"Will you tell me a story?"

I look at my niece; she makes an adorable picture with pigtails and wearing a purple pyjama suit that has yellow stars dotted all over. Before answering, I glance at my sister, who gives a brief shake of her head, which means, 'you know how it is, it is never one story and you cannot resist indulging...'

But then it was already too late, wise beyond her five years, little Ila knows her mother quite well. She tugs at my dress and smiles, "I promise, only one story and you can read it to me."

I pick her up, twirl her about and with her joyous laughter ringing in the house, carry her to her room. I would show her mother that I am an adult who knows where to draw a line and I do not pamper my niece. I know I rarely say no to her, but that is because Ila is sensible with her requests, not that I am indulgent.

I look over the small book collection that she had got with her and picked up a slim book. It should not take much time to finish reading it, I thought, so Ila could go to bed in less than ten minutes. I waved the book at her, the cover had sheep and the title said, 'All About Sheep'

"This looks interesting."

I was answered with a snort and a frown, "Pinni, it is not a story."

"Okay," I dragged that word, it was doing to be tougher than I thought, but I was not going to give up. I open the page and point to the picture, "Do you see this picture with sheep?"

At her reluctant nod, I continued, "The sheep with a bell, he is the leader. Wherever he goes, the rest follow. And because he wears a bell, he is called the bellwether. Now..."

The book was pulled out of my hand and Ila snapped it shut, "Sheep are boring. Those are rhymes. I want a story."

Right, my Ila was surely a miss who knew her mind and she was determined. She stared at me, a huge frown marring her face and yet, looked so cute that I kept quiet. A minute ticked by and as her face turned redder, I gave in. Wriggling my fingers, I extended my arms, and soon she was rolling in bed in boisterous laughter as I tickled her.

It was sometime later that we settled down; Ila in my lap, holding out the book she had picked so that she could see the pictures as I read the tale.

Once upon a time, a long time ago...

"How long ago?"

I smile at my niece and her innocuous question, "Not sure, Honey, but it was a long time ago."

"Even before grandpa?"

I had no choice but to quantify it, however, I want to play it safe, so I pretend to think and then answered, "Even before his great grandfather's time."

It seemed to be long enough for her, for she nodded her acceptance and permitted me to continue, but asked to include that pertinent fact.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, sometime around grandpa's great grandfather's time, there lived a little girl named Red Riding Hood...

"Why Red Riding Hood?"

"Because she always wore a red cape with a hood,"

I rattled off without missing a beat; proud of having the answer, but my little Ila was not done yet.

"But what was her name before she started wearing that cloak? And tomorrow, when she grows bigger and gets a green cloak will her name change to Green Riding Hood? And did she have a pony to ride?"

I am a little taken back, I had always taken the fairy tales at face value and not once did I question this tale, but neither could I deny the logic of her questions. So I once again pondered and replied, "Well, she had a nice name, but then she loved that cloak so she wore it all the time so everyone soon called her as Red Riding Hood."

Ila thought about it but soon disagreed, "No, she has to have a name, how can she not have one?"

I kept quiet, this storytelling session seems to have taken a different direction and I was not planning to encourage her, not that she needed any, for she came up with a solution, "We will call her Marigold and she will not wear any cloak or anything, so there is no confusion."

I accept her suggestions, it was easier than trying to convince her that the story should be read as it was written, though I should have guessed she would pick Marigold. She loves that flower and those shades of gold and orange and yellow. I take a breath and start again, from the beginning.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, sometime around grandpa's great grandfather's time, there lived a little girl named Marigold who lived with her Mama and Papa. One day Little Marigold's mother said, "Here, child, take this basket to your grandmother. It's got bread, butter, cake and berries in it. She's feeling sick and I hope this will make her feel better. Don't talk to strangers, don't leave the path and walk straight to your grandma's house."

Little Marigold's grandmother lived half an hour away in the woods outside the village...

"Why?"

I looked up from the book, I knew the peace was too good to last but I was not sure of what Ila wanted.

"Why what, Honey?"

"Why does her grandmother stay in the woods and not with them in the village? My Nannamma stays with us."

I had no answer so I tried another way, "Sweetheart, it is just a story so it is fine..."

Her eyes pooled with tears and her lower lip trembled, which caused a shudder in me, 'Oh no, not a crying fit, first thing I cannot see her cry, secondly, a crying fit so close to her bedtime would be a long drawn out one which would exhaust all of us.' I threw the book on the bed and pulled her closer, "You are right. Since we are changing the story, we will make the grandma live in the same house, in a nice room of her own?"

