The first story that I can remember being told to me is Little Red Riding Hood. Little Reeti Roy, all of three, was sitting on her father’s knee, wide-eyed with wonder.”Again,again,” she squealed. “Go to sleep, my angel, I’ll read the rest of the story out to you tomorrow. Otherwise, Wee Willie Winky will come and get you. He doesn’t like children who are up past their bedtime, you know.”I shuddered. Horrid Wee Willie Winky!!!And then...I fell asleep, thinking of Red Riding Hood and her beautiful brown basket full of goodies, juicy red apples, her polished black shoes, her oh-so-pretty dress, her hair...light brown and her rosy cheeks...

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” said my father. “Today, I’m going to tell you a story about a magic golden dragon. “Really?” I said, in my baby voice.”Where does it live, Baba?” “Oh, it lives in here, in Kolkata, but you can’t see it. It’s afraid of human beings, you see, so it won’t appear in front of you. But let me tell you this. Eat your broccoli. The golden Dragon loves Broccoli. If it sees you not eating your broccoli, it’ll eat it all up. Gobble Gobble Gobble...and voila, there was no broccoli left on my plate.

           Another time, Baba told me that fairies danced with goblins in the moonlight, and that toadstools were actually for tea parties. I felt very bitter after listening to these tales. Why couldn’t I be as small?

So you see, this was a very clever ploy employed by Baba to make sure I did exactly what I was supposed to. He didn’t scold me, or yell at me...he merely spun yards and yards of magical tales...tales that I was enthralled by...tales that I grew up listening to.

           I grew up in a huge house-one of the few remaining ancestral mansions in Kolkata. As a result, there were big palm trees that swayed to the breeze, big banyan trees, which, according to ma, housed “Brahmadaityas(Brahmins who died and became ghosts)and one particular crow(christened “Kakkeshwar Kuchkuche” which literally translates as  Lord Sooty-Black,) sat on these fearsome trees. The house had been built by my great-grandfather and some parts of it were so dilapidated that you couldn’t even envisage human inhabitancy. There were cobwebs on the wall, there were lizards, bats, squirrels and even snakes all over the place but I think that made my growing up years all the more magical and full of mystery and mysticism. There was a hidden tunnel in my bathroom which led to a small room. Baba had once admonished me for not putting “my thinking cap on”. I hunted and scrounged around for a thinking cap, and finding none, had settled for baba’s old fishing hat which I had found in the small room. Ever since then, whenever I’d have any trouble, or I’d want to shut myself away from the world, I would seek solace in the small room. During one of these sessions, I came up with a poem.

Dream on, you silly child, it shall not last.
What stories have you been told
of far, far away?
Dragons, unicorns, magic wands...
What will happen when you know,
that they don’t exist?
That they were red hot lies
That you’ve been fed since you were a child?
What do you do, when you realise
that your whole life has been
a finely woven web of lies?
Those simple lies that you were told...
so that you did not cry?
You cried, nevertheless...
You cried aloud when your peacock died...
and also when the sun didn’t shine when you wanted it to.
Was it worth it?
Was it worth telling you stories that would silence
you momentarily
but haunt you till the end of time?

In retrospect, this made me wonder...had I become a cynic? Had the fact that my parents had told me so many stories affected me so deeply that when the harsh reality looked me in the eye, I couldn’t deal with it anymore? I pondered over this for quite a while. It took me quite a while to make the distinction between fiction and reality. What is real? Aren’t fairytales my reality?Isn’t the reality that I’m suddenly encountered with fiction for me? And then, Baba told me something that’ll I’ll never forget. He said, “My angel, it is what you CHOOSE to believe in that makes all the difference. Have faith, believe, and everything will become crystal clear.”

I’m eighteen years old now and I’m still struggling with the pressures of everyday life and learning new things with each passing day. All I know is, what you believe in makes you who you are. So never stop believing. And never stop having faith in yourself. I know I never will.

Reeti Roy