The Storyteller’s Secret

Some stories stay with you. Some storytellers never leave.

It’s funny how memory works. I spent four years in Calcutta — ages zero to four — and somehow, people find it incredible that I remember anything at all. They’re right, of course. At that age, one’s greatest life achievements are mastering “potty” and identifying the difference between chalk and candy (a skill I learned too late).

Yet, here I am, decades later, still carrying a suitcase of stories from that time — stories that feel more like home videos in my head, complete with the sepia tint, family drama, and a bit of background music from a creaky ceiling fan.

I suspect two culprits behind this miraculous memory: the family album and a storyteller at home who knew how to bring words alive.

Let’s start with the album. It was not an album, really. It was an encyclopaedia of our family, annotated like a thriller. Every photo had captions — “Me crying because balloon burst”, “Daddy, close your mouth, you’re catching flies.”, “Have a hockey stick but don’t know how to play.”
Each caption was like a short story — not just what happened, but why it happened. It was storytelling with built-in commentary, long before Instagram invented “stories.”

But the true reason those early years remain so alive isn’t ink or photos. It’s voice. The voice that read out bedtime stories — every night — without fail.

We had a massive storybook called 365 Bedtime Stories. A story for each day of the year. A commitment so noble it could have been a government scheme.

Now, the storyteller in charge of bedtime was systematic. One story a day, page by page. But I, the demanding little audience, had other plans.

I had favourites. I wanted to hear that one story — again and again and again — till it became a family ritual and possibly an endurance test.

It wasn’t about the story itself. It was about how it was told.

Because some people don’t just read — they perform. They make the fox sound guilty, the fairy godmother tired but wise, the wolf slightly confused about his career choices. They pause at the right moments, lower their voice at the suspense, and raise an eyebrow before the happy ending.

That’s what makes a story unforgettable — not the plot, but the person behind the voice.

And I learned that the hard way.
Because one day, my dad volunteered to take over bedtime duty. His version of “Goldilocks and the Three Bears” sounded like a corporate audit report. The bears had quarterly issues. Goldilocks was charged with trespassing. I fell asleep before the porridge cooled — not the gentle, bedtime kind of sleep, but the “I can’t take this anymore” kind.

That night, I discovered a universal truth — the storyteller makes all the difference.

Years later, I realised that when I wanted to hear the same story again, it wasn’t repetition I was after. It was familiarity, performed beautifully. It was the tone, the rhythm, the warmth, the tiny smile that arrived before the punchline.

A good storyteller could have read out the railway timetable, and I’d still have listened — imagining every station as a kingdom and every train as a hero’s journey.

Now, as an adult who spends far too much time staring at screens and pretending to be productive, I sometimes think back to that book — that voice — and wonder: was it really about bedtime stories, or was it the first lesson in what makes a storyteller great?

Because the best storytellers don’t just tell stories.
They weave memories into the listener’s heart.
They make repetition feel like reunion.

And perhaps that’s why, even today, when someone says, “I’ve already heard this story,” I can’t help but smile and think —

Maybe you heard it once, but never quite like my mother told it.

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Author’s Note:
Some stories fade with time. Some linger in the air like echoes.
But the rare ones — they stay.
Not because of how they’re told,
but because somewhere between the lines,
we fell quietly in love with the storyteller.

And speaking of storytellers — there’s another one waiting to be heard.
My memoir, You Told Me To Brave, is just around the corner.
If this story moved you, share it with someone you cherish.
Who knows — it might stir a familiar voice, a mother’s warmth,
or a memory that deserves to be remembered.