The Magic of Grandma’s Bedtime Tales

There was a time when I believed the moon followed our car. That stars whispered secrets, and shadows were stories waiting to be told. But that belief didn’t come from school or books — it came from Dadi Amma.

Our house wasn’t very big. A modest two-bedroom tucked between two louder, livelier homes. But the heartbeat of our home — and my childhood — was Dadi Amma’s voice.

Every evening, after dinner and the clinking of steel plates had settled, we would gather around her. I, my little sister, and sometimes a sleepy cat curled by her feet, would sit close as she slowly leaned back in her woven chair, adjusted her dupatta, and began her magic.

“Toh suno ek kahani...” she’d say, with that glint in her eyes.

And just like that, the world around us disappeared.

There was Princess Bindiya, who lived in a palace made of mirrors and could talk to animals. There was Raunak the Brave, a village boy who defeated a monster using nothing but his kindness. And my favorite — Chulbuli Titli, the cheeky butterfly who outsmarted a greedy crow every single time.

Dadi Amma never read from a book. Her stories came from memory — or perhaps from a secret universe only grandmothers are allowed to visit. She’d change her voice for every character: soft and squeaky for birds, deep and scary for demons, and always warm and wise for the mother figures.

As kids, we believed every word.

One rainy night, I remember sitting close to her while thunder rumbled outside. I was scared. The power was out, the windows rattled, and shadows danced on the walls. But Dadi Amma, holding my tiny hands, whispered:

"Koi darne ki baat nahi. Barish ki boonden to pari hoti hain pariyon ke jadoo se."

And suddenly, the rain wasn’t scary. It was a lullaby from the skies. That’s the power her stories had — they didn’t just entertain, they comforted, protected, and colored our world with wonder.

Years passed. We grew older. Homework replaced storytelling. Then came mobile phones, cartoons, then online games. The chair in the corner stayed the same, but the circle around it got smaller.

One day, I found her sitting there — eyes half closed, her hand resting on that worn-out cushion. “Dadi Amma,” I asked gently, “Aaj koi kahani nahi?”

She smiled. “Tum sab bade ho gaye ho. Tumhein ab kahaniyon ka waqt kahan?”

I wanted to say, “Nahi, Dadi... we still need them.” But the words didn’t come out.

And maybe, deep inside, I too had begun to forget the magic.

Then, two winters ago, we lost her. It was quiet. Peaceful. As if she had simply walked back into the world where her stories were born.

After the rituals, while cleaning her room, I found an old diary wrapped in cloth beneath her pillow. The pages were yellowed, fragile, but the ink still danced with life.

It wasn’t just a diary — it was her “kahanion ka khazana.”

There were stories I remembered, and some I didn’t. Notes in the margins said things like: “Add more magic here,” or “Make the crow funnier.”

I read for hours. Smiled. Cried.

That day, I realized something powerful: Dadi Amma didn’t just tell stories. She passed them down. Not just on pages — but into our hearts.

Today, whenever I write, I think of her.

hen I describe a character’s laugh, I hear her voice. When I write about rain, I remember those fairy droplets. And when I face fear, I recall how one line from her could make darkness feel like home.

My little niece now sits where I once sat. And I try, in my own clumsy way, to carry the tradition forward.

“Toh suno ek kahani...” I whisper.

And I hope — truly hope — that she sees the stars wink back, just like I once did.

💭 Final Thought:

Not all heroes wear capes. Some wear cotton sarees, sit in old wooden chairs, and build entire worlds with their words.

If you were lucky enough to have someone like that — hold on to their stories.

Because one day, you’ll realize they were writing you into them all along.