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How I Taught My Grandmother to Read and other Stories
How I Taught My Grandmother to Read and other Stories Read online
SUDHA MURTY
How I TAUGHT my GRANDMOTHER to READ and other stories
Illustrations By Priya Kuriyan
PUFFIN BOOKS
Contents
Foreword
How I Taught My Grandmother to Read
Books for ‘At Least One Library’
Salaam Abdul Kalam
Hassan’s Attendance Problem
The Red Rice Granary
The Real Jewels
A History Lesson on Teachers’ Day
‘Appro J.R.D.’
Heart of Gold
A Wedding in Russia
‘Amma, What Is Your Duty?’
The Story of Two Doctors
A Journey Through the Desert
Dead Man’s Riddle
‘I Will Do It’
The Rainy Day
Doing What You Like Is Freedom
Gowramma’s Letter
Who Is Great?
Balu’s Story
‘A’ for Honesty
A Lesson in Ingratitude
My Biggest Mistake
The Secret
Follow Penguin
Copyright
PUFFIN BOOKS
HOW I TAUGHT MY GRANDMOTHER TO READ AND OTHER STORIES
Sudha Murty was born in 1950 in Shiggaon in north Karnataka. She did her MTech in computer science, and is now the chairperson of the Infosys Foundation. A prolific writer in English and Kannada, she has written novels, technical books, travelogues, collections of short stories and non-fictional pieces, and four books for children. Her books have been translated into all the major Indian languages.
Sudha Murty was the recipient of the R.K.Naryan Award for Literature and the Padma Shri in 2006, and the Attimabbe Award from the government of Karnataka for excellence in Kannada literature in 2011.
Dedicated to
the citizens of tomorrow
who will bring
changes in
our country
Foreword
I was brought up in a village. Those days there were no televisions, music systems or VCDs at home. Our only luxury was books. I was fortunate to have grandparents. My grandfather was a retired school teacher and an avid reader. He knew a vast number of Sanskrit texts by heart and every night, under the dark sky with the twinkling stars, he would tell me many stories. These were stories from the history of India, the epics and whatever interesting things he had read that day in the papers and magazines. These tales taught me some of my first lessons in life. The Katha Saritsagara (the Ocean of Stories), Arabian Nights, Panchatantra, stories of Aesop, Birbal and Tenali Rama were told to me during those beautiful nights.
The years rolled by, and so much changed in India. Now families are nuclear and children rarely get to live with their grandparents. The arrival of TV and the dramatizations of our ancient epics brought these stories closer to us and helped us know them, but it also removed the power of imagination. Storytelling is not easy. It requires the proper modulation of voice, in order to create an atmosphere of horror, surprise, humour or peace. During those storytelling nights, I have travelled with my grandfather to the battlefield of Haldi Ghati in Rajasthan and cried for the dead horse Chetak. I enjoyed the victory of Shivaji sitting next to his great mother Jeejabai. I have been thrilled listening to the description of the battles of Raja Ranjit Singh and moved to tears with the stories of his large-heartedness. I cried when the first war of Independence, which the British called ‘Mutiny’, was lost. While listening to my grandfather, in my mind I became an Arab and changed my dress to walk the streets of Baghdad and inspect the thieves with the Wazir-e-Alam. I have laughed and learnt valuable lessons about knowledge and wit from the stories of Aesop, Tenali Rama and Birbal.
In this collection, I have tried to recreate some stories from my experiences, all of which have taught me something. In the course of my work for the Infosys Foundation and as a teacher, I meet many people, young and old, each of whom has enriched my life in some way. I have always wanted to tell these stories to the next generation. I hope you will like and enjoy reading them.
I want to thank Sudeshna Shome Ghosh of Penguin India. Had she not insisted, the stories would have remained in my mind for ever.
I would like to add that the royalty of this book is donated to Ramakrishna Ashram, Belgaum, for youth development programme.
Sudha Murty
Bangalore
January 2004
How I Taught My Grandmother to Read
When I was a girl of about twelve, I used to stay in a village in north Karnataka with my grandparents. Those days, the transport system was not very good, so we used to get the morning paper only in the afternoon. The weekly magazine used to come one day late. All of us would wait eagerly for the bus, which used to come with the papers, weekly magazines and the post.
At that time, Triveni was a very popular writer in the Kannada language. She was a wonderful writer. Her style was easy to read and very convincing. Her stories usually dealt with complex psychological problems in the lives of ordinary people and were always very interesting. Unfortunately for Kannada literature, she died very young. Even now, after forty years, people continue to appreciate her novels.
One of her novels, called Kashi Yatre, was appearing as a serial in the Kannada weekly Karmaveera then. It is the story of an old lady and her ardent desire to go to Kashi or Varanasi. Most Hindus believe that going to Kashi and worshipping Lord Vishweshvara is the ultimate punya. This old lady also believed in this, and her struggle to go there was described in that novel. In the story there was also a young orphan girl who falls in love but there was no money for the wedding. In the end, the old lady gives away all her savings without going to Kashi. She says, ‘The happiness of this orphan girl is more important than worshipping Lord Vishweshwara at Kashi.’
My grandmother, Krishtakka, never went to school so she could not read. Every Wednesday, the magazine would come and I would read the next episode of this story to her. During that time she would forget all her work and listen with the greatest concentration. Later, she could repeat the entire text by heart. My grandmother too never went to Kashi, and she identified herself with the novel’s protagonist. So more than anybody else she was the one most interested in knowing what happened next in the story and used to insist that I read the serial out to her.
After hearing what happened next in Kashi Yatre, she would join her friends at the temple courtyard, where we children would also gather to play hide-and-seek. She would discuss the latest episode with her friends. At that time, I never understood why there was so much of debate about the story.
Once I went for a wedding with my cousins to the neighbouring village. In those days, a wedding was a great event. We children enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. We would eat and play endlessly, savouring the freedom because all the elders were busy. I went for a couple of days but ended up staying there for a week.
When I came back to my village, I saw my grandmother in tears. I was surprised, for I had never seen her cry even in the most difficult situations. What had happened? I was worried.
‘Avva, is everything all right? Are you ok?’
I used to call her Avva, which means mother in the Kannada spoken in north Karnataka.
She nodded but did not reply. I did not understand and forgot about it. In the night, after dinner, we were sleeping in the open terrace of the house. It was a summer night and there was a full moon. Avva came and sat next to me. Her affectionate hands touched my forehead. I realized she wanted to speak. I asked her, ‘What is the matter?’
‘When I was a young girl I lost my mother. There w