I spent a couple of hours recently with forty-odd children at the Slum Clearance Board tenements facing the sea near Marina. A young man called Krishnamoorthy, who had grown up there, has this plan of giving quality hours to the children. He gathers the children, and they are taught yoga, dance, songs and slokas. After school, the children come to his place to learn, and they are there at weekends too during the day. His intention is to expose them to good values alone, protect them from the pernicious influence of TV and also the violence that is part of their lives, which could be due to a drunken father or an abused mother.

Tenements near Foreshore Estate – (Picture: V.S. Raghavan).

It was a real feel-good two hours. You know the kind when you feel, O.K., the world is not so bad, in spite of the depressing headlines in the newspapers and the audio-visual bombardment 24 hours a day. The children danced, did yoga, sang beautifully. Then it was question hour. I asked them to say a few words about trees. One child said it gives us fruits, one said vegetables, one said it gives us breeze, one said it gives us shade, then tiny, bright-eyed Rajalakshmi said, “Amma, trees give us rains”. My jaw dropped. Wonderful! This little mite had made the connection between trees and rains, when even adults, especially those in power, do not. God knows how many Rajalakshmis there are, born to blush unseen in the Slum Clearance Board buildings that are deserts in our concrete jungle.

While I understand the laudable object and purpose of these Slum Clearance Board projects, take a look at all the Slum Clearance Board buildings in Chennai. Is there one that kindles your imagination, one that tells the occupants, “I value your life, so I will not rob it of its colour?” No, each one of them is dreary, drab, made with third rate materials. The quality of construction tells you how much the State values the dwellers therein. How will a child growing up in those tenements have faith in the State as the protector of his/her right to live with dignity? A more eloquent evidence of what the State thinks or does not think about its poor is difficult to find.

So, perhaps, Krishnamoorthy has the right idea. It is our duty to colour the lives of these innocent children with activities, as an antidote to the drab wretchedness of their homes. At the end of my time with them, I told them some stories. They enjoyed them. For a short while they were in a Story-tale country, not in a Slum Clearance country. Stories do just that. They transport children to a magic world.

“Oru kaalathiley oru ooriley oru raja irundhaar (Once upon a time there was a king).” This is how a grandmother opens a magical wonder-filled world to her grandchildren. Children love stories. The children’s channel on TV is a very poor substitute. They do not mind hearing the same story over and over again. For a child, security comes from routine and certainty. So they love repetition.

I have made up a story for my little grandson about a brown dog and a Maama going to the zoo. They go by bus. The conductor will ask them to buy tickets, one ticket for “bow wow wow” and one ticket for Maama. It goes on in this vein. I will not tire you. But you should see the excitement in my grandon’s eyes when he must have imagined the bus stopping and they getting in. He knows that at this point I will ask him, “What did the conductor say?” With glee he will shout, “Thigeeths”(tickets). It is the same story repeated, with no twists, no turns, but the anticipation and the joy in the child’s eyes when he has to say “Thigeeths” never abates. That is what a story brings to a child.

Storytelling fires a child’s imagination, while TV viewing boxes it. Only when we become children can we freely take flights of fantasy. Stories create that space for the child. The child can be anyone she wants to be, a queen, sorcerer, prince, just anyone. Story time is bonding time. The togetherness that children experience, when they crowd around the storyteller, is precious beyond measure.

Storytelling establishes a continuum of history, heritage and tradition. We see around us a depressing lack of interest in heritage and history. Maybe, it is also because there is a decline in storytelling. When Lord Curzon in his Convocation speech said that the Hindus had no sense of truth and morality, my great-grandfather, V. Krishnaswami Aiyer, one of the greatest sons of this great city, reacted in righteous indignation and published a book of stories. His preface is worth remembering: “No nation has ever achieved greatness with a contempt for its past ... The stories of heroes and martyrs, of sages and saints are necessary fuel to the flame of national life and national enthusiasm ... We Indians have … to kindle in every Indian breast a new longing for national unity as a foundation on which may be built a new greatness.” This was written on January 1, 1908! I can repeat it today with greater urgency, without sounding antiquated. I felt very sad when I heard recently that one of the cell callers (Ma’am, I’m from...) said that the only Bharati she knew was Bharti Airtel. A sense of history and the meaning it gives our life today is like an oxygen line. We cannot cut it.

In a recent issue of this journal, Gopal Krishna Gandhi rued,“We cherish our history, neglect our heritage ... We substitute the responsibility of caring by the exhilaration of celebrating. We decorate where we should restore, we ‘beautify’ where plain cleaning is called for, preferring to renovate, refurbish, rename and even to replace, rather than repair, renew, restore. To the delight of realtors and developers, the Brahma in us remains active; so is the Siva. But not the Vishnu.” I think the article was kinder to us than we deserved, when it said we cherish our history.

Stories fuel dreams, and children must dream, dream big. Many years ago, at a public hearing on child labour, near Palmgrove Hotel I think, I spoke to young child labourers who had been rescued. I remember little Hasina wearing a mauve salwar kameez. I asked her, “Hasinavukku enna venum?” (What does Hasina want?). With dreams in her young heart and a shy smile she said, “Oru balloon vidanum amma, appuram... baloonai pidichukitte uyara parakkanum” (I want to hold a balloon, and then holding it I want to fly high). Tears just filmed over my eyes and I hugged her. I am sure no one spared a moment of storytime for dear Hasina, yet the child’s instinct was to dream. This is what stories do, they allow the child to fly sky-high and freely. Hasina must be 17 now. I wonder how life has treated her.

Maybe, every school should have a story hour. The State can mandate that at least State-controlled schools shall have a story hour. Children can learn so much from a well-used story hour. Believe me, even the child who creeps like a “snail unwillingly to school” will set off with alacrity to class if there was a story hour. I don’t know how, but these travels on the vehicle of imagination help children.

Maybe, we should have a tell-a-story scheme, which will have a panel of storytellers to tell stories to children, especially to those coming from low income families, the Slum Clearance Board children, the children who gather around Krishnamoorthy. They all need a break from the buildings we have condemned them to. In parenthesis, can any paint company, as an altruistic measure, paint all these buildings in lively colours and give the children the feeling that they are precious to all of us? Just imagine, our city will wear a rainbow look and who knows the company may even get some tax benefit. At least once a week the children can be ilavarasars (princes) and ilavarasis (princesses) in their imagination. They deserve it. So many values can be taught through stories. The values of cleanliness, honesty, industry, national pride etc. can all be woven into story time. Children learn fast. There can be a story-a-week scheme. I am sure it will be a runaway success. I have a story, I have a dream.