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I read an article today discussing readership in India. It compared various authors and their writing styles and how they have and still are influencing reading habits. They also discussed the roles of publishing houses for the same. I liked the fact that they did not diss authors, Chetan Bhagat, Amish Tripathi, Durjoy Datta and the likes because they do have a considerable reading audience. But there was one thing that struck a chord with me: The Art of Storytelling. 
Storytelling has belonged to the Indian subcontinent and the Middle Eastern part of Asia, where the way one told stories was always something that didn’t need special mention or recognition to be passed over generations of families, most came inherent and influenced because people grew up on them. The family structures were such that people would round up in groups not just within their housed but also the courtyards of their villages and colonies. Of course there were exceptions of people who had an inherent flair to mix up emotions, words, maybe hand movements and gestures so well that it made them stand out in the crowd. Previous generations have lived on and through times with these conversations and stories. However, somehow with the onset of internet and easy access to even the stars that are burning millions of light years away, we have forgotten the simpler things in life. 
One of the fond memories that I have is lying next to my grandmothers, maternal and paternal, and even the grandfathers, who would use their face expressions explicitly and describe their journeys, traversing through narrow lanes over the hills, sliding over thick snow, watching skylines of hills emerge each morning and silhouetting silently each night; about how a sixteen year old girl, once, new to the capital city got lost kilometers away from her house, escaped from a creepy guy and found another person who she had only heard about in her village home, come forward and help her track her house, all in one single day! I remember how we would gasp, sitting on the edges, biting our nails, marvelling and even bursting in applause sometimes when it ended. Somehow, it got me to feel complete in that moment because I had lived through an entire experience, standing alongside that young girl, eyes open and more than me, my ghost in the shadows. But living in those moments in which she lived only reinstated my belief in storytelling, an art that stands one step closer to being forgotten and pressed in the withered pages of human life.

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