Of stories and school trips

It was September 2009. I was in Manali on a school trip. I had contracted cold as soon as I had set foot in Manali or to be more accurate, as soon as the wheels of the bus had impressed upon the first skid mark on Manali. I had a strong urge to lie in the bed for the day sunk deep in the embrace of quilts. In retrospect, it wouldn’t have been a bad choice because facing the bed was a wall sized window that looked out to deodar trees and mountains. That is the kind of view that complements being ill and being in bed, being in bed and reading, reading and drinking copious amounts of coffee. But sadly school trips don’t function that way and even if they did, I did not have uninhibited access to neither coffee nor novels on that trip. So I had walked from my hotel, along with many other students, to the mall road and then to the Hidimba temple and then to the Mall Road again.  I don’t remember much about the day except that there was a lot of walking. When your body is functioning on a Paracetamol, your natural instinct on being welcomed by the insides of your hotel room is to hop onto the bed and call it a day. And I had decided to do just that.

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We were eight in an enormous room; enormous because it had two rooms joined by a common sitting area for two. It was a colossal space and hence that evening witnessed a lot of frantic walking from one room to another. Like every huge group, even ours had a tendency to break into smaller fractions, fractions that could be spotted nestled in different corners of the room voicing their concerns or their discontentment over the day and the trip and their companions. Caught between the movements and the whispering sounds, I failed to fall asleep.

Those were the pre Zindagi na Milegi Dobara and Queen ages. The times before spontaneous backpacking trips, adventure sports and impromptu visits to little known places had come to define fun in our lives. Our idea of fun was centered around singing our throats out, playing cards, playing truth and dare, having conversations about paranormal activities while continuously fueling our bodies with chips and coke. We wanted to make it a fun night but we had already had exhausted our avenues of fun on the previous nights. The thing about fun is that there has to be a newness to it, a certain element of surprise, an element of thrill that makes you skeptical to opt for it and leaves you exhilarated at the culmination of it.  But we had no such ideas, so all of us sat on the bed and started talking in the hope of stumbling upon an interesting idea. With zero ideas ahead of us, I proposed narrating the story of a novel I had read that summer.

It was about a young girl who had made the move from Phoenix to Forks. Phoenix was sun, light and warmth but Forks is darkness, rains and cold. The girl abhors the latter three. It was about the girl’s fascination with a young boy at her school who was quiet and kept to himself. He moved in a group at school, a group that comprised of his other four siblings and was never seen socializing with someone other than the family. It was about his evident discomfort around her. It was her bafflement at his irrational hostility. It was about their conscious attempts to stay out of each other’s way. It was about the intersection of their paths at every juncture. It was about wanting to grow apart but ending up being more drawn to each other. It was Twilight.

I had narrated every episode of the book to them- of them becoming lab partners, of the fury that reflected in Edward’s eyes, of his composed demeanor the next time in class and the changed colors of his iris, of blood typing, her nausea at the sight and smell of blood and his attempts at avoiding it as well, of him leaping in to save her from the speeding car in the parking area, of him protecting her from lewd men in Seattle and his uncontrolled rage at them, of Bella recognizing Edward as the cold one, of her confronting him about being a vampire, of his acceptance, of his expectation for her to withdraw, of her determination to not alienate him and of them falling in love.

I had spoken for an hour before I paused to drink water. Nobody had inched the slightest from their place nor had they uttered a single word during that hour. As I sipped on to the water, I contemplated if they were liking the story or not. I have this weird habit that once I begin recounting a story, I immerse into it so deeply that I turn oblivious to my surroundings. My concern was if I had failed in registering their disinterest towards the story. So I popped the question, ‘do you want me to continue or else we can quit this and think of another idea for tonight’. They had outrage painted on their faces and insisted that I continue the story. Hence I obliged and that was a ‘fun’ night. Because they wanted me to tell them about New Moon, because they could not quit talking about Bella and Edward, the charming Edward, because they wanted to watch the movie next and because I had forgotten about the Paracetamol, the dizzy head, the tired legs and the tingling sensation in the throat. Because we were all thrilled in our own way.

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That was the night when I had realized my interest in narrating stories to people. I had always been the story teller, whether it was a television show or movie or a book, I loved delivering a word by word, emotion by emotion description of it. And I have the skill of holding an audience, of keeping them engaged in the narrative. I always joke that if I live past sixty, I would want grandchildren, a lot of them, which is strange because I don’t see myself wanting to have kids in the first place. But I always foresee my old age circled with kids enthusiastically listening to all the stories that I have to offer.

Why am I talking about this today? Because every morning when I take the stairs to my office, I do a quick brainstorming session of all the alternative means of livelihood than what I am doing right now. Among other options, I decided that one of these days, I am going to sit under a banyan tree and narrate stories to people in lieu of money, akin to the character Piyush Mishra played in Tamasha. All that I have to do is go on reading incessantly so that I never run out of tales and then eventually make them reach a larger audience. Because not everybody enjoys reading, some people appreciate stories being read out to them and I can build a life on that. Someday, someday maybe.

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Author: Palak

A young woman who is busy carving a small niche for herself in this huge world. People intrigue me and had it not been for a career charted out in finance I could have made one helluva psychologist. I am fond of reading fiction and equally fond of holding on to a story for a while so as to analyze the way it shaped up. Television, movies and slow music are some of my other interests. I am an obsessive thinker and observer and being an absolute coffee addict and semi-somniac leaves me with ample of time to be one. This blog is an attempt to take note of some of the thoughts that cross my mind and a few of my experiences.

6 thoughts on “Of stories and school trips”

  1. So you are a story teller. Nice.
    I remember in my college days, we used to be in hostel and I would narrate stories of Sherlock Holmes to my roomates. I had completed all the stories and would tell them whenever we would find leisure times. And they listening me intently would make me think that i am good at it. 😊
    It gave me satisfaction then. Now all those are just memories. Memories but cherished memories.
    Nice post. ☺

    1. Thank you! So going by this story, we have another thing in common. I did the same with my best friend in college. Every time that I read a novel I’d make her sit down and narrate it to her.

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