BLYTONIA UTOPIA

Enid Blyton, she evokes my childhood memories like none other. Friendships, picnic baskets, pet parrots, pet dogs, mystery, secrets and adventures. I'd read them all and at one point of time even longed to go to school at St. Clare's or Malory Towers.

I would snub anyone who told me that these were fictional places. Such was my devotion to the goddess of children's story books. Over my school going years I collected a few, and read almost all from the local library.

Decades later, I would read them anytime when I needed another world to escape into, from the harsh reality of this one. And time itself would rewind back to my own childhood when I thought that everything was 'Sunshine and Roses'.

So excessive was my fondness for Enid Blyton stories, that, during the pandemic I went around looking for books which wanted a new home. And I found plenty during my search.

There were an abundance of enthusiasts like myself who had grown their collection over the years. These books were up for sales at discounted rates. Some vintage and some out-of-print editions.

An exchange of a few words and interaction with the sellers who were in their teens broke my heart.

They were parting with their childhood favourites in these dire times.

Should I buy them? Shouldn't I? I was in a fix. Even if I don't buy them, there would definitely be another taker...or two.

While parting ways with them with a load in my arms and double that in my heart, I assured the little ones that the books were going to a forever home where they would find a special place in my bookshelf. They would be taken care of as lovingly as they had been cherished all this time.

Once home, I had moist eyes as I held these books close to my heart

It wasn't quite a happy day whenever I encountered deals like these; Desperate times, Desperate measures...

Everytime I open these books to read, I see their names on the books written with their own handwriting or with printed labels and wonder how lovingly these books had been bought for them at one point of time.

These very books had come to my rescue when the world around seemed so crippling. Life had slowly jolted to a standstill...but I? I pulled out a 'Wishing Chair Collection' hopped onto it and went on an imaginary joy ride flying through the air with 'Chinky the Pixie'. Or up a Faraway Tree or to meet the Magic Folk.

Written in all simplicity, I still get lost in the world where nothing can ever go wrong. I can live on a farm, on a treetop, in the cabins, in the mountains, in a castle or a cloud. With a swish of a wand, I can create whatever I want to. Rainbows, sun rays, moonbeams, candies, cookies,... Happy endings too.

It's my 'Blyton'ia Utopia!

(487 words)

©️ Sangeetha Kamath

Pic Courtesy:Pixabay

Comments

CHAPTER 1: THE JADE SHAMBHALA

This post is Chapter 1 of short story series titled The Jade Shambhala. Tasseography is as old as time. The stories in the tea leaves will leave you in a spin, while the healing tea that precedes it anchors you like gripping oak roots. Every day for the next seven days, Xiu-Ying will welcome a new traveler seeking refuge from their heavy burdens, reading their futures in the settled leaves and guiding them toward peace as the seasons shift on the ridge. Welcome to The Jade Shambhala Tea House! CHAPTER 1 EARLY SPRING Ko-San Tê Bai Mudan (White Peony and Red Dates) The morning mist in the rolling hills of the 1980s Taiwanese countryside did not rise; it dissolved, burning away into thin silver threads under the persistent warmth of the early spring sun. The Yun-Shan Ridge grew f...

CHẠ̀WKHRĀW (Chxw̒kh rxw̒)

As usual, at the dot of 8 pm, the Guzheng plays its stirring chords, the haunting notes beginning a slow sweep, rising to a powerful crescendo and alternating with a tranquil ebbing of melody surfing me along the waves of soul-stirring, yet a serene stretch of an hour every day. I make it a point to sit right beside my dining room window to bask in this lulling sound therapy as my neighbor downstairs diligently plays on this zither, oblivious to my admiration. What a luxury it is to have a live orchestra while I savour the last meal of the day. It's a welcome distraction to the otherwise jarring squabbling of the playful neighbourhood children. The Chạ̀wkhrāw of this– that the musical household might move one day is a foreboding thought. Foreshadowing this, deeply ingrained in me is the shattering news I had received upon returning to Singapore after an 8 month absence here. The Ramadan festive season was fast approaching at the end of March but the apar...

HIRAETH

Most rainy afternoons make me jog down memory lane, to the rhythm of the downpours that cascades down in sheets. And I slacken to the percussion of the raindrops tapping against my window pane. Flashes of memories of the halcyon days of the mid 1970’s come back to find me, to haunt me like mists hanging heavy and still. My only solace at this juncture are my vintage albums. The windows to the past and my very own time machine. Mulling over the pictures, I pen her a tribute: Once upon a time, there was a time when photos were Black & White, Monochrome, Sepia But the trees in your backyard were a much Idyllic Green--Verdant, Jade, and Lime. The fire in your hearth, a sunset Orange--red-hot, Amber and glimmering as you stoked it. The skies, immensely boundless, a much Pristine Blue--Cornflower, Sapphire and Azure, As you pointed out to me the floating frothy clouds, the eagles gliding with their fanned out wings; Or the occasional lone airplane soaring dominantly, a tiny speck hi...

CHAPTER 2: THE JADE SHAMBHALA

This is a part of a short story series titled The Jade Shambhala. 7 days, 7 stories, 7 different exotic tea blends from the Far East and unique tea leaves reading for each. Welcome to the tea house! CHAPTER 2 LUNAR NEW YEAR Kim-huan Tê ( Golden Lily Oolong) The early spring air hanging over Sian-Phô village was heavy, smelling faintly of spent sulfur from the Lunar New Year firecrackers and the cold, sharp scent of wet pine needles. Up on the Yun-Shan Ridge, the festive red lanterns hanging from the eaves of the low wooden cottages were damp and water-logged, their brilliant scarlet dye bleeding slowly into the persistent gray mountain mist. The holiday had just ended, and while the rest of the village was settling into the quiet hope of a new agricultural...

QUEST FOR THE BEARS (DAY 18, LETTER Q)

CHAPTER 17 QUEST FOR THE BEARS The next day, the pigs trotted off to spread mischief in the woodland, their ricky-ticky steps scuffing the damp path into a mess of overturned leaves and broken twigs. Goldwynn stayed crouched behind the wonky rain barrel until the sound of their pig-trouble thinned, then thinned again, then dissolved into the larger quiet of the trees. She didn’t move right away. The woods had a way of listening after the pigs left, as if it wasn’t sure they were truly gone. The air held its breath with her. When she finally stood, the silence felt heavier than noise. No birds called. The light came down in broken pieces, the sun playing hide-and-seek through beech and alder, dappling the forest floor with spools of pale gold. The ground under her boots was soft and cold, a black earth that smelled of truffles gone to rot and old rain. It stuck to ...

Sangeetha Kamath

Search This Blog