Storytelling…. so many layers… so many levels.

My last article was on storytelling. That was one very close to my heart as it was based on my childhood memories. Just now I read something on how story telling is used by 1st nation people (original inhabitants of Canada) as a tool for disciplining their children.

When I was a Masters students I was blessed to have some of the most brilliant minds teach me, but what taught us more I feel is the fact that the bodies that held those minds were also homes to beautiful, caring, loving and sensitive hearts. Our teachers/ professors were simply amazing. The beauty also was each one has a passion and how that passion was used to make each lesson more alive and realistic. One loved dance, another drama, one spoke of relationships, another use of language and thus each class was not a paper taught, it was an enlightening discussion enriched with real life examples.

The beauty is that each one of those professors spoke of some common practices that should play bigger roles in child rearing. Stories and storytelling were a part of that list. At that point almost 20 years ago I enjoyed my lessons. Today I am living those lessons through my children and in my daily parenting journey, and professionally.

As a child I loved stories. Today I know my children love them. For those of you who think with age the children’s interest in this decreases I believe otherwise. My elder one is 9 and still loves his bedtime stories. I am nearing 40 and if someone was to tell me 1 at bedtime I promise you I will sleep better that night. We as professionals working with children always say stories are a way to connect with our children. They help in language development. They help us keep our history alive. They help us connect with other individuals. Not too far back in history of human development it is said that stories are a tool to teach children.

Stories that teach children socially acceptable behaviours are called social stories. Today I learnt that the 1st people have a treasure of stories that have been with them for hundreds, maybe thousands of years. It is through these stories that they discipline their children. Apparently they never shout on the children. They never give time outs. They never scold their children. They just have stories for almost all aspects of life. Some mistakes are pretty predictable as children grow. Actually most are. For example we all know that once a child moves around they like to explore. As they grow they like to do this more and more independently. The 1st people have a story about a sea monster that is told to children from a very young age to make sure that when they run and play independently they stay away from the water (they don,t need to worry about swimming as much as the temperatures are often -40 degrees). These stories are used mostly as a preventive and thus all children are exposed to them. Sometimes though they maybe used as a corrective tool also when they are shared after an incident has occurred. Often these stories are accompanied with role plays or small acts that are done with humour as the main element. The children begin to see the effect of their behaviour in such scenarios and tend to make the amends. The best part is that this has been happening for many many years and generations after generations of those children have grown up and become adults leading lives like you and me, thus proving that our parents “yelling” actually did not make extra changes in our lives.

The only thing I will say after reading multiple such articles and reports is that I wish I can amend my ways and instead of increasing my heart rate work on helping my children make their life meaningful.

Take care everyone.

Signed off by a parent who learns daily.

Stories….. and Story tellers

Stories. Closed eyes, smelling a comfort around, hearing the whistle of the pressure cooker from a neighbours house, a soft voice narrating a story that has me completely engulfed in the emotion of the moment. Thats how I remember my story session from my childhood. The difference maybe in the fact that the voice sharing the story was not that of my mother, father or even a grandparent. It was of my dad’s eldest brother. Somehow when I look back to my childhood I feel he was the one who played the part of a grandparent in a childhood that was barren of that emotion. (Never met 3 of my grandparents and the 4th one passed away after her years of diabetes and paralysis when I was only 6). We called him bade papa and being the eldest in the family we could run to him for many things. I was a bit spoilt as I always felt for some reason I was his preferred one. By the time I was born, his children were in late teens and older. He pretty much was the only one who had time to spare for a talkative child. He also had the patience I must add to hear non stop chatter.

Having grown up in a house with parents, a younger sibling, and extended family (dads brothers family) one tends to have no distinction of calling some a part of nuclear family and some extended. They all were and are family. When mom dad were busy doing stuff that parents do like managing work and home, my school work, cooking, teaching, revising, values and many other things that we parents do now, he (bade papa) would come back from his work early evenings. He would freshen up and change into a white (always white) short kurta and pyjama and enjoy his evening cup of tea. He often would get daily updates from his kids and us. When everyone had gone off to do the things they had to or wanted to or needed to do I would spend time sitting with his listening to anything he would say.

Stories mean different things to different people. For some they need to be happily ever after. For others they need to have good and bad. For me stories need a flow of emotions and a story teller is one who makes it all come alive. Bade papa had a calm voice always. Rarely had I ever heard him raise it. In his soothing, soft voice I heard stories that ranged from those published in Readers Digest many many years ago, to stories of my ancestors and our family, to stories of the Mughals. The charm in the stories were that they way they were told they held my attention, and I was always craving for more. The way he managed to break a story into two parts, one that related facts and another that spoke of emotions involved. The action and effects of that action were both an integral part of the story sessions.

Once the story ended we started another very important step. The part where he asked me to think about it and analyze it. Of course at that time I was too young to understand all this, I just enjoyed that he wanted my opinion. It was in these discussions that we created a bond that was beyond an uncle n niece or if I may say so a parent n child. This is when he made me understand that one can respect another being irrespective of age. This is where I understood that different people look at same thing differently. This is when I learnt that it is ok to thing, be different and stand by what we feel is correct. He taught me the values of truth, acceptance, sharing and respect.

The story sessions with him are etched in my memory. he is physically not with us today and we miss him terribly but I will always cherish these moments together. He will always be my storyteller.

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