I was rewarded with a bright smile and a hug, which was sufficient for me to restart the story, again.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, sometime around grandpa's great grandfather's time, there lived a little girl named Marigold who lived with her parents. One day Little Marigold's mother said, "Here, child, take this basket to your grandmother. It's got bread, butter, cake and berries in it. She's feeling sick and I hope this will make her feel better. Do not stop in between and walk straight to your grandma's room."

Little Marigold's grandmother lived with them in a room of her own, at the back of the house. The room faced the back garden and her grandmother loved watching the flowers and hearing the birds sing."

So Marigold set off, carrying the basket...

"But why was she carrying a basket? And if Grandma was sick, how can she eat all that cake and butter? Mama makes me eat dry toast and drink hot milk only. Even you do not give me cake or sweets when I am sick."

I tried not to grit my teeth, not when it was my five-year-old niece, staring at me with her large brown eyes full of wonder and inquisitiveness, especially when the objections were valid. There is a fleeting thought that it is also a ploy to postpone her bedtime, as much as possible. It is with a bright smile that I reply, "Yes, you are right, I think this story writer is confused, we shall change it right away."

So I began, all over again, only to stop when it came to the entry of the wolf, for I was stumped, 'how does the wolf enter into the home and then threaten the grandmother?'

I wanted to ask Ila but then felt stupid, 'ask a five-year-old girl? I should be able to think up a passable tale on my own.'

Finally five minutes later, with Ila almost dropping off with disappointment, I narrated my retold version.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, sometime around grandpa's great grandfather's time, there lived a little girl named Marigold who lived with her parents and grandparents. One day Little Marigold's mother said, "Here, child, take this tray to your grandmother. It's got dry toast, some soup and milk in it. She's feeling sick and I hope this will make her feel better. Walk straight up to her room and do not stop in between, the soup would get cold. Do you understand?"

Little Marigold's grandmother lived with them in a room of her own, at the back of the house. The room faced the back garden and her grandmother loved watching the flowers and hearing the birds sing.

Little Marigold nodded and set off, carrying the tray. But as she entered the corridor leading to her grandmother's room, the neighbour's dog bounded in and stopped in front of her. The dog was big and was drooling; the sight of the panting dog scared Marigold and she wanted to shout for her mother, but then felt it might make the dog jump on her. Then she remembered how her Grandmother always asked her to be polite so she looked at the dog, and hoping that the tray would not fall from her trembling fingers, asked him, as politely as she could, "Dear Doggy, I have to carry this tray to my Grandma, she is not feeling well. If you move aside, I will go and give this tray to her."

Time stood still as Marigold waited, wondering if what her mother and grandmother taught her would work, her fear was increasing and she was a little worried that the soup would get cold. Suddenly, the dog whimpered—

—"and spoke!"

At her excited interjection, I gave a silent groan. Her idea was a spoke in the wheel of my story. But before I could say a word, she rushed on, squeaking with animated gestures, "Yes, Pinni, it is a dog that can speak. And the dog would be sad because he had no friends to play with. Then they become friends. I think we could call him...Dahlia. Good idea?"

There was no way I could reject any suggestion, though I had to smother a laugh at the name Dahlia. Her ideas were included and to my relief, I could continue rather than start all over again.

—and to her shock, it spoke, "Nobody likes me, even you want me to go away."

The tray almost slipped from her hands and though she held on tight, some of the soup did spill to the ground. But talking dogs were a dream come true. And once she got over her initial fright, she felt that it was wonderful to be able to talk to the dog, who now looked cute rather than scary.

Marigold smiled and said, "My grandma is not feeling well and I have to give her her dinner. Once she is finished, we could play in the yard. I will throw the stick which you could fetch. Or a ball if you like it. And I will share my food with you and we could be best friends. And I will call you Dahlia."

The pup tilted his head, as though thinking over and then nodded. He moved out of the way and settled near the back door. Plopping his face on his paws, he muttered, "'go on, I will wait for you."

Fifteen minutes later a happy Marigold and the droopy dog, Dahlia, went out to play in the yard and soon became the best of friends. And that is the end of the story.

Ila was bright and flushed; I could make out that she loved the story, though I felt it stupid. However, for the hug and kiss that I got, I can spend a lifetime writing such stories.

Word count - 2046