When I was something around 3 or 4, my father bought for me the first piece of fiction I ever read. It was a hindi magazine called Nandan, full of stories of sweet little children who obeyed their mothers and never got into trouble, and of impish little children who sometimes disobeyed their mothers, but still managed to cause only so much mischief that everything would turn out all right in the end.
Since then, I have been a sucker for stories.
When I was six or seven, we used to play with makeshift bows and arrows, you know, little bows made of bamboo sticks split down the middle and dried and smoothed so the sharp edges would not cut our hands- 18 inch bows, fitted with the strings they used to sew those jute bags of wheat with, and armored with one and a half feet arrows of reed. Sometimes, just like the kids who like to play with kites and who sex up their manjha, we used to sex up our arrows. A little bit of coaltar applied to the tip of the arrow would give it weight, and would ensure that when all the local Arjunas of the village went into a pissing match of who could shoot an arrow the furthest, you would be affected a bit less by the wind, and your fate would rest more in the strength of you shoulders. And, of course, the level of enthusiasm you had for the chastising that would follow if any of the elders caught you playing with these potentially eye-damaging equipments.
When we grew older (by a couple years), the test of the strength of the shoulders that came into vogue, was kabaddi. As expected, I was a sissy on a kabaddi field, never touching anyone, never killing anyone, doing my best to not get caught, and not putting up a fight, once I did. And then, someone introduced me to a bat and a ball, and since then, that was it. What is the point of it all? Stories. I am telling you stories which might or might not interest you or affect you, the same way they did when I was a kid.
And then I got sent off to a boarding, and thus started my real tryst with stories. But it was not until college that I really began to understand them- the essence of stories which we told or listened to.
What is the significance of stories? And how are they best told? We know that they are mostly written for heroes. The victor always gets his story written. And sometimes, someone stands up to tell the tale of the one who lost, from his perspective. And the wrong becomes the wronged against, or not, depending on how pursuasive the chronicler is. Every fairytale told from the point of view of the orge bears a sad story, or maybe not- how can predisposing factors justify evil? And yet, we have the fairytales of the brothers Grimm. And more importantly, history. What we have lived.
And a rich tradition of oral history, which is the most treacherous and prevalent of all. Anecdotes are not good friends of one in search of superficial pictures, because the ones which are most often told are the ones which are agreeable to most people. And, yet, they might not be the most correct ones. Because, you know, victory might not always be definitive or truthful.
So, why the stories about the bows and arrows then? Simple, really. Whenever we played those games, the arrows would land some seventy-eighty yards away in fields of wheat-stumps. And there would be one person keeping watch where everyone's arrow fell. And some arrows would always, freakishly, get carried away by the wind. A minor form of cheating in children's games.
But you get my point, I guess. Now think about those whose stories are not told.
Since then, I have been a sucker for stories.
When I was six or seven, we used to play with makeshift bows and arrows, you know, little bows made of bamboo sticks split down the middle and dried and smoothed so the sharp edges would not cut our hands- 18 inch bows, fitted with the strings they used to sew those jute bags of wheat with, and armored with one and a half feet arrows of reed. Sometimes, just like the kids who like to play with kites and who sex up their manjha, we used to sex up our arrows. A little bit of coaltar applied to the tip of the arrow would give it weight, and would ensure that when all the local Arjunas of the village went into a pissing match of who could shoot an arrow the furthest, you would be affected a bit less by the wind, and your fate would rest more in the strength of you shoulders. And, of course, the level of enthusiasm you had for the chastising that would follow if any of the elders caught you playing with these potentially eye-damaging equipments.
When we grew older (by a couple years), the test of the strength of the shoulders that came into vogue, was kabaddi. As expected, I was a sissy on a kabaddi field, never touching anyone, never killing anyone, doing my best to not get caught, and not putting up a fight, once I did. And then, someone introduced me to a bat and a ball, and since then, that was it. What is the point of it all? Stories. I am telling you stories which might or might not interest you or affect you, the same way they did when I was a kid.
And then I got sent off to a boarding, and thus started my real tryst with stories. But it was not until college that I really began to understand them- the essence of stories which we told or listened to.
What is the significance of stories? And how are they best told? We know that they are mostly written for heroes. The victor always gets his story written. And sometimes, someone stands up to tell the tale of the one who lost, from his perspective. And the wrong becomes the wronged against, or not, depending on how pursuasive the chronicler is. Every fairytale told from the point of view of the orge bears a sad story, or maybe not- how can predisposing factors justify evil? And yet, we have the fairytales of the brothers Grimm. And more importantly, history. What we have lived.
And a rich tradition of oral history, which is the most treacherous and prevalent of all. Anecdotes are not good friends of one in search of superficial pictures, because the ones which are most often told are the ones which are agreeable to most people. And, yet, they might not be the most correct ones. Because, you know, victory might not always be definitive or truthful.
So, why the stories about the bows and arrows then? Simple, really. Whenever we played those games, the arrows would land some seventy-eighty yards away in fields of wheat-stumps. And there would be one person keeping watch where everyone's arrow fell. And some arrows would always, freakishly, get carried away by the wind. A minor form of cheating in children's games.
But you get my point, I guess. Now think about those whose stories are not told.
Among one of those things that never leave you for some reason, is a story I read years ago in our English textbook - about Jhalakari, supposedly a lieutenant in Laxmibai's army in Jhansi in 1857. The story introduces her with the caveat that even though she was one of the most important people in that battle, very little is known or written about her.
ReplyDeleteYour post reminded me of her, c'est tout. =)
So I suppose it's not the victors necessarily, but the "main" victors, whatever that may mean, who get the stories.
In essence..who tells the stories of minor characters. Some people have tried, I guess. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead has been on the want to read list for a long time, now: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosencrantz_and_Guildenstern_Are_Dead. Similarly, other counter/meta fiction like Wicked, or a lot of longform journalism...
DeleteWhat if either way it is not of much significance, if a story is told or not? If the one who lived the story is truly disinterested and content.
ReplyDeleteStory is entertainment, it is for the others. I believe those stories get told and retold which WE like to tell and hear for our own sake. A core incident/sequence get embellished over time and becomes a legend. But indeed those not sung about can also be the real deal, like the Mohenjedaro, who did not leave any important structures like other ancient cultures, but the people had an organized civic life and some peace, I imagine.
BTW, one child in my neighborhood lost one eye when we were kids with his bow and arrow. I like kabaddi (watching).
Nice post, touched many things. Also the classics that endure - they always tell the stories of all involved, don't they? I'm rambling.
Stories are entertainment, indeed. But they are a lot more, too. We do like to hear and tell for our own sakes, but many times somethings are there which are too important to not be told on, to be passed on to the next generation. If we do not, we run the risk of being rootless, no?
Delete(Indeed, I also know of such bows and arrows incidents. I guess while we were playing, it seemed cool, while the adults must have thought we were being asshats. I guess that is another lesson learnt in perspective, as we grew up.)