Short stories.

The Storyteller.

This was given to me as an assignment. I wondered for a very long time about what to write on the given topic. While walking on the school grounds with a friend, there was a discussion going on between us about our preschooler days, our teachers used to gather all the classes together early in the morning and tell us a story. That is how I thought of this one. Written two years ago :)

It was a pleasant Sunday evening. I was sitting by the window with a cup of coffee and a Sunday special crossword in my hand, with a pen dangling on my ear. I was just three more words away from completing the crossword and breaking my own record by finishing it in thirty five minutes. It was the usual spring evening. The sun was about to set, there was flock of birds heading toward their shelter. There were honking noises made by the cars in the background, but it didn't disturb me as I was so engrossed in the puzzle. Suddenly the bell rang; my daughter had returned back from her evening play time and ran inside as soon as I opened the door.

She started telling me about her week in school. She seemed very much impressed by a story their teacher had told them. Like any other three year old, she could listen to stories all day. It reminded me of my childhood memories. I used to love going to school. It was the best part of my childhood. But there was one memory which I remember vividly. Whenever I thought about my preschooler days, there was one face which would always appear in front of my eyes. It was my teacher's. Every kid and parent loved her. She had this charm and she could make you smile no matter how sad you are. Seeing her enter the class in her bright sundresses and lavender fragrance would make the entire class cheerful. She was always full of joy and this positive aura. She used to sing us songs everyday while playing the guitar and was seen feeding little puppies afterschool every day. I remember whenever I used to cry; she would try and comfort me. Then she would very cunningly divert my mind by telling me a story. It was like she had read every single storybook in all the libraries of the city! She had one which could relate to every situation. These tales always had a very strong moral in them. I was part of the last set or class of children she had taught. I learnt this after a few years. My preschool was not very far from my school. I was around the age of twelve when one day I thought of visiting her on my way home. I was feeling a little nervous thinking about whether she still remembered me. I entered and passed through the different classrooms hoping to see her in the very next one. I didn't find her so I decided to head towards the staffroom. Unluckily she wasn't there either. I asked one of the teachers about her but that also didn't work. I was on my way towards the exit, disappointed when someone called my name. I turned and it was Miss Irene, one of the other teachers in my time. I was astounded that she still remembered me. I told her why I had come and what I heard next spoilt my entire day. I was told that my teacher had died a few months after I finished preschool. It was a car accident. I didn't know how to react. I went home and that night for some reason that I couldn't figure out, I cried my eyes out.

She had meant a lot to me. I still remember all the stories she told me to cheer me up. They were no normal stories. These stories had a great impact on me and my values. It had shaped my personality and made me who I was today. From that night onwards I pray for her soul to be at peace every night before going to bed. The fact that a woman that nice and kind had to die so young makes me incredibly angry. She was the sweetest and the most generous person I had ever met. I have made sure of passing every story she told me to my daughter and I hope that she will do the same. It is my way of keeping her memory alive forever. I will always remember her as the storyteller.