My father was my first audiobook. When I was a little girl, my sister and I would tuck ourselves in thick blankets in the cold Delhi winters and gleefully look at our father, who would tell us stories he knew by heart. His eyes would grow bigger, and his hands would start painting pictures in the air as he told us stories of simpletons who outwitted the smart people or a little girl who outsmarted all the dangerous animals on her way to see her grandmother. His joy in telling those stories of adventures and adventurers inspired us to imagine worlds we hadn’t dreamed of before.

My mother never told us stories. She was a working mother who packed us lunches in the morning and made us dinner after coming home from work; she made sure my sister and I did our homework as she washed clothes by hand. When she found the time, she’d play badminton with us or jump rope with us. So, in a way, she did tell us stories. In her case, her actions told the story of working hard, caring for one’s family, and finding joy in the smallest of pleasures life has to offer.

I didn’t know then what a gift my parents had imparted to me; each in their own way. When my son cries for “one more last” story before going to bed and I have to tell him “no”, my heart skips a beat. I wish he didn’t have school in the morning. I wish we could tell each other stories all night; fictional ones and the ones that lie in our hearts. But I’m reminded that stories are as much in words as in actions. So, we must sleep in order that we may wake up tomorrow and tell, create, and share more stories from our hearts.