Of Storytellers and Storytelling

I love stories. Reading them. Writing them. Retelling them.
I was told by a dear friend who’d read some of my stories that they had quite identifiable characters.
So I tried creating new ones but always, always, some nuance, some characteristic, gave some character away.
And then one day I realised.
When one creates, be it a piece of artwork, a music score, a tale, that creation, composition, always bears one’s stamp. One offloads baggage, good, bad, light, heavy onto one’s creation, making it honest, sincere, true, heartfelt. Making it one’s own. Because it comes from one’s innards, the depths of one’s soul, a result of much soul searching. And because one bares oneself, there are others who are attracted as moths to a flame, because they see something of themselves in that piece of work, because it is relatable.
And then one day I read an autobiography of a favourite author and in it, she let me in on what made her her, and from it I understood how her much loved books had been written, drawn from her experiences growing up, of her mother, her community, her country. Rags, sarees, blankets, sheets, folded in cupboards of her being, every so often rummaging amongst them to bring out a weave. Weaves that add to the complex tapestry of a tale.

And I felt my Beliefs Reinforced. Justified. Understood.

So here I am then, draped in a silk weave, royal blue with olive green and gold borders and pallu. Designs of Veenas on borders. Perfect for a music award ceremony in which my students were amongst the award recipients.

My smile mirrors the fact that I have a myriad weaves within me, being paired and combined, discarded and picked up again, each as important as the other, waiting, just waiting to be revealed.