![]() ![]() Through their toddlerhood, both my children never tired hearing my ace raconteur mother-in-law tell them the "real stories" they begged for. And a bevy of aunts regaled us with simple, personal vignettes of daily life spent in different parts of India where our mill manager grandfather was posted. Our grand-mum and mum shared Hollywood plotlines and convoluted plots of Hercule Poirot mysteries. When it poured far too heavily to be out and about, the lovely ladies of the family dispelled any dismay my brother Phiroze and I felt at the prospect of no play evenings in Almeida Park, which commemorates Professor Raphael d'Almeida, the noted botanist who gave his daughters exotic flower names. The borawala on Bandra's Hill Road scampering for shelter against strong gusts from grey nimbus clouds. A road sign struggling to survive fierce monsoon winds. Wild daisy buds shooting up the pavement crack. Inventing and inviting a baby frog to hop along with us en route to the neighbouring garden, she pointed out seasonal wonders. She sang the staccato tune in every rain shower. ![]() "Beduk bhau, beduk bhau kheltos ka" was an early refrain rendered in full-throated Marathi by Kamal, our house help. Who were the storytellers of my formative years? How have they shaped a myriad lasting perceptions of my city, of the country, of the world, of life itself? Why are stories with animal characters the most attractive to pay attention to? Arresting in its lucidity, the line has got me thinking and rethinking. ![]()
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