Do all parents tell stories? I am not sure if they do. Most of the kids spend their time with their grandparents, listening to the ageless stories of their youth, twists and turns that their life took. Bad people they walked into, and good people they found like rolling stones. All the grandparents have their stories to tell. But with me, it was different. I didn't get a chance to meet my grandparents. No grandma rocked on the rocking chair, weaving sweaters and the bygone times in her stories for me. No grandfather took us to the toffee shop, on his shoulders. There was no grandma telling me stories of how she had to manage a living in the tough time of independence, or granddad telling how emotionally torn he was, working under the British regime in a government office. I have seen them in photographs, and I do remember their faces. A newly married young man, proudly standing by a bicycle, holding its handle firm in his clasp. And a lady clad in a heavy banarasi saree, leaving nothing bare, except for her small face peeping out of hoarded jewellery and a lot of cloth. That life never touched me. I have had no chance of asking them all the questions that arouse in my mind, while looking at such pictures. Some of them were answered by parents, most of them even they didn't have an answer for.
But I have parents who recite great stories to me, ever since my childhood. I remember waiting for a power cut as a child, to sit under the candlelight and listen my dad travelling into the past. With my dad’s huge family of 7 brothers and a set of parents; it was an overbearing emotional surrounding, against the weak emotional environment of my mom’s family, with a set of parents living on different stations, and no sibling to live by. I used to listlessly listen to their journey.. digressing into the lives of others related to them. And it strikes a code of my own life. I remember these stories like sweet lullabies, sung to me by the past itself. Just like lullabies, these have succulent emotions and most enjoyable stories. Time has strengthened my bond with their memories. And now if my dad or mom repeat a story, I feel like it were my very own past.. like you tell me about your some particular day, back from the school time. I am scared of ever being severed from these. They have meditational value for my soul. Is there something that you live by too?