Bed Time Stories

Never in my childhood had I slept without listening stories from my mother. The practice had started in my early childhood itself and continued even when I reached the age of ten. There were only a few world classics, epics, religious mythologies, histories and children’s stories which my mother had not introduced to me and I myself read later. My brother and sister too had the same opportunity but I don’t know how far it affecter their lives. As I was a sensitive boy the bed time stories had and still have a great impact on my life.

Sometimes she told me stories while feeding me rice in the night. Her interesting stories and delicious rice mixed with fish and curry would satisfy my five senses simultaneously. Seldom had she told me stories to make me sleep. I used to usher her to tell more and more stories in a single stretch. I don’t know how she bore my irritation after doing a whole days duty in school and home. As a teacher of history she had the knack of telling stories interestingly. I still wonder the range of world classics she had been exposed to. She was an voracious reader and she used to read whatever materials came to her hand from Shakespeare’s Hamlet to a story published in a weekly magazine. Sometimes after finishing a hectic schedule she would sit even after 10 P.M. in the night just to read something.

Even if my father too was a very good reader his interests mainly fell on scientific, sociological and other diverse fields. His knowledge was minute and deep. As far as literature was concerned once he told me the story of Merchant of Venice on bed.

Sometimes I would sleep in between a story. Whenever that happened there would be horrible or sweet dreams in the night. Some other times my mother’s voice stumble, drag, stagger and eye lids struggle to be awaken at last to end up in sleep. In that situation my mind would imagine so many forms, colors, sounds and actions and sometimes analyze situations and character to find out some solutions.

Among all the stories, mythologies and histories, the stories from the Greek mythologies, especially from Odysseus; the stories Arabian Nights and the Japanese story of Cinderella influenced me the most.

Stories from the Arabian Nights were fascinating. More than Alibaba and Forty Thieves and Aladdin and Magic Lamp I was enthralled by the Adventures of Sindbath. His different sea voyages and the mysterious lands and characters he visited took me to the peak of imagination. In one story Sindbath happened to meet a huge bird to which he tied himself to land in a mysterious place and the peculiar way he collected precious stones, all these really drove me to another imaginary world.

I still believe that the imaginary world created in my mind by those stories made me happy and gave me another life. So I feel I had two lives in my childhood going along side. One real life with its loneliness, plays, quarrels, happy moments, fears and so on and another imaginary life with flying fantasies, wild ecstasies and colorful dreams but sometimes with deep thinking.

In one of his books V.S.Naipal conveys that he couldn’t enjoy the English novels completely- even the novels of Dickens – in his childhood. It was because he could not familiarize himself to the strange western backgrounds in those novels. He was not able to identify himself with the characters like David Copperfield.

In my case I was mostly fond of remote settings and strange characters which satisfied my imagination. The more remote the story was the more I could enjoy. Being one with or trying to place myself in a strange situation with mysterious or more than life characters was something absolutely fascinating in my childhood. In fact I needed that as a complement to my lonely childhood.

In Greek Mythologies mostly I liked the war heroics of Odysseus and other heroes. Odysseus’ valiant visit to the island and his encounter with the fabulous giants called Cyclopes created a peculiar world in my mind.

Just like Arabia and Greece, Russia and Japan were also my favorite dream lands because of the everlasting stories from those countries. While Greek and Arabian stories mostly dealt with adventure and might, Russian and Japanese stories dealt with the qualities of heart like kindness, love and suffering.

When I found Cinderella- a cute, yellow, round faced angelic girl- being compelled to do hard work weeping alone without any complaint in fact I wanted to save her or suffer with her which the prince did at last. Later I could identify Cinderella as the younger version of Desdemona but with a happy end. Both were gentle, gracious, tortured human souls. Still in my mind Japan and Japanese people have high esteem mainly because of Cinderella.

I was equally fond of the stories from the Bible and the two great Indian epics. Bible stories provided me with a moral sense. King David, the man of heart; Jonathan, a great friend; Moses, a great leader; Jacob, a human being and of course Samson, the tragic hero were the characters influenced me the most.

In my childhood I could not accept Samson’s fall. God was against Samson loving a girl of Palest. But I thought that his love must have been accepted by God. To me there should not be any cast or belief against love. But after all minds win over hearts in the practical life several times.

No food I have tasted so far could match the rice, curries and fish which my mother fed me. No stories were more fascinating and enchanting than my mother’s bed time stories. No more I can hear it and it is time I should become a story teller.

-J.T.Jayasingh
(Author: A Bird’s Eye View)

They are Extinct

My son, look at the azure sky
And the yellowish red cloud
Cover the sun below.
Like this so many
Nature’s paintings were
Divinely described by them.

When horses and warriors fell,
My son, it was them who
Tightened the bones of laymen
To fight against the darkness.

When unidentified corpses
Were scattered across the streets
And graves were made without
Scribbled stones,
My son, they lamented upon them
And scribbled in their pages.

When human hearts were darkened
With greed and pride,
My son, their fiery words
Purged their souls.

Behold, the worn out hut
Down in the valley of shrubs,
There lived the last one of that kind.
I have a hackneyed vision
Of the man with the walk of an oxen
And vision of an eagle,
Killed in front of the modern men.
There was four times rain
And two times harvest,
Evil was smashed
And the humble released
When he was living there.

My son, hark a secret:
Still his unread neglected
Scribbling is with me,
Which they will set fire if they find.
My son, will you keep this
Until it sparks another poet?
( Star Finalist, Voicesnet international poetry competition)

The Train I Travel

The train I travel is moving.
I see uncountable heads:
Black and white;
Chubby and bonny-
Smiling, sleeping, thinking-
All are human heads.
Then why there are glasses
Only in some bogies?
Why there are classes,
First, second and third?
I hear horrendous sound
Peculiar only to a train:
The sound of the clanging of iron,
The sound of machine;
Oh! Machine, which made
All the differences.
There is a stop- a station-
Again the rush, the pull, the race,
The sound of the machine
Spread through the station.
Perhaps they sing, listen,
Sleep, swallow and enjoy;
The blessed classes.
But who cares,
There are human insects
Surviving in the third class!
(Read at Kritya International Poetry Festival)