The Storyteller

Lower Falls Creek Lake at Callaway Gardens

Azalea Bowl at Callaway Gardens 

Campsite: Storytelling in progress inside the blue tent 

It was the second day of our camping trip. After returning from a visit to nearby Callaway Gardens and Roosevelt's Little White House, I went inside my tent to put my body in horizontal position to minimize the effects of gravity so that my heart could efficiently pump more blood, carrying oxygen and nutrients to my overworked muscular system, which was punishing me with a severe headache. Barely had I lain down for a few minutes when two intruders entered my tent.


They had probably arrived in search of some adventure, but when they couldn’t find any, as there was nothing besides bedding on the floor, and clothes and toiletries spilling from two travel bags, both the young intruders demanded a story from me.

Little Miss Sunshine, Shruti Nainwal, the five-year-old with curly hair and a smile that could brighten up a thousand hearts, and her elder sister Shreya Nainwal, the one with extraordinary wits, cornered me. “We want a story. We want story. Story. Story.”

“Okay, okay, okay.” I surrendered. “Let me think.” A story by Saki (H. H. Munro) came to my mind. Although I didn’t remember its title and most of its content, I was ready to make it up as I went along. “Hmm…now listen. Once there was a little girl….”

“What was her name?” Shruti interrupted. Probably she wanted to know if I was going to narrate another adventure of Little Miss Sunshine.

“This girl was named Bertha," I continued. "She was an extremely horribly good girl. She always completed her homework in time, ate whatever her mom served, and never fought with her elder sister. Her teachers loved her. She won several medals at school, such as a medal for good behavior, one for obedience, one for cleanliness etc. etc. She always kept those medals pinned to her dress. And when she moved or walked those medals clinked with each other. The Prince of her country heard about her goodness and invited her to visit his garden, a place similar to Callaway Gardens. On the designated day, Bertha went to the royal garden. She was roaming around, thinking about her own goodness when suddenly, tabhi achanak, she saw a wolf at a distance. She ran in the opposite direction and hid behind some bushes.

“She could see the wolf from small gaps between the leaves, but the wolf couldn’t see her. She sat as still as she could, but soon started trembling out of fear, which made her medals clink. The wolf found her out and devoured her, leaving behind only her clothes, shoes, and the medals”

Both my listeners sat silent, probably contemplating the gory ending. And then Shruti asked. “Is this a real story like Osama Bin-Laden’s attack on America?” This was the story I had narrated the previous day, to which she had seriously asked, “But where is the attack? Why can’t I see it?” And then, “Why did he attack?” After I explained to her how people believed in different imaginary forms of God, and then fought for the superiority of their ancestors' imaginations, all Shruti had to say was, “That is so mean.”

I told Shruti that this one wasn’t a real story, and then explained to Shreya that it was based on a story by a very famous author named Saki.

“Now, another story,” Shruti demanded.

“It’s Shreya’s turn,” I said. “She will tell us a story.”

“No, I want to hear one more story from Giri Aunty,” Shruti declared. “Giri Aunty is the best storyteller in the world!”

That made me so glad and filled my heart with so much joy that I felt like I was a bird swooping over a lake. I started to recollect more stories for them. At that time, my husband came inside to get something. I excitedly told him what Shruti had just said.

“Ahem,” he replied while taking his camera and rushing out. “You should start babysitting our neighbor’s kids. At least you’ll make some money.”

Later in the evening, while we sat at the fireside on our folding chairs, I told everyone that Shruti told me that I was the best storyteller in the world.

To which Shruti’s dad objected, “How can your Giri Aunty be the best? What about Daddy? I tell you so many stories. Your Giri Aunty has even plagiarized my phrase, tabhi achanak (and then suddenly.)”

“Yes,” Shruti’s mom supported him. ”Someday your daddy is going to sue Giri Aunty for that.”

“No.…” Shruti quieted everyone. “I said that because…because I wanted to hear another story.”

While I was marveling at her ingenuity and honesty, and her parents were discussing my blatant use of  ‘tabhi achanak,’ little Shruti, who never wants to hurt anybody’s feelings, shouted, “April fool, everyone.” It was still the month of April.

After coming home, I googled Saki’s stories, and to my surprise, found that the title of the story that I told was THE STORY-TELLER. I read the marvelous story once again and discovered that what I had narrated was a fraction of it in terms of content as well as style. I sure need a lot of improvement.