Every Life is a Collection of Stories

Yesterday, I conducted a storytelling session titled “Stories that Stays”. I asked my colleagues to share a story that had stayed with them over the years.

The responses were fascinating. Some recalled stories from school textbooks, others mentioned films or web series that had left a lasting impression. One colleague, however, shared a lived experience from a village she had visited years ago and stayed with her.

The purpose of the exercise was to introduce what I call the “simple story arc”. Every story has three parts: a beginning, a moment of change, and an ending where someone or something is transformed. We don't remember stories because of what happened. We remember them for the change they brought about. It’s this very change that makes their story memorable.

During the session, I casually mentioned that all our lives are simply a collection of small stories. I also quoted one of my favourite dialogues from the film Anand: "Babumoshai, zindagi badi honi chahiye, lambi nahi." The beauty of that dialogue isn't just in the words. It's in what happens after you truly understand them. Once its meaning sinks in, you are no longer the same person you were before hearing it.

After the session ended, I found myself reflecting on the stories that have quietly shaped my own life and one memory surfaced almost immediately.

In 2018, I was documenting the Kerala floods. We travelled through the flooded backwaters in a small boat, passing broken homes, submerged roads and families trying to salvage whatever little remained of their lives. Many were desperately searching through mud and debris for documents like Aadhaar cards and identity proofs because without them, rebuilding life and accessing government support would become even more difficult. They had lost almost everything. In many ways, they had even lost their identity.

My most lasting memory of that journey wasn’t the destruction but the generosity, love and care. It reminded me of humanity. Despite their unimaginable loss, family after family invited us into whatever remained of their homes. One elderly woman looked at our boat under the scorching afternoon sun and said, "Please come inside. I have boiled some rice. We can eat it with salt. You need a break and sweet water to drink." Her house had been destroyed. She had almost nothing left. Yet she still had enough compassion to offer some stranger a meal.

This journey changed something within me. It redefined what resilience looked like. It taught me that generosity is not measured by abundance but by the willingness to share, even when you have very little. Those days I spend in the field and refugee camp engraved something in me - a change that is not noticeable but which is permanent. 

Two years later came another chapter that changed all of us. The Covid-19 pandemic. I often say this, "Pre-covid and post-covid time is not same for any of us."

Ironically, it was during those months of isolation that I began noticing stories more carefully. While the world was counting cases and reading headlines, I found myself drawn to the quieter stories of strength, survival, loss and hope.

I think the first story I wrote was about my domestic help, Sapna. She wasn't coming to work during the lockdown, but we stayed in touch over phone calls. Every conversation left me amazed. She spoke about uncertainty, financial struggles and everyday challenges, yet there was never a trace of self-pity in her voice. Instead, there was optimism. There was humour. There was an unwavering belief that tomorrow would somehow be better. The circumstances were difficult, but her spirit refused to be defeated.

This touched me back then and stayed with me because it reminded me that resilience often lives in ordinary people whose names never make the news. I’ve moved to a different place now, she don’t work with us anymore but we still catch up occasionally over calls. I remember how strong and beautiful she is, so true to her name.

Then came another life-changing experience that I never saw coming, what we in the storytelling for development world would call a truly transformative part. I started learning Hindustani classical music. What began as a curiosity slowly became a discipline, and eventually a way of living. Today, under the guidance of my Guruji, I continue that journey as a student, discovering that music is as much about becoming a better human being as it is about learning notes and ragas.

People often assume that learning music is about finding your voice. In reality, it first teaches you to listen. To listen to the tanpura. To listen to silence. To listen to your own breath. To listen without rushing to respond.

Riyaaz has taught me patience in a world that celebrates speed. It has taught me that progress is often invisible, that some days the voice refuses to cooperate, and that showing up every single day matters more than perfection.

But the greatest lesson has come from my Guruji. Beyond music, he has taught us humility, discipline and surrender to the art. In every class, I have realised that learning is not about accumulating knowledge. It is about letting go of the ego that makes us believe we already know enough. Somewhere along this journey, music stopped being something I practised. It became a lens through which I began experiencing life itself. I’ve changed.

If I were to identify the biggest story of my life that continues to unfold every single day, it would be the story of being a parent. My daughter has quietly changed me in ways I never anticipated. She has taught me to slow down, to notice the wonder in ordinary moments, and to see the world through curious eyes again. Every stage of her childhood has become a new chapter in my own story.

Perhaps that's why I believe people are the most important element of any story. Places set the stage, events create the conflict, but it is people who give stories their meaning and make transformation possible.

Looking back now, I realise that the stories that have transformed me were never the loudest ones. They weren't always dramatic or extraordinary. Most were quiet moments. A sentence spoken by an old woman. A phone call with Sapna. A dialogue from a film. A music lesson. A pandemic and many more…

Each one shifted something inside me. This is what life really is.

Not one grand story, but hundreds of small ones. Stories that teach us, humble us, challenge us and slowly shape who we become.

And maybe that's why storytelling matters so much. Because every story we tell has the potential to change someone.

Just as someone else's story once changed us.