Along Came Bonny Meghali Barua
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Musings and Memories
(This was published in the Melange, The Sunday Magazine of the sentinel on 25th august, 2013)
Very recently I was cleaning up my book-space and digging up very old volumes of books when I came across my book-collection written by one of my favorite childhood author, Enid Blyton. As I leafed through the slightly yellowed pages I was suddenly transported back to my childhood; a time when my world was filled with magical creatures- gnomes, elves, fairies and pixies and when every aspect of it held a certain magical feel to it. For sometime I became the same pig-tailed little girl who thoroughly believed that characters from “Famous Five”, “Secret Seven”, and “Malory Towers” did exist parallel to her world.
My generation (I do not come from the Dark Ages, mind you) had had a healthy dose of the magic of Enid Blyton prose and penmanship. I would exchange Blyton books with my friends and launch into a hearty discussion of adventures of Scamper and Timothy (my two favorite dogs). Since I were a little girl I had always been a dog lover and now when I look back I realize that some degree of my love for the man’s best friend could be attributed to these vividly written stories where animals were important characters, usually the hero of the plot . For me back then probably the “sights and sounds” of the English countryside full of bright hay-making summer and green meadows so vividly depicted in the Blyton books seemed more real than the concrete jungle where I lived. The Enid Blyton characters had strong personalities, had inquisitive spirits, were fun-loving and more importantly brave. For a young girl, as I was back then, these colourful characters had a very strong influence in making me acknowledge the traits desirable in a person.
One memory of my childhood which still lingers in my mind is that, as a school-going girl, during the days I would be preparing for my dreaded school final exams, I was never allowed to read any story-book or anything else outside my school syllabus by my mother lest I neglect my studies. Nevertheless I would sneak the Blyton books in my room and dead at night when I would be sure of my parents sleeping snugly in their room, I would read them under my bed in the tiny light my little torch could afford to send out.
Another one would me of my grandfather (who is a lawyer in his own right and his reading limited mainly to gigantic law books) going off to the popular book-stores like the Western Book Depot armed with the list of names of the much coveted Blyton books handed to him by Yours truly of the much coveted Blyton books and thereby adding to my proud collection.
Life back then seemed simple and magical. Now as an adult I have moved on to seemingly “adult” authors befitting my ‘adultness’ but I find the emotions and characters portrayed too complex; a myriad of complexities and turbulences. These books portray the real world as it is and the people with their deep labyrinth of emotions with or without the quintessential ending of “all’s well that ends well”. I, however, admit that I love books and I now read the work of different authors ranging from classical ones to new modern writers and I do enjoy reading most of the pieces. But that day as I read the Blyton books in quick succession I felt that the charm and innocence of these books were far more appealing than the variety I read now. It was as if suddenly the belief in the goodness of humanity reinstated in my mind again obliterating the harsh reality of being a part of the adult world.
That afternoon was an escape into the “Happy Land of Far Far Away” where all my old friends (different characters from the Blyton books) came alive and we all had a great time together. But alas! It was time for me to go back to the mundane reality. My brief sojourn that day made me realize that life is short and memories are the only treasure I will be able to hold on to forever. In my case my old Blyton books acted as a catalyst triggering off old and fond reminiscences of my past and I hope everyone will discover their own means of recollecting their memories time and again.
I love you Enid Blyton. I love you too Paulo Coelho. But dear Readers! Give me plain ol’ Blyton any day.
Yours truly……
