out of the academic dungeons into a less harsh corporate dungeon. Within no time, his profile was out in the market with a price tag. After a series of bargaining and almost a good fight, a stranger paid them a decent price and left his daughter at their mercy. His wife heard his stories in the beginning but soon she too started asking him why he couldn’t make use of his ‘inherent talent’. His words fetched him no understanding nod from her side either and she too failed to see the thin line that separated him from the established story-writers.

When his children came of the right age, he was in no relaxed mood to entertain them with his stories. Work burden at office has started choking him and sitting at home on a story-telling assignment was just out of question. Thus his children were left to listen to their mother’s bedside tales from age-old classics while he muttered designer-made stories to his higher authorities in a bid to retain his job.

Grandfather stopped short to check if the kids were still listening. He suddenly realized that he had gone too far. He shouldn’t have made his story so monotonous. Kids love fantasy and victory, not real life stories! As he shifted his gaze from the sky to the children, he realized that he was right about them. They were all sleeping huddled closer to each other. He called aloud for the domestic help to take the children to their beds when he realized that someone was still not asleep. His son was leaning across the stairway with tears in his eyes.

“What happened next, papa?” he managed to ask amidst choking emotion.

“For the first time in my life, I heard the question “Do you want to hear a story?” and it was from you. I didn’t know what to say. I just wanted to tell you how difficult it is to live on the art of story-telling. However, you were determined and I had to send you to a residential with a heavy heart so as to teach you what my father tried teaching me.”

“And then I learnt the art of living in a concrete jungle, the art of story-telling to survive in the every-day race for promotions, appeasements and survival”, his son continued the story for him. “But where does this cycle end?” he asked his father with a newly found affection.

“Art has no end my son”, the shining bright eyes of wisdom were once again aglow, we have struggled enough to put an end to it through our foolish acts. Now is the chance to water a sapling that is fighting to survive on a land of weeds. Are you ready to take up the challenge?”

“How father?”

The old man smiled with a wise twinkle in his eyes and gestured towards the sleeping children. As his son strained his eyes, his father beckoned him to strain his ears instead. Amidst the thick silence that prevailed, a faint voice managed to fight its way towards the young man. As he checked through the children in the darkness, he found that his own son was deep asleep while his lips betrayed his disinterest in stories.

“The man walked to the jungle and saw the tiger asleep. Hey you beast! Give me back my child or I’ll take yours”, he shouted at it at the edge of his voice.”

The young voice was reverberating with the inherent art of story-telling. The young man’s eyes were straining to hold back the welling up tears. He looked at his father for support but the old man had already given up his fight. With shared emotion they looked at the little boy as he narrated his story to the darkness hiding behind the warmth of sleep. This time they knew a Story-teller is not just born in their family but is going to live-on.