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In the tale from India: A Story Not Told, A Song not Sung, a woman’s stories and songs go unheard with unexpected consequences. The stories: Camp Counselor; Which way; and No Logic; reveal what can happen when no one is willing to listen.
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 I was 18, hired to teach swimming at a posh summer camp where more than a few maids unpacked campers’ trunks. The girls were used to having everything done for them. When I told them they were responsible for keeping the bunk clean, they looked at me in disbelief. “I don’t clean at home,” said one. “Why should I clean here?”
 In 1959, before traveling to Europe, I joined an organization called SERVAS. People with rooms to spare offered them at no cost to travelers for two nights. The aim of the program was to encourage peace and understanding through travel and hosting. Since I’d be traveling on a very tight budget any help with the cost of lodging meant a lot, but I especially looked forward to meeting local people and having a chance to visit and share experiences.
 After being diagnosed with a rare, anomalous, and fatal form of leukemia, I was able to join a protocol sponsored by the National Institute of Cancer (NCI). Since the protocol was research-based, I saw different doctors each time I went for blood tests, physical exams, and the medicine—three units of interferon, injected into subcutaneous tissue, every day for seven months, after which time we would be cured. Except we weren’t. As soon as the medication was stopped, remission ended, the leukemia returned. All it did was keep the disease at bay.
 There was once a woman who kept all her songs and stories to herself because no was willing to listen to them. All of her memories and longings remained buried deep within. After a time, her stories and songs grew restless—they wanted to be heard. They struggled to come out, but the woman could not share them. Finally, they made their way into her dreams. While she slept, she tossed and turned as the dreams roiled around inside her. She woke up, confused. “What’s the matter?” asked her husband? “I don’t know,” she replied. One morning she was so tired that after her husband left for work she lay down on the kitchen floor and fell sound asleep. Her mouth opened and she began to snore. The stories and songs escaped into the air, hovered above her, watching her sleep. “We cannot leave her like this,” they said. “What will she do without us?” The stories turned themselves into a robe and hung on a peg by the bedroom door. The songs became slippers and rested underneath. That night when her husband returned from work, he got suspicious. “Who was here while I was gone?” “No one.” “Who do those slippers and robe belong to?” “I don’t know,” she said. They argued. When night fell they were still arguing. Now in that village it is a custom that when a couple disagrees and can’t settle their disputes by the end of the day, the husband spends the night in the Temple of the Monkey King. The husband stormed out of the house and went to the temple. He lay down to sleep in one of its darkened rooms. The wife sat at the kitchen table trying to make sense of what had happened. Finally, she blew out the candle, put her head down on the table, and fell asleep. Each night, in that village, when people put out the candles, the flames go to the Temple of the Monkey King to chatter and discuss the day’s events. As the husband lay on the floor, one by one, the candle flames danced into the darkened room where he slept. They chatted, waiting for all the tongues of flames to arrive. After a while it was clear that one flame was late. “Where is it?” a flame sputtered. Finally, the last flame showed up. “Where have you been?” they wanted to know. “My couple had an argument. The husband came home and found a strange robe and slippers by the bedroom door. “Oh, he must have been angry!” the others exclaimed. “Yes,” he was, “but it isn’t what he thinks. The woman has stories to tell and songs to sing but no one ever listens. All her life she has kept them locked up inside her. This morning while she slept, they found a way to turn the stories into a robe and the songs into slippers.” The husband, wakened by the flames, heard what had happened. He immediately left the Temple of the Monkey King and ran back home. In the moonlight, he could see his wife slumped over the kitchen table. He awakened her gently, putting the robe around her shoulders and the slippers on her feet. Then, he sat down beside her, and said, “Tell me your stories. Sing me your songs. I am here. I will listen.” |
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October 2025
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Nancy King is a widely published author and a professor emerita at the University of Delaware, where she has taught theater, drama, playwriting, creative writing, and multidisciplinary studies with an emphasis on world literature. She has published seven previous works of nonfiction and five novels. Her new memoir, Breaking the Silence, explores the power of stories in healing from trauma and abuse. Her career has emphasized the use of her own experience in being silenced to encourage students to find their voices and to express their thoughts, feelings, and experiences with authenticity, as a way to add meaning to their lives.
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