Weaving Words...

Today one of my friends casually mentioned Enid Blyton (thank you by the way !!!).

When I was a kid reading an Enid Blyton was pretty much like opening a treasure trove.

I would open every book dying with anticipation and wait to be mesmerized by the Faraway trees ,Wishing Chairs, Silky, Moonface and amused by the Malory Towers and St Clare kids, not to forget the famous Fives, the Five Find Outers…the list goes on.

They transported me to an alternate reality and it was difficult to break free, I would always stop a book halfway and spend the rest of the day in a dreamlike haze, trying desperately to postpone the inevitable end. I am sure most of u would be mentally classifying me in the weirdoes section but bluhh!!

I was really taken up by this entire English environment. I would tirelessly work at producing my very own pantomimes, plays and operas. My “captive” audience, usually my polite parents would be subjected to these soporific renditions. After sitting through too many of these and tired of my incessant demands for meringues, seed cakes, macaroons, my parents decided that their demented daughter needed to get a grip. Especially after they found me combing the garden for a dark patch of grass (the entrance to the magical wishing chair for the uninitiated!!!!! I am really not making this up!!!)

So my dad decided that it was high time I read a few serious books. Maybe the shock was too much for him or he wanted a radical cure, the first book he gave me was the Autobiography of a Yogi. This was followed by Conversation with God and the Celestine Prophecy. Recipe for instant nirvana!! I was twelve then. And totally at sea. I tried reading the books, gave up pretty quick and then demanded of Dad as to why he thought being a nun was a lucrative career option, reminded him of the fact that I was 12 not 40 and that both of us need not necessarily read the same books. He realized that he had gone overboard, but that was just a natural reaction, when I demanded chocolate blanc-mange instead of the gajar ka halwa, and vacations in Cornwall, and Weatherbury.

But the point being , he realized that to understand the deeper meaning of life, his daughter needed to live at least a shallow one for starters and he gave me my very first Agatha Christie. So I was again embroiled in a web of intrigue, romance and mystery.All was right with the world again, and I was no longer a prospective intern for a sisterhood.


I did finally read a few serious books and all the ones I mentioned. And I did stop dreaming of trifle puddings. But I still hope that I would find that darker blade of grass, that fairy ring. And if the faraway tree is anywhere near, I would be the first to believe it.

Books have been an integral part of my life and they have given me experiences I could never have got otherwise. They have shaped my beliefs ..my opinions. And I am wistful about the times when I was reading them for the first time and wish I could get them back all over again..

So back to Enid Blyton. The secret series when Jack, Mike, Peggy , Nora run away to this idyllic island and spend a year in hiding. The excitement which used to build up every time they thought they would be discovered. The sheer genius of the writer who could make living in caves and making a tree house seem like pursuits granted only to the luckiest kids. Oh how many times have I wished i could own my very own private island and live alone in the wilderness. It taught me to see the beauty in everything. To filter out the doubts, the fears, the preconceived notions and just enjoy something for what it was. And it is a wonderful experience. The cocoa made in a steel tin which vied with a 3 course meal. Oh she was devious about food..

The Five Find Outers with Fatty who I secretly disliked coz he would always claim all credit and Daisy and Pip who I sympathized with coz they were the underdogs.

The Secret Sevens. The entire fairy tale world of snowed in mornings, wood sheds, secret meetings, passwords, hot chocolate and macaroons. That soothing chocolatey mellow feeling. And a mystery thrown in for completness. But the mystery was just always sidelined. To be attended to when you had nothing better to do.

The Wishing Chairs and The Faraway trees. They have to be credited with making me that dreamy eyed, anti social, zonked out school girl that I was. The sheer longing of climbing that tree and meeting Silky, Moon face and even more exciting ...the lands at the top! Lands you could fly to ..in the wishing chair. The number of chairs I have been disappointed with is not funny. How can you expect someone who has been exposed to the Land of Goodies, where one had gingerbread cottages, chocolate streams, biscuit trees( I was all of 10), the land of Take what you Want, the Land of Birthdays and Surprises where at every stage you had wonderful surprises with flying roundabouts, midnight seaside picnics, elfish fairy rings, come back to the drudgery of every day life and not regret it? I am grateful for the magic these stories wove around me. They gave me the most cherished moments of my childhood.

Then came the classics, Jane Eyre, the first exposure to cruelty , death and despair, the first exposure to love and loss, but again wonderfully cushioned with grand parties, dazzling gowns, preening women, very theatrical , very appealing.

Austen, Bronte, Woolf, Mitchell..of wit and innuendo, of social status, of the ravages of war( in small doses though)..Rebecca and Daphne De Muerier..of English breakfasts and morning rooms..of colours..colours galore, of hate and jealousy, of flowers and art and beauty..

The war chronicles..of Leon Uris, of Anne Frank, of desperation and neglect, of fear, of the Odessa files, of hopelessness, Of Agatha Christie ..of murder and intrigue..but very English,..very subdued and Alistair Macleans and Perry Masons..well the American versions..
Of the Good Earth and desperation, of poverty, of destitution , of famines and floods, of lives ravaged, dreams shattered… of Roots(Haley)..of the helplesslessness of it all, of politics, of death, of injustice of inequality..of pain..Of Orwell and Ayn Rand, of corruption and power, of hopelessness and righteous indignation, of the dangers of ideology, of fanaticism…..

Of Pratchett of satire and fantasy ..of cynicism and philosophy..of Narnia ...of pure fantasy ..of utopia..Of Pamuk , Muarakami and Eco..of literature, philosohy and erudtion..Of Jhumpa Lahiris. and Chitara Banerjee's and Roy..of alienation and disconnect..of supressed longing..of imagery and colours and the smells of home..

They say when Picasso started speaking the first word he uttered was "pencil"..Well I can't profess to carrying forward a similar extensive vocabulary from my previous life..I pretty much started with the letters and had to move up the value chain...but words have made me laugh, they have made me cry, they have become entwined with my emotions and my beliefs..and now they are making me express...