Stories That Raised Me: Growing up in the Magic of Storytelling

Krishna Pillai

Good stories have a captivating beginning. My introduction to the world of stories was nothing short of captivating. 

Where do you think we started this business of storytelling? I like to think that one fine evening, after a long and hard day of hunting, people gathered around the crackling fire, and as they roasted their meat, they wove tales of their bravery, survival, and of the mysterious forces of nature around them. As we evolved, so did our stories, finding form in cave paintings and songs. Storytelling has always been woven into the human experience. We enter the world as part of others’ stories and, little by little, create tales of our own. 

For me, my first brush with stories came from my grandmother and my aunt. Though I do not remember every story told to me by either of them, I remember that I wouldn’t take my afternoon nap or go to bed at night without having a story first, and as they told me their stories, I slowly drifted off to sleep. As I grew older their pool of stories began to dwindle. I had a sharp memory and would refuse to listen to the same story twice and consequently refused to go to sleep. As a solution to this my clever aunt offered to tell me a horror story, an offer that would promptly set me off to sleep. 

My grandmother, on the other hand, had other plans. If there is one thing every Malayalam household will have, it is a copy of the Vanitha magazine. 

For anyone who grew up in a Malayali household, you’ll know these like an old friend—a women’s magazine with everything from beauty tips to celebrity interviews, and, nestled somewhere inside, a children’s section. This section, even though enticing, was inaccessible to me. All I could do was look longingly at the cartoons, for I couldn’t read Malayalam yet! When I kept asking my grandma for stories, she turned to Vanitha and started reading out the stories from the children’s section, giving me lots to imagine before my afternoon nap. The stories were engaging and for the little me, it was nothing short of wild! There were monkeys stealing sweet unniappams from the kitchen, greedy boys asking for wishes from a magical parrot, innocent girls trying to reach the moon on a banana-stem ladder, children befriending genies, and so much more!

So that’s how I got into stories. When I look back, I realize that many of the stories my aunt narrated turned out to be stories from popular children’s books, which I would rediscover later. There was a brief period when I was obsessed with chocolates. During this phase, my aunt narrated a story about kids who were invited to visit a chocolate factory. I was so enthralled by her description of a chocolate waterfall, a chocolate river, and a room full of chocolate, that we never got to the end of the story. I was pleasantly surprised to read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory a few years later, for it felt like going down memory lane and listening to the story all again in her voice. 

While these bedtime stories might seem like the start of my wonderful love affair with stories and books, they are not. I did enjoy my introduction to stories, but the real interaction was to happen only in the fifth grade. Until the fifth grade, I kept myself content with fairytales of Cinderella, Snow White, Hansel & Gretel and Rapunzel. Shortly after, I was also gifted a CD with the movies of all fairytales that I had read. Watching the movies gave me immense joy – to be able to see a witch-like lady calling out, “Let down your hair, Rapunzel,” stirred more pity than my little heart could take. The real tale, however, started 3 days after my fifth-grade birthday. That day, I returned from school to an unopened gift box from my uncle waiting for me on the dining table. I eagerly unwrapped the fancy cover, to reveal a shiny red box within. I opened it carefully, lest I tear the precious box. Inside, to my amazement, was the entire paperback Harry Potter collection! Needless to say, my excitement was beyond explanation. I remember setting everything down and sitting down with my brand-new copy of The Philosopher’s Stone. The smell of the new books was intoxicating. Even today, when I breathe in the smell of a new book, I am reminded of the very first time I appreciated this smell. 

Harry Potter was more than just a children’s book for me. Since it was the first lengthy work that I had read, I was taken aback by the intricacies of Rowling’s world. To my little mind, the characters of Harry, Hermione and Ron were more real than many people I knew in the real world. Like every other Potterhead, I too envied the trio for the amazing school they had, for their ability to fly around and to do magic. Like other Potterheads, I too had in-depth discussions with my friends over which house the Sorting Hat would put me into and what I would do if I were to get an Invisibility Cloak. More than anything, all I wanted was to be able to go to Hogwarts and have fun with my imaginary friends. In many ways, even though completely fictional, the Harry Potter series added a bit a magic to my very Muggle life! 

There wasn’t a dull moment while I was reading the series. If I had any free time, I would instantly turn to my books and get lost in them. To this day, I credit the magical world of Harry Potter for making me fall in love with reading. I already had a deep love for stories in me, planted by my family. I loved being taken on trips to places that existed only in their minds and mine, and being introduced to characters only we knew of. It was only when Harry Potter came along that I started taking these trips on my own. Traversing unknown terrains and interacting with curious creatures became my own personal adventure. 

The journey that started at Hogwarts soon took me to other places like the middle of the sea with Percy Jackson, and to Narnia with Aslan. Later on, it was this same thirst for adventure and pleasure that introduced me to Shadowhunters and vampires. It has been a wonderful journey, one that has taught me life and allowed me to experience things I wouldn’t have learnt otherwise. When I grew up, these stories grew with me. I realised that if I were to survive, I had to be like Hermione - fiercely strong and independent, and capable of standing up for myself. I realised that like Bilbo Baggins, I too would have to step out of my comfort zone and face the world, if I wanted to get anywhere in life. And suddenly, everything made sense. All the tales I read as a child returned as teachers, each imparting powerful lessons of friendship, duty, courage, responsibility, love and fraternity.  Later, when I grew up and took a formal degree in literature, I learnt that literature is a reflection of life and found myself nodding in agreement. For what is fantasy but limitless reality!

And to think, all of this happened because of my aunt’s and grandma’s bedtime tales! These stories—whether read by the glow of a dim light at night or whispered softly in the dark—made me who I am. It is true what they say: a reader truly does live a thousand lives! 

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