GRANDMA’S STORIES

The gift of narration inborn in some, is cultivated through hard work in others. Both are meant to be enjoyed by the rest or all.
For a soul like me who devoured stories from a very tender age, I was delighted to discover the world of books. No matter how graphic the pictures or attractive the words are in the books, a grandma’s story is always special. Both my grandmothers used to cook, tell stories and take care of us but my maternal grandmother, I am guilty to disclose, always had a closer place in our hearts.
My childhood was filled with days in the boarding exploring my independence in, through and around rules, rules and rules. The occasional holidays gave me and my sister the much needed pampering by our loved ones at home – a bliss, which also brought the luxury of hearing our grandma’s stories. All growing children should have this luxury of grandmas and stories to grow fully developed. That’s when and how the creative juices set in, to be pulled out later in our lives, when we most need a respite from the busy world.
The one story telling episode which stands out from the rest was when I had been either 13 or 14 years old. A budding romantic, though unashamed to sit with my younger siblings and cousins to hear a story, even if it had been much heard.
It was during our summer holidays and this time we had most of our cousins come over to our home in Mangalore (another story altogether). It must have been difficult to bring all of us back into the house from our fun filled and non tiring games in the coconut grove surrounding our house. We were enticed inside by the promise of stories from our grandmother. We had all had a wash by then and were seated in a circle near the door – looking out to the grove.
Our attention would zero in when grandma entered, wearing the traditional chatta and mundu of early Keralite Christians by which we identified our maternal grandma. She would come and sit down on the floor with us, with her legs stretched out into the middle of the circle. She could never sit with her legs crossed – like the yoga style we were used to, on the floor, due to the beginnings of arthiritis. While we watched in anticipation, she would take out her treasured pouch from the tiny end of her mundu which she folded at her waist to hold her pouch.
(Something like the modern belt pouches sported by tourists now to hold their mobiles and knick knacks) This would heighten our anticipation because everything in that treasured pouch was forbidden to us. And this was how she would always start a story. She would open her pouch in front of us, take out a fresh green heart shaped betel leaf, pinch away its pointed tip and any stub of the stem left on the top and then apply a smear of chunnambu (white paste like stuff) right in the middle of the leaf, place a few pieces of betel nuts on it and a pinch of tobacco, fold it neatly and pop it into her mouth. All the while our incessant pleadings to her to give some for us would be ignored by the reason that school going children should never have this as it would stain their teeth. Nevertheless this would stop when her lips begin to turn red. This was a luxury the women in kerala or for that matter in south india used to have to make their lips red in the much early days. (I guess this is how I got my craze for lipsticks). And to my knowledge my grandmothers were the last ones who held this luxury. Because I cannot remember any women in our family using betel leaves after them.
Once her lips became red, she would start her stories and being the eldest among the lot, I had the much coveted privilege of reminding grandma the parts which she would forget and the others wouldn’t have known. Now I wonder if this was done purposefully as a small acknowledgement for being in attendance when I was past the age for grandma stories. But that’s another trait of grandma, she would modify her telling to suit the audience, for sometimes even elders or some labourers used to come sit around us and have fun listening to her. She was a natural story teller. There would be sounds and sighs and giggles and bated breaths and bursts of laughter. Then when her quota of stories would end, we would plead and plead and if it wasn’t time yet time for the family prayer, she would start all over again. This time the others would have the privilege of reminding her, when she purposefully forgot some interesting parts.
Soon it would be time for our bilingual family prayer which used to be an exclusivity in our family then, followed by dinner and then bedtime.
Another leaf turned over in the book of my life.