The term 'grand mother' brings to the mind the vision of an old lady with wizened skin, sitting on a low wooden stool chewing crushed betel nuts, chatting with the women of her age about the latest village scandal with gusto. Her toothless smile captivated the young people. She was a superb story-teller. To be in her company was like stepping into a mystical land of magic and myth, where colourful memories of the bygone era and richly painted fantasies of boundless imagition were woven into one exquisite tapestry one could gaze forever. Past came alive in her talks. The grand children listened to her reminiscences in rapt attention. They listened to her in wonder and perhaps a little bit of doubt. Granny told them ghost stories and the ghosts became real before the children's bemused eyes. She also told them stories from the epics with her limited knowledge. The grand mothers were more than connecting links to the past, they were also witnesses to thousand sunsets, thousand events, which the younger generation would never see. To see through their eyes was to see the ancient past, faded, blurred but unforgettable. They had certainly mastered the art of story-telling despite lack of formal education. They had learnt from ture and had inte wisdom, which had nothing to do with book-learning. Their delightful stories kept the young children enthralled for hours together.