Nayeema Ahmad Mahjoor
It was something I was watching eagerly. In a cosy corner of the big library hall, dozens of kids were surrounding an old lady whose voice was mesmerizing and hypnotizing every reader in the library. I thought the old lady has crammed Freudian Psychology.
The kids were listening to the story of Masha and the Bear. The story seemed not as attractive as Nanny’s voice had made it more powerful and special for them. They were just enjoying it.
British television has dozens of dedicated channels for kids. Almost all the books of Roald Dahl have become the best movies. Yet, storytelling has remained intact and bedtime story is one of the best routines of the kids of the developed world, even if homes have become broken, relations strained and a society torn apart.
While researching book reading habits, I gathered that more than one lakh books are being published annually in Britain, out of which forty percent publications are exclusive for children of every age group and topics covered on every subject child, needs to know.
The old lady was making different sounds and gestures to keep children under her grip.
The smallest kids were feeling sleepy, though rubbing their eyes to stay awake.
All the kids were in the age group of six to ten years, almost all British, and a few of them were the fourth generation of Asian and African immigrants.
Luckily, the tradition of storytelling has escaped the digital onslaught in the West. Due to time constraints, many parents have now kept recorded versions of bedtime stories that work on smart phones. So, no need to come home early, sit with the kids, and give them the comfort of physical touch with storytelling. Like by touching your phone in the office, the food in the microwave at home can become hot the moment you step into the house.
Wonder world…
I remember the days of my early childhood when my father would relate the story of some “Brambramchowk” (Frankenstein) living in the forests of Kohi-Suleiman. It used to be harsh winter with a small oil lamp in the corner shelf when I and my sisters would huddle up in an oversized duvet. We had to wait for our father to close all the doors and windows before telling us the frightful end of the “Brambramchowk” while fighting with the brave men of Kashmir. Our pulls and pressures had stretched the Duvet from one corner of the room to another, yet giving us warmth and comfort during chilly nights.
The practice of storytelling disappeared in my land the day the mushroom growth of graveyards appeared around us after the eruption of political violence. We had no time to notice its disappearance. We became busy counting the bodies and the coffins every day we received from security officials after search operations, crackdowns and encounters.
My kids have become used to living in constant fear of guns and intimidation, always prepared to leave the house in darkness, in winter or summer at the mere sight of a uniformed man. The thought of pellet or bullet has been eating their confidence and their sense of self. The kids have lost interest in the world of fiction and fantasy because they have been born in the middle of dreadful encounters. They live in a world of violence where every face tells you the frightful story or where every tongue knows the name of Frankenstein.
Our eighteen-month-old Hiba can only listen to hosptal shrieks and shrills, she can’t afford to listen to a story of any fantasy land where kids live in comfort zones.
This has become my permanent nightmare to get entangled in the thoughts of my bruised land once I encounter different sections of society in other countries.
How lucky they are?
How lucky these kids are?
Freedom is something you cannot only dream of, you can envy it.
I was looking at the happy faces of the kids in the London library where I sat away from the kids until the story session was over. The Nanny came towards me and took a seat.
I wouldn’t believe Nanny when I heard the background of every kid she was taking care of. Their stories even shook me more in the core of my heart and made no sense of the Free world that was breaking the basic unit of their life-HOME. We, in Kashmir, were living in a conflict and were losing a sense of safety and dignity. What has gone wrong in the conflict-free societies that can’t either give a safe environment to their kids? It made me restless.
The comfort to rich kids comes from Nannies or babysitters. Mothers have to work hard for a living.
After the story session was over, they started running around, playing with toys, and looking at big picture books that were kept scattered on the floor near the children’s corner so that they get attracted to browse through them. That was how kids had to develop a reading habit.
I made an acquaintance with Sub-Saharan Nanny and didn’t stop praising her talent for storytelling. “I love kids and they make me happy” She smiled but I could see the pain in her voice. After a while, she told me the background of every kid in her group. “I am trying to give them the love and comfort they can’t get at home”. Her eyes were moist.
Only one kid, Zoya, was lucky to have both parents with a proper home and upbringing. She was very well behaved and seemed a confident girl whose parents had Irish background. She used to come to listen to a story from an old lady and would go home with her parents waiting in the other corner of the library.
A six-year-old girl, Bobby had her parents recently separated due to her father’s affair with another woman. The court had ordered a weekly plan for her, weekdays with mother and weekends with father. Easter holidays with father and summer holidays with mother until she becomes adult. “She dreads the weekend’s stay with her father and comes to school with a miserable face on Mondays”. Nanny whispered in my ear.
Stacy, another blue-eyed girl, was born out of wedlock and her mother never revealed to anybody about the father of Stacy. She asks her mother more often about her father but gets no clue. She had lately spoken to her teacher in school to help her to get in touch with the Jeremy Kyle show on ITV which helps in finding the missing links in faulty families. Unfortunately, the show is off the air now. She has engaged another agency to help her in finding her missing link.
The smart boy, Peter, lives with his father. Before he was born, his mother had already entered into another relationship. She had intimated to Peter’s father that she cannot continue her relation after Peter was born. Both parents agreed to get divorced, and Peter had to stay with his father. Mother sends cards and gifts more often but Peter dumps them into the garbage bin without looking at them.
Look at that black-dressed little doll, Mohit. She was absconded by her parents in Nigeria. Rita from Oxfam found her near the hotel she was staying in while on her honeymoon. She decided to adopt her and brought her to London. She found her new home, new parents, and new country. Yet, she only makes friends with Nigerians which has lately concerned Rita.
The other four kids in the group were living in foster families and knew nothing about their biological parents. “I play mother to them”. Said Nanny with a grin.
This was a little reflection of the free society which had moved far ahead with the digital revolution and looking forward to dwelling on Mars.
The human relations have not reached Mars, thank goodness but gone deep down into the mud that was moulding the life of these little flowers into problematic human relations about which nobody knew how they would carve out their future in broken homes.
‘Why were they envied by the kids of the undeveloped world for their posterity, technology, and wealth’? The question was hovering over my imagination.
My father used to tell me the monster living in the wild forests of Kohi-Suleiman had swallowed many lives. I never knew the prosperity in the Western world had also turned into a big Frankenstein who was swallowing the childhood of thousands of kids.
Nayeema Mahjoor is a leading journalist and fiction writer of Kashmir, can be reached at nayeema7@gmail.com
