RIP Kanaka Auntie

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[Mum in Orange Saree and Auntie in Green] 

My mum was in no way orthodox or deeply religious when we were young, or for that matter now. She is spiritual and devoted to her religion – but she is also a product of her time.

Most of my Mum’s friends were local women who were brought together in social work and she didn’t really mix much with the neighbours. Don’t get me wrong, we were in a colony of bank employees, we all liked each other and the kids like me hung out with other colony kids, but my Mum was not the “Best friend” type. Oh I just realized why I’m like that.

Anyway, this was the time of the Srilankan Civil War at its worst. The Tamils were not only fighting the federal Sinhala government , but were also fighting amongst themselves. Refugees came into India in droves, especially to South India where the political climate was favourable.

We had new neigbours two doors down. We lived in the first floor and someone moved into the first floor flat two doors down. The house in the middle didn’t have a first floor – so I could watch the comings and goings of the new neighbours. Opposite to the new neighbor’s flat was our usual hangout – another bank employee’s house and we sat in their terrace and watched them unpack and move in.

Everyone speculated including us, the kids. Their accent wasn’t local. Were they from Kerala, the south-west of India. They sounded different, dressed different. They were new to this part of the world. And then an old lady with just one arm came out of the car. That was big news and we speculated more.

The next thing that was different, was this bunch was friendly. Not in a “I’m new to your neighbourhood” way. In a genuine way. They invited us to their place and they wanted to talk to us. And this was not the health and safety, don’t talk to strangers time – this was more in the early 80s when we walked around in our pajamas on the streets. (Well, I did and I was sure was being laughed at).

I was drawn to their smiles. It reached their eyes. People tell me I do that too. Maybe I got it from them. Anyway, I digress. I made friends first. I went in to their home and talked to them. Gleaned information. They were from Sri Lanka, my mum still says Ceylon. They were refugees. But not regular refugees – they were political refugees. Because one of the brothers (who wasn’t with them) was a liberation leader. The old lady was shot at by the army. The older brother was in jail for many years for not revealing his brother’s whereabouts. My imagination was ignited. Their Tamil cause was mine too.

But the most important thing that happened was that my Mum was drawn to them too.  Slowly the family became friends. My mum and Kanaka Auntie (we never called her that, we called her Ceylon Aunty and my Mum called her Ceylonee) started doing things together – the temples first and then for coffee and then a  meal. They talked hours on end and they got on like fire and petrol. They both had irreverent humour and they loved making fun of stuck-up people. My mum was impressed with auntie’s knowledge and experience – she understood what it took to leave behind a homestead, a farm and a big house and having to flee for life.

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[They must have been making fun of someone else or each other.]

 

Their kids were friendly and genuinely nice. My mum had a friend for life. Well, she thought she did. We were family – we had broken barriers mentally to be recognized with people who were different from us in more ways than one. My Mum managed to get Auntie approved amongst her sisters and in-laws. Everyone knew Mum’s best friend was Ceylon Auntie. And she in turn became the advisor and listener to many of Mum’s relatives and friends.

When I went home this April. Auntie couldn’t come to see me. She was ill. The first time she hadn’t turned up the day I went home. She called and sent her “freedom-fighter” husband with some home-made rice noodles. I insisted I wanted to visit. They lived a few streets away now. We went for a visit and we had an hour talking about this and that. Auntie was ill – but her husband was talking to my Mum about her recent bout of illness and giving her advice. Every one in their family have always been generous with their warmth, their smiles and their attitude. They had so little, yet they shared. They worked hard and they smiled a lot. No wonder my Mum loved to be part of that fold.

Ceylon Auntie, passed away yesterday, after a month of hospitalization. A coma she wouldn’t come out of. She had braved the Sinhala Army and a foreign country. She had braved her husband’s jail term and her mother-in-laws escape across the fields, being shot at by the army. But she finally gave up.

My mum and Dad have been talking about her for weeks now. They were so worried. My Dad couldn’t contemplate not having her in our lives. He wasn’t normally very involved in things like hospitals and family functions. But he went to the hospital every other day to see her and be with her husband.

