Stories have always served as a way to quiet the roar of reality—at least momentarily—for someone like me, who prefers peace and whose silence often magnifies her naturally taciturn nature. When I look back through the lens of those halcyon days, I often see a schoolgirl sitting on the middle bench, frequently gazing out of the window, conversing with the gusts of wind drifting beneath the gentle sunlight. At other times, she sits with her head buried in a book. I see a girl who shyly smiles while sitting among other girls, quietly listening to their chatter. That girl was me—someone who still nourishes herself on stories. Fashion, celebrities, gossip, and similar distractions never truly pleased my spirit.
My mind is like a faithful pooch that fetches old memories now and then. Just now, it has brought one back. I observe myself reminiscing about an old man with large glasses and a short temper for the notorious, close-minded pupils in class. He was often found where mischievous minds had been caught red-handed. Our English teacher seemed to consider it his personal responsibility to discipline them with whatever sharp words had crossed his mind. All the “foul apples” trembled beneath his thunder like leaves in a storm. Yet despite his fiery temper, he remained the most popular teacher among the students, who adored his unique teaching style. To this day, I have never encountered anyone as proficient as him in the art of storytelling.
Everyone eagerly awaited those moments of adventure, and no one ever dared interrupt our English teacher while he was narrating a story. The classroom would fall into a profound silence as the listeners became hypnotised by his mellow voice and the vivid imagery it conjured before their eyes. Even the restless wind drifting through the nearby golden, desolate meadow seemed to soften and fall into rhythm with his narration. It was the only class in which no one ever wished for the bell to ring.
Outside school, however, he seemed like an entirely different person. I remember seeing him sitting comfortably on his verandah whenever I crossed his street at night—sometimes with a book, sometimes with a cigar, and often simply gazing into the infinite blackness. Silence appeared to be his most natural state of mind.
At that time, I never paused to wonder why some people choose silence. I had been taught that quiet individuals are often misunderstood—perceived as ignorant or arrogant or occasionally even as geniuses. The more profound understanding of silence—its meaning, the value of peace, and the quiet happiness hidden within small moments—came to me only much later in life.
I often wonder why the world feels so overwhelmingly loud for those who are quiet. Perhaps that is why I have always felt a natural inclination toward the elderly. I was fortunate enough to grow up in a large family filled with older generations. Encounters with such kind, genuine, and loving elders feel increasingly rare in today's world. I enjoyed listening to them recount the familiar stories repeatedly, as if each retelling were fresh and new. There was warmth in their presence and generosity in the way they welcomed everyone. Above all, I cherished the fact that they rarely judged others—perhaps a wisdom earned through the years they had lived.
I often compare these people to dried rose petals preserved inside the pages of a diary—fragile yet still carrying their lingering fragrance. These dried roses are nothing but the individuals who left a deep imprint on my consciousness while I was growing up. I sometimes feel like a person haunted by the gentle apparition of the past, continuing to live in the present with its lingering shadows. These memories visit me in the sweetest dreams, on vulnerable nights, in the brightness of noon, in old songs, in the soft breeze, or sometimes even in the quiet rhythm of my breath. Now, as I sit in a rocking chair that creaks softly, the sound feels strangely familiar.
In small towns in India, one of the most beloved trees among children is the banyan. The old house where I grew up had a massive banyan tree in front of it. Its branches stretched wide and produced aerial roots on which all the children of our locality loved to swing. In many ways, the tree was a silent witness to the playful mischief of small, notorious kids who acknowledged its presence as part of their world.
Maaji—my grandmother—would often watch us play beneath it during the evenings. At other times, she sat on her rocking chair near the back door, where passersby would greet her and inquire about her well-being. She had suffered from arthritis for many years and walked slowly, with extreme care. Sitting at the back door each evening had become her favourite pastime. Though not particularly talkative, Maaji found a certain solace in observing people as they went about their daily routines. She could remain quietly absorbed in this simple act until darkness finally settled.
I spent a considerable amount of time with Maaji. It has been many years now since she passed away peacefully—and that is precisely how she lived her life: with dignity and calmness. I consider myself fortunate to have grown up in her presence. She never spoke ill of anyone and always found reasons to appreciate the people around her. Perhaps that was how she managed to maintain such serenity throughout her life.
She carried countless anecdotes from her time, which she would narrate in her distinct regional dialect. Most of them were folktales or ghost stories that sent chills down my spine. Once she told me that the market begins to bustle only when a witch enters it first. I never fully deciphered what she meant, yet the thought lingers in my mind whenever I walk through a crowded market.
On difficult days, I would quietly lie beside her. Conversation was rarely initiated, and that made me comfortable. She never asked what troubled me or why I seemed upset—questions I never wished to answer anyway. Instead, her gentle fingers would move softly through my hair, and somehow that silent gesture healed me without requiring the burden of words.
As we go through life, we unknowingly plant strong seeds of emotion in the soil of the present. Some of these seeds withstand the passage of time and blossom into magnificent trees or memories that persistently linger at the corners of our minds.
There were times when I cursed this persistent phantom of the past for casting its shadow over my present. But gradually, I began to understand it more clearly. It was never truly about the memories themselves. It was about the people with whom I shared deep connections—connections for which no replacement could ever be found.
Their stories contained nuggets of wisdom that bestowed upon me patience, resilience, and lessons that moulded me into a more virtuous individual.
Even today, I speak little and remain selective in my social interactions. One must value the choice not to mould one's identity according to society's expectations. There is a quiet courage in attempting to connect with others, even when genuine connections do not arise immediately.
I often observe myself drifting between the past and the present. Yet that is what sometimes keeps me at peace—knowing that the old days were beautiful—or helps me quiet the anxieties of the present, knowing that I possess an endless reservoir of stories to comfort my restless mind. I have learned that it is perfectly acceptable to live, occasionally, in a nostalgic land, as long as it harms no one.
Just like the people with whom I once shared meaningful connections, I, too, wish to fill the spaces of my life with stories. I aspire to gather wisdom from life's elixir and impart it to others who may be seeking the same peaceful understanding.
Before I drift into my own eternal slumber, I want to listen more—to the lonely, to the silent, and especially to the elderly as they recount their cherished memories. I want to watch their eyes brighten as they relive those moments and express their emotions.
Perhaps, in doing so, my passing might one day become a garden of recollections in the minds of others—strong enough, at the very least, to plant a small seed of something beautiful within their hearts.