The Story Tellers

                 The first story teller of my life remains Bonomali da, our gardener who weaved love for Nature in me and a want for stories in life, all the time. He was in his sixties, as I remember him. A tall man, with a chestnut brown complexion and the Independence Movement had strangely left behind marks on his face and body. I always found him in his starched white dhoti and orange kurta, a round shaped set of spectacles to support his weak vision and his steady hands that could feel the pulse of all the plants in our garden and fill them up with life and lustre.
             When he found me, a little girl of three then, standing in a corner, staring at him with my keen eyes, he smiled and excused himself for not noting me before because he was busy listening to the plant right next to him. The plants and the trees supposedly told him stories of their lives. They told him what they wanted to eat, when they wanted to marry and then have children and Bonomali da as a dear friend helped them through their aspirations.
           Then, there were occasional story tellers like the gypsy woman with her pair of monkeys. She danced, played her "daffli" (an Indian hand drum) and narrated strange yet interesting tales of her travels. Later on, an old almost blind man started accompanying her and told tales of the jungle. After they reached the climax of their tale, they'd ask for money and then finally conclude the story. In the interludes of their story telling sessions, these monkeys performed various tricks and the rupee we paid for the shows, were immensely satisfying.
       I remember another Rahman chacha who would come to our town to all the fairs that we had. He had a big number of puppets and organized puppet shows. My first few tales of the 'Rajas' (kings) and 'Maharajas'(emperors), 'Ranis' (queens) and wars were all from him. His puppets wafted our imagination to the discreet world where horses had wings and devils had their lives locked in a bee that lived in a golden box.
        And how can I forget grandmother who always knew my next favorite tale. She was a master in bedtime story telling. My mother was a sharp woman and she decided to immediately harness my appetite for stories to put me to read. She got me picturesque books and allured me to them and I happily sought retreat in them. Next was my grandfather's part as a story teller, who traveled enormously for his work and brought stories home for her grand child. Stories from the streets, Broadways, lands of unknown people, food and habits enchanting me more than any colorful flight of imagination or dreams.
        Soon after I grew up and became a full bodied woman, men with tales or legacies always drew me to a coffee, at the least. A sudden surge to seek more stories drew me to travel across cities, villages, mountains and the seas. I started collecting stories from the piano woman, who sold musical instruments in a lonely corner of the city, the man who sold clocks and antique trinkets, the cowboy who played his flute and took me to deserted portions of the village and told me their stories or the man who kept yaks and narrated tales of the love between clouds and mountains and the fisherman who spoke with the seas, his boat and the fishes.
       Off late, my camera has become one magical instrument weaving stories strangely out of my mundane life. Somehow memories always seem golden through its eyes and what my eyes so carelessly miss, it seems to manage holding back so carefully in the preserves of sprinkles of golden dust.
       However, the greatest story teller of all times has remained life, who with its promise of inconsistencies brings in a different tale every moment and gives every day, a reason to look forward to.