Bookworm

The first real book I ever read was written by Enid Blyton. While I don’t remember the title, I know this book was from The Blue Dragon Series: Books for Very Young Children. At the time, I was “six and a half and a bit.”

Up until then I read and re-read a well worn compilation of stories by the Brothers Grimm and Anderson. I had reached a point where I could recite their tales, one after another, without so much as looking at the book, making me sound quite like those cassettes which accompanied Read-Out-Loud books.

It was my dad’s idea to take me to Kings Circle so we could buy second hand books from the street vendors who sold them. He talked about it for days and each time he mentioned it, I got more excited. “There are so many books for you to read!” He said, “There’s The Adventures of The Secret Seven, and Famous Five, and the Five Find-outers.” He paused and recollected, “St.Clare’s, Mallory Towers.”

I remember being very impressed. He knew so much.

“Have you read all of them daddy?” I asked him.

“Yes, when I was a boy. My brother and I, we used to read a lot. Not Mallory Towers and St.Clare’s though, those are girls books,” he added, “But you can read those too.”

Gosh! So many books! I had thought to myself. I’ll be an old woman by the time I’m done reading all of them.

***

I remember the day we got on the bus headed for Bombay’s bustling suburb where I would finally get my first Enid Blyton. I could barely contain my excitement as I spent the bus-ride bargaining with my father.

“Will you buy for me five books?” I asked.

“Let’s start with one,” he said looking amused.

I was sorely disappointed for a few seconds but continued undeterred.

“Will you buy for me four books?” I asked.

“Let’s see how many they have.” He said.

Even back then I couldn’t argue in the face of logic, what if he had only one book. I sat and stared out of the window. I wondered if there would be princesses and evil step-mothers, witches and so on. Thoughts of the wonders those pages might hold kept me preoccupied as we got off the bus and walked towards the little store on the sidewalk.

I vaguely remember my dad talking to the vendor, asking him if he had any books for children, preferably by Enid Blyton. The man reached into a pile, dusted a book and handed it over to my father. It was blue and worn. The dog-eared edges straightened out from sitting snugly between other books in the pile.

I loved blue.

If the book was blue, it had to be wonderful.

I was sure of it.

I tried reaching for it as he looked it over.

“Wait.” I felt so impatient.

As he paid for it, I tried my luck once again, “Only one?”

“Yes. For now. We’ll buy you more when you’re done with this one.”

I remember us meeting my mother and possibly going to the Aastik Samaj Temple. But more than anything, I remember the bus ride back home. It was late and the buses were running fairly empty. I had my very fist book in my hand which I opened up to the first page and pretended to read.

It felt like such a fantastically important thing to do. Needless to say I didn’t read a single word, leave alone a line. That bus ride was all about posing with my book. All I did was revel in the glory of the moment and pretend to be all grown up. I had in my hands my first book, without ANY pictures.

I was officially a big girl.

Over the years, my father has bought me many wonderful things. However, that book was the best gift he has given me to this day. My first “real book without any pictures.”

***

The first story, in the first book without any pictures is one I have never forgotten. It was about a brother and sister called Jane and Henry, who ventured up a hill one afternoon where they discovered a magic shop. They went inside and bought some alphabet biscuits which the storekeeper warned them were magical, so they must eat them carefully. The little boy, who was more reckless than the little girl (an idea which agreed with my personal reflections on boys at the time) went ahead and ate three biscuits and promptly started sprouting feathers and grew a beak. He had turned into a chicken! His sister soon realized that the three biscuits he had eaten were shaped like the letters H, E, and N. Since they were magic biscuits, he had turned into a HEN! So what clever little Jane did was search through the biscuit bag and until she found two more biscuits. She made her hen-brother eat them, and voila! He was HEN-RY again!

I thought it was sheer genius. I went on about it for days, telling everyone I met the story of Jane, Henry and the Magic Biscuits.

There was no looking back after that day.

I read whatever I could, whenever I could. Books became my constant companions, my measure of time and maturity. To this day, every memory I recall, I associate with the book I was reading at the time. And the books dearest to me, have such strong identities. They smell different and feel different at my fingertips and in the palms of my hand. They often feel heavier and lighter than they appear depending on the power of the story contained within the covers.

Why many have been the times when I have felt like a complete stranger in a place and had my confidence restored only when I reached into my bag and felt the familiar edges of a book I have accompanying me.
It always feels like holding hands with a dear friend.

Books have determined who I have befriended and who I have loved. I have lived in them, gone to them seeking counsel, warmth, and reassurance. I have laughed and cried with them, and unknowingly memorized sentences spun by mesmerizing wordsmiths until their identity became indistinguishable from my own.

When I was a little girl I thought I would be an old woman by the time I was done reading all the books there were to read. Today I know the more you read, the younger you feel.

If we are the sum of our experiences, the greatest factor in the equation that is me has come from the books I read.