It was a warm Sunday evening. I was lazily sipping tea, huddled on my couch, when a question from an earlier conversation kept drifting back to me – What is it that I hold on to after all these years? Which is that one particular thing that holds a special place in my curio cabinet?
There are many. But which one would I choose to tell my first story about?
This is not just an inanimate object. It is something that brings back a flood of nostalgic memories from my childhood – those golden summer holidays in April and May when we all gathered at our ancestral home in the village. People, cows, paddy fields, haystacks, large meals spread out for lunch and dinner… The discussions were simple – what shall we cook tonight, who wants what?
Life was uncomplicated. It revolved around eating, playing, livestock, churning buttermilk, and everyone, in their own way, running their little micro-economy. Everything had value, and everything was biodegradable.
But there was one thing in the cupboard in the hallway that always caught my eye – a pair of dancing mud dolls popularly known as *Thanjavur Thallai Attu Bommai*. Today, I have one of them, and the other probably found a place in my cousin’s home in the United States.
Whenever I look at this doll, memories of my childhood come flooding back – the laughter, the people, the smells, the sounds – the entire tapestry of my early years. I don’t know when the doll was bought or how it found its place in our home, but it always sat safely guarded inside the iron almirah.
Perhaps it is part of someone else’s story too, but for me, it is a window to my past, a reminder of my roots, my true self – anchored in culture, drifting through memories, and occasionally, lost in the present.
These days, this little doll finds her way into my Montessori classroom too. Not always, but in seasons, in rotation – just like how we change the space around festivals or when we refresh the Culture area. It quietly sits there, and sure enough, the children gather around. Some wonder, some ask questions, some want to share their own stories. Sometimes I tell them mine – about village summers, old cupboards, and dancing mud dolls. And just like that, they start writing, drawing, talking – each one weaving a little story of their own.
– Dhanvanthini
Faculty, SchoolScape, Centre for Educators