Our family has lost a friend, my Mum has lost a sister and we are all somehow a little less than we were yesterday. But the only way I know how to carry on, is be like her –be generous even when you have nothing to give and be happy even if life has not given you reason to.

Between Two Launches

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Farmer Falgu entered my life two years ago. He was inspired by John Burnigham’s picture books – three of them – all about journeys and unexpected companions during that journey.

I knew there is a story I wanted to tell – about travellers in India. Show the colour and sounds of India in a story about journeys. And Farmer Falgu had a perfect excuse – he wanted peace and quiet. He wanted silence.

In a completely different track, wanting silence and not finding was a theme I had been revisiting many years in a poem – I was in a remote farm during a workshop and I thought it was quiet at night. It wasn’t. I heard insects and birds, animals calling out, the night itself was filled with sounds of life.

I was writing this story on spec. For a publisher who specialized in audio-books. And I thought they’d appreciate music and sounds in the book. So every page had sounds and some opportunity for music.

Farmer Falgu Goes on a Trip was written, edited and accepted soon after by the wonderful Karadi Tales from my home-city Chennai. Two years later, here we are with a beautiful book – Farmer Falgu has come to life with Kanika Nair’s illustrations. He is now a farmer from Rajasthan with quiet wisdom and a positive attitude. We now know more about him than when I wrote it. I should thank Kanika and my editorial director Shobha Viswanath for that.

I’ve been writing for many years and once in a while I’ve had events organized by publishers for me. But my books were mostly launched in absentia as I write for publishers around the world. Even the book that was published in the UK was celebrated with a card. Mostly because I didn’t know better 6 years ago. I didn’t realize I could have done a launch party myself, like I did for Balu’s Basket last autumn.

Farmer Falgu is very lucky. He has Karadi Tales behind him. He has Shobha Viswanath for a champion. Shobha loves Farmer Falgu and his stories so much that she had planned a fantabulous launch event.

I was lucky to have been in Chennai for this launch. Right time, right place and a perfect launch for Farmer Falgu.
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Firstly, Shobha had chosen a great venue where kids came in droves. Isha Life had the perfect ambience for storytelling – in an Indian summer, stories flowered and blossomed like the white mango flowers of the tree we were sitting under.

Then we had a percussion master for the storytelling. Murali was amazing with all his mini percussion instruments and his drums. He created Farmer Falgu’s world with his myriad of musical instruments. And then we had songs set to music by Viswanath who had less than an evening to come up with a tune and less than 10 minutes to show a novice like me how to perform it with him.
As I watched the programme unfold, I was nervous. I’m a writer. I sit in a study, stare at my computer and write for hours. Then I edit. I read aloud alone and I send it off.

I am an aspiring storyteller. I am slowly starting out and a long way to go before I’d call myself an expert. Definitely an amateur too. While I’ve been away 15 years working and living abroad, Chennai and Bangalore has turned into an oasis of storytelling. And here I am flying around the world to my home-city and finding that I’ve so many things to learn.

While I’m chewing at my nervousness, Shobha landed another surprise. She had invited a leading theatre and movie star Karthik Kumar. He has an impressive array of credentials in theatre and performance and here I was a quiet writer from London who had to perform in front of him.

So can I do what they want me to do? Can I join in? Can I sing? Can I keep the kids occupied? Will I let Shobha down? Most importantly will I let Farmer Falgu down?

I had invited friends and family to the event. Was I going to be the most remembered joke in my circles?

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So there was no time to hesitate. I was the author. I wrote Farmer Falgu’s story. He was popular and I owed it to him to do the best I could. To do more than I had ever attempted to do.

As I stood at the mike, holding a big printed copy of the book, I realized I wasn’t shaking. I normally do in front of a mike. I was more focused on the music on my left, the kids in front of me and the parents (including mine) seated in front of me.

We had the music start us off and then we launched into a song. Admittedly I could have slowed down the song a bit and help the children join in. But as I said, it was the first time for this story to be told and many a lesson to be learnt.

