The cast of characters comes to life from the pages of books revisited

Somewhere between the unleashing of the beast that is social media and surmounting entire piles of work, I had inadvertently given the habit of reading a break. So I decided to make a conscious effort to steer myself in the direction of the bookshelf. Most recently, I completed Bookless In Baghdad, an anthology of essays by Shashi Tharoor aptly subtitled “writings about reading”. The first piece revolves around his own reading graph and a particular passage on ‘Malory Towers’ planted me on a path nostalgia.

If Enid Blyton was as big a part of your childhood as mine, I’m certain it is her ability to make ordinary food sound extraordinarily delicious that continues to linger in your mind. I am vegetarian and often find it difficult to digest the fact that a majority of the human race consumes meat. However, when Blyton writes of potted salmon and shrimp paste, somehow I develop a craving, without ever having tasted either delicacy.

In ‘Five Go off to Camp’ she writes: They all sat down to dinner. There was a big meat-pie, a cold ham, salad, potatoes in their jackets, and homemade pickles. It really was difficult to know what to choose. “Have some of both,” said Mrs. Andrews, cutting the meat-pie. “Begin with the pie and go on with the ham. That’s the best of living on a farm, you know -- you do get plenty to eat.” After the first course there were plums and thick cream, or jam tarts and the same cream.

If that fails to cook up your appetite, I don't think anything ever will.

Today, one of my favourite genres is what is oft- referred to as the ‘whodunnit’. It is fair to say that Blyton was the one who got me hooked with her ‘Five Findouters’ (and subsequently the ‘Famous Five’ and the ‘Secret Seven’) series. It describes the exploits of five children who spend their summers solving a seemingly inexhaustible plethora of mysteries in a sleepy little village called Peterswood. I was a stubborn child, and I remember refusing to use the services of a lending library because I wanted to own the books. In fact, even when we visited bookstores, I insisted on letting my parents make purchases only if the paperback editions published by Egmont were available -- simply because I adored the illustrations on their book jackets and wanted to add a touch of aesthetic to my bookshelf.

While the works I’ve mentioned thus far are amongst the more popular, there are two relatively lesser known series I’d like to momentarily dwell on — titled ‘The Young Adventurers’ and ‘The Secret Series’. I have managed to read only two novels from each, owing to my inability to locate copies of the others despite having searched high and low for nearly ten years now. (That meant making enquiries at every bookstore in every city I visit. And yes, I have checked every e-commerce vendor out there and no, they don't stock it.)

The first is about a pair of twins with a penchant for getting embroiled in all sorts of conundrums. Their parents die during the course of the series. As a child of barely seven or eight, this was the first time I’d encountered tragedy of this scale in a work of literary fiction, and understandably, it took me quite a while to wrap my head around the idea. However,

when I did, I realised that not once has Blyton ever included murder as an element supporting the plot in her ‘mysteries’.

The protagonists of the Secret Series, meanwhile, are three children who are ill-treated by their aunt and uncle because their parents are presumed dead. They befriend an orphan named Jack, and together a plan is hatched to run away to an island and spend the rest of their lives there — without ever pausing to think about how they could possibly survive beyond a couple of months in the wilderness. Neither did I.

Which brings me to observe that in order to truly enjoy Enid Blyton, you have to willingly suspend disbelief — impish pixies, brownies and grumpy gnomes are all part of the deal. I think this is what empowers you to imagine — not just visualise, but imagine. Of course, this comes effortlessly to children, her primary audience, but there comes a stage when we cannot but move on; and so did I. Years later, I did begin to notice the mildly racist undertones in some of her writing as has been pointed out in the recent past, but every time I catch buttered scones on a restaurant menu I cannot help but wistfully remember the lady who made me fall in love with reading.

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