How Stories Shaped My Soul - An Anecdote
It was in the late 1960s, our family transplanted ourselves from Kannur to the growing landscape of Kozhikode. Though my parents were deeply rooted in our culture and earnestly wished for me to study in a Malayalam medium school, practical realities soon intervened; both were employed, leaving them with the daunting challenge of finding someone to care for their little girl during the workday. It was at this crucial crossroads that the compassionate sisters of Presentation Convent stepped in, promising my father that they would look after me well past nursery hours until someone could safely collect me. This profound act of kindness marked the true beginning of my lifelong journey with Presentation Higher Secondary School, Chevayur. To this day, I carry the warmest, most vivid memories of how affectionately Sr. Elizabeth and Sr. Ancy cradled my childhood - lovingly feeding me, keeping me engaged, and transforming the convent into a safe, nurturing home away from home.
Those days were filled with the simple magic of childhood, from sharing treats under the trees to playing Seven Stones at the playground. Near the old school well, secrets were whispered, while sports days and youth festivals added a vibrant rhythm to our early years. Within that nurturing sanctuary, our beloved teachers quietly wove empathy, discipline, and community into our daily lives.
Though forty years have rewritten the landscape of Kozhikode, the foundation of love and belonging poured into your childhood remains entirely untouched. It is a beautiful, full-circle moment of reflection for you today. The very place that shaped your early years ultimately became the anchor for your entire life's journey. Now, that little girl waiting at the convent safely bridges her past with the dedicated educator she became!
In this post-covid era, as a higher secondary school teacher, my greatest challenge is to teach the depth of literature to a generation that breathes in 'shorts' and 'reels'. When the world offers instant gratification, even a one hour read was like a daunting mountain to a majority of learners. This is when I started reading out stories loud to them in the class, and the moment I stand before them, I'm transported back to my upper primary days when we UP kids were not allowed to check out library books. But our English and Malayalam teachers became our gatekeepers, our narrators, and our guides. If we couldn’t go to the books, they would bring the books to us. That designated 'library period' became my mid-week booster. I used to wait for it with the kind of breathless anticipation usually reserved for fancy fete days!!! The moment the teacher walked in, a contagious hush would fall over the classroom.
I still remember the day Mrs. Sumitra came in during that last period, with a story book in her hand; Hans Christian Andersen’s 'The Ugly Duckling'. Mrs. Sumitra didn't just read the story; she breathed life into it. Her voice trembled with the duckling’s fear, hardened with the cruelty of the farmyard animals, and softened with the quiet tragedy of being perpetually misunderstood. She read the story with such profound passion and expression that the walls of the classroom fell away, leaving me standing right beside that shivering, rejected creature in the reeds. For the first time, I felt a piercing, overwhelming empathy for a character. I wasn't just listening to a story; As an introverted, shy girl, I was feeling the duckling’s alienation and sorrow as if it were my own.
It was in our library periods that I realized stories were but windows into the mind and soul, reflecting the complex, often painful realities of rejection, resilience, and belonging.
That particular day Mrs. Sumitra, being our master storyteller, left us on a cliffhanger, as the last bell rang just as the duckling faced the harsh, freezing winter, abandoned by the world. But the following week she revealed the beautiful, triumphant conclusion of the swan spreading its wings, something inside me had fundamentally shifted. That little tale of a mismatched bird became my first unofficial lesson in human psychology. It is a profound alchemy, the way the simple narration of a childhood fable matures into a complex psychological tapestry when viewed through my adult vision. Many people suffer from low self-esteem not because they lack talent, but because their environment doesn't value their specific kind of personality. Many among us too experience this period of isolation while becoming ourselves. It changed how I viewed the marginalized in my own world and instilled a profound curiosity about human behaviour and the hidden battles the people fight. The story taught me that some of the most beautiful things in life take the longest to mature; that flaws of every human were actually the traits of a different kind of beauty altogether.
Those library periods, guided by teachers who understood the transformative power of a well-told story, groomed me into the literature enthusiast I am today. My teachers taught me that the beauty of language lies in its ability to foster empathy. Now, as I stand in front of my class, reading aloud to my students, I am simply passing on the gift Mrs. Sumitra and my other brilliant teachers gave me: the quiet magic of a read-aloud story.