My Mother and Her Stories

The storytelling varies based on the person who is telling it to you. I grew up listening to my mother’s version of her life and the people in it. Sadly, my mother was struggling with some highly emotional past and her personal hurt in life that her stories used to be dyed in its emotional strains.

Her mood swings would also contribute to the way she narrated a tale to me. Her strongest sorrow was that she witnessed her mother pass away while struggling with meningitis. Her grandfather and her father’s failed in their attempts to get the life-saving injection to save her. So, before my grandmother’s brother and my grand-uncle arrived in a hurry with the injection, she had already passed away.

I had a special relationship with my mother. It started during my High School days. I made a conscious effort to get to know my mother and about her. I learnt the art of listening to people, when someone talks to me I would be a keen ears. It was not often that I could empathise with her predicaments. There were days, when I used to be so confused by her versions, so much so, it was painful for me as an adolescent to hear them.

Yet, I was not grown up enough to solve her problems which left me in great distress. Until I grew up and understood that an individual personal journey of pain and discomfort is often done alone. It was not always about her life’s stories, mind you! We also spent conversing in our free times debating about the stories that she read from “Magiyar Malar”. Other than this one Tamil magazine my mother did not read, as extensive as my Paternal grandmother or Kamu Patti. My paternal grandmother needed all the printed Tamil Magazines.

Mother did not like politics, she has transferred that disinterest to me too! She preferred topics related to new recipes, tips for home makers, short stories that were featured, in the exclusive for woman magazine. Come Diwali an additional pamphlet sized booklet with all new recipes, astrological prediction for the year and what not would arrive for her reading pleasure. Her post-lunch activity would be to relax with this magazine and fall asleep.

I often remember that I used to pester her to read the Tamil text since I read slowly and my brain is never patience when reading. I lacked the fluency of the English language and sadly was weak in my mother-tongue. Even to this day, I regret my mother-tongue Tamil is not my strongest language.

My mother was well endowed with baby plump and was short 4’6″ in height. She was a good cook and was the favourite among both sides of the family. Whenever the visitors came, she was permanently stationed in the kitchen cooking up a storm. I don’t ever remember my mother even while traveling being assigned the camp cooking duties.

She enjoyed commingling and fraternising with the younger generation. I never really learned her ways and the art of conversing with the younger generations from her. Teaching was not one of her multifaceted skills. She lacked patience to teach. Especially in cooking, I only got general instructions and asked to figure out the outcome by practical application.

The art of storytelling that captivates the audience and holds their attention to the point of making an emotional response mark is a skill! That my mother had in droves. But sadly, though she was a great storyteller, she was also a touch too narcissistic.

She didn’t see beyond her confined circle of family, friends, and relations. I believe, it has much to do with the fact that her life was anchored in and around her small world circle. Yet, in her own ways, her children’s friend circle became her outlet to the outside world. So, when she narrated something, I would be fascinated to see one story said in multiple versions, voices, and moods. That way I learnt about saying stories in different ways and means.

Your parents are often your first teachers in the world. You learn much from seeing them, as they lived their lives in front of you. Sometimes actions speak louder than words! Of course, it looks great in writing, but it must be understood that children are miniature CCTVs monitoring without even being obvious that they are watching and learning.

I flew away from my nest later than my siblings. So, I tend to lack worldliness like my siblings. But one aspect that I carried with me was that I was an open-minded person with some shortcomings. It took me a lot of outside world experiences to understand sometimes home is the best nest that comforts you in times of distress.

When I lost even that, it made me realise that after all there is much that one learns from when one hits rock bottom in life. I keep learning and life sends me all these lessons that I have failed to understand or cleared my personal test of life.

Listening to stories from some people who were willing to share and others who shut me out to excluding me from their lives, I still learnt from them all. Some stories are told without words, some with just emotions, some with varying degree of intensity. Yet, they were not all mere stories, but became magical when they moved the mind, emotion, and mindset of another person.

I value stories and how they were told to me. Maybe in understanding it, I might have failed; but in recognising the presence of a human, I have never failed in having an understanding their point of views. Some of the remarkable true stories were real-life tit bits added together into a format to make that one exceptional story well told.