Author Tarquin Hall finds folk tales a perfect fuel for the imaginationMy English godfather collected folktales from around the world and made recordings of them on audio cassette. I could always count on finding the latest in my Christmas stocking. One year it might be Legends from Arabia about magical gazelles and battles with hideous afreets; the next,Native American fables ,the Algonquin version of Cinderella,for example. More than Chaucer and Dickens,these stories formed my literary heritage. And even now,as I fast approach 40,I rarely go to sleep without first reading one or two folktales from the collections on my shelves. My favourite is the canon of teaching stories known in India as the Panchatantra. By far,the best version in English is Kalila and Dimna,Fables of Friendship and Betrayal by the American writer,Ramsay Wood. Beautifully written with Twainian wit,the yarns themselves are magical,but their journey is even more so. These tales were first told at the time of the Buddha in 450 BC. Since then,irrespective of mere borders,they have crossed deserts,mountains and oceans,penetrating most cultures. Their influence is to be found in the works of Machiavelli,Aesop,La Fontaine,Uncle Remus,even Shakespeare. They are claimed by Buddhists,Hindus,Muslims,Jews and Christians alike. The premise is simple. King Dabschelim is a vain,cruel monarch but a prophecy forces him to seek the sage,Bidpai. Bidpai relates to the King the stories of Kalila and Dimna,brother jackals,who plot and scheme against their fellow beasts for supremacy in the animal kingdom. By listening to them,Dabschelim inherits a wisdom more valuable than the rubies,diamonds and emeralds in his treasury. One of my favorite parables from the collection is The Bedbug and the Flea. A passing Flea (in Woods delightfully modern translation,he appears as a cheeky Cockney) takes shelter with a rather sedate,generous Bedbug in a bed belonging to a wealthy couple. Sensing the delectable scent of the sleeping wife,the Flea proceeds to feast uncontrollably,biting her ivory thighs,gnawing her milky breasts and nipping her delicate throat until she wakes up screaming. The chambermaid is summoned and while the Flea hops clear of the mattress,the Bedbug is unceremoniously squashed even as he cries in vain,It wasnt me,it was the flea! Why do I still read these seemingly childish tales again and again? To be honest,mostly because theyre entertaining. But the Panchatantra also contains a subtle wisdom about our well-meaning but short sighted nature. From the wars we wage to the way we try to manage one another,we humans have yet to absorb the basic morals these stories impart: how to survive without destroying what is good. I have no doubt that therein lies the secret of their endurance; that these stories contain an essence which somehow resonates in the sub-conscious and nourishes the soul. Certainly,they give fuel to my own imagination.Indeed,every day,I sit down to write inspired by the effect of those magical words I heard as a child: Once upon a time.
