Bedtime Stories
Eleven bedtime stories from Banooravi’s childhood, written for her grandchildren after her daughter Preethi and son-in-law David asked her to put her old stories down on paper. Fables, school-day memories, lessons from her father’s pencil, a milkman’s ride home, a pet dog named Mani, a pale yellow shirt — each ending with a small moral, told the way bedtime stories should be told.
A story Banooravi's father told her: a great mango tree in an orchard, a boy who comes to play under it, and the tree's giving — first fruits to sell, then branches for a house, then the trunk itself. When the storm finally fells the tree on its own one night, the boy weeps, *for it was the tree that helped him at times of need.* Banooravi closes: *the mango tree is supposed to be our parents — they gave us their unconditional love, until their last breath.*
A farmer loses the silver watch his mother gave him in the hay of his farmhouse. A whole crowd of boys searches noisily and gives up. Only after all of them have left, in the quiet, does one small boy find it — *by sitting still on the ground, and listening for the ticking.* A bedtime story about why a peaceful mind reaches what a confused mind cannot.
Secondary school. Banooravi was the funny one, the dancer, the one who cracked jokes — and there was a rich girl in class who showed off her car and her chocolates and looked through Banooravi as if she weren't there. Until the day of the maths exam, when the rich girl forgot her geometry box. And later, when Banooravi was cast as the princess in the school drama but had no rich dresses — the rich girl came forward with hers. *Friendship is never anything but sharing. In fact, it is the new energy to our soul.*
*"Banoo… in our life, we should be like a pencil."* Her father said this once, and the little girl didn't understand. Years later, as he sat writing his ledger entries one afternoon, she asked him to explain. And he explained — patiently, one quality after the next — *the hand that guides, the sharpening that hurts but improves, the eraser that corrects, the graphite hidden inside, and the impression every action leaves.* A story about a father, a daughter, and the five lessons a pencil can teach.
College days, six kilometres each way on foot. A physics practical with Vernier calipers that wouldn't give the right reading. The lecturer wouldn't let Banooravi go home until she got it right. By the time she handed in her record note it was seven in the evening, and the buses were gone, and she didn't have the fare. She started running. And then — *"Banoo… Banoo!"* — there was her milkman Arumugam, riding by on his cycle, hair in a bun, white veshti, pan-stained smile. A story about trusting the right person, and a long walk home that turned out fine.
Age seven. Sports day. The elder sister, who was also her teacher, said *do not behave like that — everyone is watching me.* But Banoo was determined. She wormed her way into the spoon-race against girls much older. The lemon fell off her spoon before the finish line. She didn't reach the pole. She sat down to one side and waited — but when the organisers announced the winners' names, they announced her name too. *They wanted to entertain me as I showed up my enthusiasm, and they got their approval to take part too!* A story about how perseverance itself can be the prize.
The moral science teacher held up a glass of water and asked: *Students, how much does this glass weigh?* Fifty grams. A hundred. *And what if I hold it for some more time?* Nothing — the same. *And for two more hours?* Your arms might ache. *And for a whole day?* — A childhood lesson Banooravi never forgot: about how the burden is not the weight, but the holding.
One time her brother brought home a little brown puppy with white patches. *Amma* shouted, said no — but the children begged. He stayed, was named *Mani,* and was fed rice and milk. One summer holiday, with the older siblings away, a thief came in the night and snatched Amma's gold chain. Mani barked and chased the thief out — and then quietly, in the dark, pulled the blanket: *wow! my mom's chain was there.* Half of it, anyway. *I felt that animals are the best guards.*
Kuwait, 1982. Banooravi's first year abroad. The doorbell rang in the night — Ramadan time, when Palestinians and the poor came knocking after iftar to ask for money. She shouted in Arabic through the door: *Maakku, Maakku — Rhoo, Rhoo* (No, no — go away). And went to sleep. In the morning, when she opened her front door, she found her clothes — fallen off her balcony in the night wind — neatly folded on the doormat. The young Egyptian neighbour from downstairs had come up to return them.
Singapore, 1990. Tekka Market on the morning of *Vishu.* Three mangoes for two dollars — but Banooravi, in Tamil to her friend, called the old Chinese vendor a *kizhavan* — old man, greedy old man. *Madam,* he replied gently, in perfect Tamil, *every body grows older day by day, and has to become kizhavan (old man) or kizhavi (old lady) at one stage.* She apologised. She has never forgotten. A scar lasts longer than a single sorry.
Banooravi the child once played in the Chettiar bungalows — and her friend Sita's mother, taking pity on her plain home-made shirt, brought out armfuls of beautiful Malayan dresses for her to take home. She ran home thrilled. Amma's face went red. *Banoo… can you accept things from others?* And Banoo cried, and Amma sat her down. *We may not have enough money, comforts or luxury — but we have good enough to wear, to eat, and to live with so as to meet up our requirements.* The dresses went back, with a note of thanks.