We had song interludes from Viswanath and everyone joined in. We listened to Murali make exquisite music and then Farmer Falgu returned home happy just like the kids in front of us.

But the treat was not over. The kids were all loaded up into a bullock cart specially commissioned for the day and then they set off for a ride in the park just like Farmer Falgu went on a trip. The bullock cart was a big hit.

As the kids returned, we had mums, grandmums and my friends come up to me to say they loved the book. Little girls and boys came up to me to say they liked Farmer Falgu’s story.

Here are some wonderful photos from the event.

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That was the reward. That is the reason a storyteller tells stories – either orally or in written form. For it to make someone happy, to resonate with their own truths.

And you would think the day was over at that point. It wasn’t. The local city column of a national newspaper wanted to interview me and I had to thank Karadi Tales for that too. I did a phone interview with the journalist and in a day or two, there it was in one of the leading newspapers in India.

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Farmer Falgu was welcomed amongst his fans with a lot of fanfare and music. I’m sure he’s going to stay with us and show us his quiet wisdom over the coming months and years.

And now, I am back in London and getting into my daily routine. But Farmer Falgu needs a reception back here in London as well.

So we are celebrating a London Launch on 18th May at 2 pm in Streatham Library in South London. Do not miss the event if you live in London. Farmer Falgu will be visiting and there will be cake too!

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An Introduction to Writing for beginners

I recently did a session with a group of year 7 students and I shared some of my thoughts about getting into writing.

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Also while I was in India this time, many asked me about writing and how to get started. I thought the content I created for the Year 7 group would be great for anyone who wants to begin to write.

So here is a slideshow on some key thoughts on writing, as I see it.

If you find this useful, do share it with others.

 

World Book Day event at HippoCampus Chennai with Tulika Books

I celebrated World Book Day event with Hippo Campus, Chennai and Tulika Publishers. A hoard of kids were ready to listen to stories, sing with me and absolutely ready to spring with answers to any questions I had for them.

I read from Balu’s Basket and Where is Gola’s Home? and we had a great time singing all sorts of things and drawing everything from house to basket to an eagle when we finished reading and listening to the stories.

I met a lot of young people growing up in Chennai today as I grew up here many decades ago. I got to meet some of my friends and family with their little ones.

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My mum and Dad came with me too, proudly commenting on which parts of the session elicited more response and how smart today’s kids are. 

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Telling Tales and Writing Stories

Telling tales is very different to writing stories.  And I’m not talking about tittle-tattle about others. I’m talking about telling folktales vs writing original fiction. I guess I knew this sub-consciously – but when I did an intermediate course in Storytelling with Ben Haggerty, the point came home, the other shoe dropped, the penny dropped and the realization hit me. Apologies, force of habit, addiction, obsession to repeat every key word three times – because that was one of the things we learnt in the course.

As a storyteller who is just starting out, whose first language is not English, even though I think in English, there are a number of things to master and mastery of storytelling comes only from telling more stories – perhaps badly to start with and then slowly getting better and better at it. Like any skill, practice makes perfect and perfection is a dream.

Seated between an experienced storyteller on one side and a puppeteer on the other, I opened myself up to a new experience in the two day workshop. I had rediscovered storytelling recently and I was overjoyed to find out that it not only complements my vocation in children’s books very well but also helps me to write better.

Like in improv classes, Ben’s classes always have a warm-up session. Not for the body but for the mind. But it is also physical – it involves feet-tapping and head-scratching. It is all about thinking on your feet and that means you have to be on your feet.

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So what are the things I took away from this two-day workshop that would make me a better storyteller in more ways than one?

 

 

Spoken language that varies

I talk a lot- at work, in pubs and buses and trains. I live alone and I also stay quiet for long periods of time either reading or watching others talk in real life or on TV.

talkingBut talking to friends in pubs and parties is quite different to cultivating the spoken language – that is enriched with words that sound good and are varied enough to ensure the listener doesn’t go to sleep.

