I'm sure you've run into this person - the one who has an enviable memory. He remembers his first grade teacher, the place where he was when his first tooth wriggled and fell, the name of the boy who tripped him in kindergarten, the address of his first crush... you know the type.
Well, I am the complete opposite. Sometimes when I am sitting around with my family and some old stories come up, I wonder if I even grew up in the same household! Some memories that I have of my childhood are not even my own - they are images in my head created after I've had those stories repeated to me/in front of me multiple times by my parents.
I was a girl with her head in the clouds. Daydreaming was my favorite pastime and imaginary friends, my closest companions. We lived in the hills, amidst the woods, and when I wasn't in school, I was either hiking through the woods (imagining stories of adventure and exploration that awaited me beyond the next hill, around the next corner) or building tree forts (to settle in with a favorite book).
But I do remember snippets of my childhood. Hazy scenes from various time points - some happy, some not. But my most favorite one of them all involves lazy Sunday afternoons, the bed in my parents bedroom and my dad in his Sunday best - a blue checked lungi with a white sleeveless baniyan. It usually started with me requesting a story and him, indulging me with very little resistance. He loved to tell stories. And I loved to listen to them. The story went on for hours.. like a Tamil movie - complete with songs, action sequences and melodrama. Sometimes, they were old Tamil/Hindi/Kannada movie stories; sometimes, tamil writer sujatha's thriller tales; sometimes, his own. I could never tell them apart. Later, while watching some of his narrated movies, I realized he didn't stick to their script. He modified the stories the way he would have liked them to be..and in almost every case, I liked his version better.
My dad gave me my love for stories. He fed it to me one story at a time.. introduced me to the fabulous world of fiction.
And even now, more than 20 years later, I enjoy sitting and listening to him as he entertains his grand kids with magical stories. My daughters roll on the floor, laughing at the jokes he cracks.. and my heart overflows with love - for him, for them and for the stories that we've all shared.
Well, I am the complete opposite. Sometimes when I am sitting around with my family and some old stories come up, I wonder if I even grew up in the same household! Some memories that I have of my childhood are not even my own - they are images in my head created after I've had those stories repeated to me/in front of me multiple times by my parents.
I was a girl with her head in the clouds. Daydreaming was my favorite pastime and imaginary friends, my closest companions. We lived in the hills, amidst the woods, and when I wasn't in school, I was either hiking through the woods (imagining stories of adventure and exploration that awaited me beyond the next hill, around the next corner) or building tree forts (to settle in with a favorite book).
But I do remember snippets of my childhood. Hazy scenes from various time points - some happy, some not. But my most favorite one of them all involves lazy Sunday afternoons, the bed in my parents bedroom and my dad in his Sunday best - a blue checked lungi with a white sleeveless baniyan. It usually started with me requesting a story and him, indulging me with very little resistance. He loved to tell stories. And I loved to listen to them. The story went on for hours.. like a Tamil movie - complete with songs, action sequences and melodrama. Sometimes, they were old Tamil/Hindi/Kannada movie stories; sometimes, tamil writer sujatha's thriller tales; sometimes, his own. I could never tell them apart. Later, while watching some of his narrated movies, I realized he didn't stick to their script. He modified the stories the way he would have liked them to be..and in almost every case, I liked his version better.
My dad gave me my love for stories. He fed it to me one story at a time.. introduced me to the fabulous world of fiction.
And even now, more than 20 years later, I enjoy sitting and listening to him as he entertains his grand kids with magical stories. My daughters roll on the floor, laughing at the jokes he cracks.. and my heart overflows with love - for him, for them and for the stories that we've all shared.