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Teaching Children Stories Without Screens

In the evenings of a Telangana village, when the sun slowly sinks into the red soil, children once gathered near the temple steps. The air smelled of dust and flowers. An elder sat on the ground, clearing his throat, while a painted scroll rested beside him. As the story began, the scroll opened little by little. Faces appeared. Gods walked. Villages came alive. Children listened with wide eyes, their hearts travelling far without moving from the spot. No screens. Only voices, colours, and imagination.

Today, the evenings look different. Screens glow in small hands. Stories move fast and disappear faster. But somewhere, in quiet homes and workshops, another way of teaching stories still breathes—softly, patiently.

Cheriyal painting comes from the soul of Telangana. It was never just art for walls. It was a teaching tool. A memory keeper. These paintings were made to support storytelling traditions, especially by the Kaki Padagollu community. The long scrolls showed scenes from epics, local legends, moral tales, and everyday village life. As the story unfolded, so did the painting.

Through these images, children learned about good and bad, courage and kindness, gods and humans living side by side. Cheriyal shaped how Telangana spoke to its young ones. It used bold colours and simple forms, so even small eyes could understand. Red backgrounds held the warmth of the land. Big eyes carried emotion. Every figure had a role, just like in village life.

Creating a Cheriyal painting is like telling a story slowly. First, the artisan prepares the surface with tamarind seed paste, spreading it with care. The paper is dried and smoothened by hand, not machine. Colours are made from stones, soot, shells, and leaves. Nothing artificial. Nothing rushed.

The artist sits on the floor, often with children watching nearby. The brush moves steadily, guided by stories learned long ago. One figure leads to another. One scene connects to the next. The painting grows like a story told over many nights, never in a hurry.

The artisans who make these paintings live quietly. Their days are simple. Morning chores. Family responsibilities. Then hours of painting in silence. Many learned this craft as children, watching their parents work. There were no classrooms. Only patience and practice. Mistakes were lessons. Repetition was learning.

They know their art can teach children without screens. They know its power. Yet they rarely say it aloud. Their pride is gentle, like the sound of temple bells in the distance.

But life today makes this path hard. Schools depend more on digital tools. Children spend more time with phones than with stories. Parents are busy. Markets want quick products. A hand-painted story takes time, and time is often not valued.

Income is uncertain. Awareness is low. Some artisans struggle to continue, even though they carry generations of knowledge in their hands.

Government efforts have brought some light—training programs, exhibitions, heritage recognition. These steps matter. But on the ground, many artisans still wait for steady support. Teaching children through traditional art is not yet seen as essential, even though it once was natural.

Still, this craft matters deeply today. In a world full of noise, Cheriyal offers calm. It teaches children to slow down, to observe, to imagine. It connects them to their roots, to stories born from their own land. It uses natural materials, respects the earth, and carries lessons without force.

When someone holds a Cheriyal painting, especially a child, something special happens. The fingers feel the handmade surface. The eyes follow the story. The mind begins to ask questions. There is no swipe. No button. Only connection.

Teaching children stories without screens is not about rejecting modern life. It is about balance. It is about remembering that stories lived long before screens and can still live alongside them.

If we take a moment to look, to listen, to value the hands that paint these stories, we keep something precious alive. Not just an art form, but a way of learning—slow, human, and full of heart. Like a Telangana evening, where stories once again find their place under the open sky.

To know more about this living heritage, visit: cheriyalscrollpainting.com

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