 

 

 

If I want to tell a story about an animal, referring to it as the animal throughout the story might be boring. So the storyteller has to insert beast, creature to substitute for the word animal.

That’s what the synonym game allows you to do. It helps you practice different words for the same meaning quickly and in a hurry. That’s how you’d need it when you tell stories.

As a writer I can look up a thesaurus, dictionary and even edit it many times. As a storyteller I am here and now. The word needs to come into my head quickly. So I need to cultivate my memory to auto-associate and come up with other words I could spontaneously use.

 Spoken language that is rich

Spoken language is like performance poetry. If you want the lull the reader into the story then the language has to be lyrical where required. It needs to have the fluidity of the words, the lithe and grace of a cat.

Ben taught us to play alliteration games. Where each storyteller would say a sentence in alliteration. The made-up story was surreal – but the task of coming up with alliterations heated up our brains.

The trick is to keep practicing it all the time, so that when you begin to tell a story, the brain can pull the words together that are now used to alliterate.

dictionarySimilarly we did rhyming exercises. These are not elaborate poetic rhymes. We made up rhymes as we walked a story through our circle. We never made sense. We rhymed a bag of rice with a pair of dice. We rhymed flowers with lovers. But the purpose is – to learn to think of rhymes for often repeated sounds. The trick is to learn the spontaneity of producing rhymes – even if that sounds like an oxymoron.

Ben did warn us though – we want to be better storytellers, not bad poets. The aim is not to create rhyming stories on the go, but have a rhythm and a lilt to the spoken language so that the words don’t jar, the lines don’t end in jagged edges and the listener is not jolted out of the story with bad rhyme.

Pace and rhythm, tone and overtones.

We learnt to tell stories very fast to a wall. We told stories to each other in normal pace. We walked as we talked and we told stories standing up.

Sometimes when the time was limited we ended up telling the story fast. But then Ben taught us that cutting description is better than telling the story fast – because a story is not a race.

kamakurabuddhaWe stood like statues made of stone(see, I am using alliteration) and used our voice to tell the story. We then tried to show emotions in our face and gestures in our hands to emphasise the tone.

 

 

 

How did this affect my writing?

As I writer I’ve now learnt to look at a story from a different lens.

When I read a folktale that I want to learn and tell to others, I am thinking of how to pace this story when I write. I am constantly evaluating them to see if they’d fit the format of a picture book and whether a child would like to read a story.

I am also reading these folktales, adventure tales and wonder tales  to find out what sustains them. How did they last this long? What are the components of such a story? Where is the rise and fall in action? How does it keep the listener enthralled? How did travel so far and wide and so long?

That lens gives me an insight into what makes a story a classic. I can look at my own stories and see if I have enough action, am I pacing it right? If I tell my own story, would I have the same flow of rising action?

So when I am writing a new picture book or even a chapter book, I’m thinking about telling it. I am trying to see if my stories will stand the telling for 30 minutes. Will it bore the audience? Do I have too much detail? Do I have very little happening?

This conscious evaluation from a storyteller’s viewpoint has greatly enhanced the writing. I’m not wallowing in descriptive mud a lot. I’m not filling space with words, I want to write a story that I can tell without people dying of boredom. I do not want to be the first person who is jailed for murder by storytelling.JAIL_BARS

And I am reading/telling my own picture books in story-time in libraries and schools. And I can see which books work and which one does not. I can see which one has lent itself to lots of interactive fun and which one is less playful.

Now I think when I finish a picture book I’ll try and tell it to an audience. My editing is going to be more from telling than from reading and that I think is a great improvement of my craft. And if I am working on a chapter book I’m going to read it to kids to see if it reading aloud causes squirms or squeals.

Some of us are bravely venturing into the world and telling stories. I’ll be telling stories both from my books and folktales in many venues over the coming months. Please check this page for details.

I’m also blogging folktales that I love on my story site. Click here for free stories to read. storytrain

 

 

 

 

 

If you want to find out more about Ben’s storytelling courses, please visit www.crickcrackclub.com.