Passing between lips, an ancestry reminiscent of the chewed betel-nut grandmother transmitted from recesses of her stained teeth onto palm of an unlettered hand And again to my mouth.
Many years later I found myself teaching tradition handed down by word of mouth. A cane basket we put our socks in was stuffed with her stories.
It suddenly became a nest and I flew with unknown birds, giddy and half asleep seeking blankets of cloud in the maize field of the mythical cat who sometimes ploughed the sky.
The cane basket disappeared when a wooden cabinet took up residence in our three-room house. Socks found a nest and I began writing the first few letters of the alphabet.
Myiem, where my ancestors prayed for their deliverance from bitter winter, where they wrestled with earth and stone to script remembrances.
Today, lost and approaching fifty, surrounded and imprisoned by books, I sometimes murmur a prayer: “Grandmother, tell me another story”
– I read this poem in the village of Nongriat, Meghalaya. These words took me back to my village of Ghazipur. The days when stories were an integral part of our life. Why did we stop telling stories?I could not find this poem online. I am looking for this book – Do let me know if you know this book. Thanks.
