Me, my Father and Oscar Wilde

“Father?”

“Yes, son?”

“Would you tell me a story?”

Thus begins a journey of a lifetime. Does anyone understand how stories shape the lives of those who feed on them for mental and emotional sustenance? That one’s entire lifetime of expectations and sense of wonder may live or die depending on whether they were told tall tales or not?

Does anyone realize how goddamn important stories are for children?

I wanted to talk about Oscar Wilde and the collection of short stories he had penned. But as with all things Oscar, it is complicated. I cannot speak of Oscar Wilde without talking about my father. Only when I have elucidated the relationship between him, Oscar and myself can I begin to shed any light on how I feel about both of these two extraordinary men.

When I was three my father would bounce me on his knee and tell me stories. Stories that involved prince and princesses and birds and dwarfs and giants. But they were not ordinary stories: they involved royalty and non-humans. In fact I remember being rather sad at the fate of the non-humans while humans treated them so callously. In retrospect, I suspect that may be my republican minded father was preparing me against the popular admiration of monarchic institutions, for the prince and the princesses of these stories were rather a nasty lot.

These stories were also my first experience with irony: when I found out that the man known as the “happy prince” was in fact one the most abjectly unhappy person in the world. Little princesses who celebrate their birthdays by being heartlessly cruel to a poor dwarf. A cruel giant who learns to love through empathy and sacrifice. A nightingale who sings and gives up his life to create a red rose only to have it lying discarded on the street as a token of unrequited love.

An important fact that still remains with me today is that my father told me these stories in a bilingual fashion. He would tell me the narrative in our native Bengali but often he would switch to English. In a gentle voice full of great pathos he would say “Swallow, swallow, little swallow…” The only comparison of his reading style that I can find is that of the professional reader Frank Muller of whom I am a great fan.

My father made the words dance in my heart and made me a lifelong reader by instilling in me a love of stories. His repertoire of tales comprised of many classics- he told me the story of The Merchant of Venice and The Tempest without giving any inkling that these were famous texts.  He just made the story exciting and it did not matter to me what the rest of the world thought about it. As far as I was concerned, these were my father’s tales.

His particular favorite to this day is A Tale of Two Cities, of which the last few chapters he can recall verbatim, having to learn it in Tenth Grade. The way he describes the last hours of Charles Darnay as he awaits the executioner would bring tears to the eyes of anyone listening.

Only when I grew up and read the prescribed texts as part of literature was I able to realize that my father was telling me stories written by Oscar Wilde. You could say I have a deep emotional connection with him as I do with my father. I was very happy to note that my father took it upon himself to tell me good stories, stories that were in fact tragedies. I have to say that I gained a whole new level of respect for him and the way he has raised his children: never condescending or patronizing but always in deep faith of their understanding of human nature. He felt that it was necessary to expose children to the reality of stories, not subject them to excruciating happy endings. 

Much as I would like to praise Oscar, I would like to thank my father first. I would not be who I am today had it not been for his intense passion for storytelling. Thanks, Abba.*

*Bengali word used for addressing one's father.