Fairly a Fairy Day

On a recent trip to Matunga, I happened to pick up an author whom I haven’t read for almost eleven years – Enid Blyton. I bought myself Happy Hours Story Book on the spur of the moment and as an indulgence. A second hand, hard bound, coloured-by-former-owner book, reminiscent of childhood.

I couldn’t wait to read it, so I settled myself on the steps of a grocery store, the owner of which didn’t mind strange women occupying such spaces, and read the first story. At once I was reminded of the simple storylines, the natural twists in the tale and the utter joy of a storyteller at work.

I was given one of the volumes of The Secret Seven – my first Enid Blyton ever – after I turned six. It lay on a carved wooden table in the living room and being a very shy child I wandered around the blue book for quite some time like a curious puppy. After the parents had retired to their cares, I finally approached the book, took it to a corner of the house where I was sure no one would come and read the first chapter.

And after that, I went on to read some thirty odd books by Enid Blyton. All second hand, all mine.

I of course read the remaining staple for children – the Tinkles, the Champaks, the Gokulams, the Chandamamas. With Blyton and her very English world of lamb and apple sauce, women named Miss Plum, stockings, currant cake, grouse bushes, promenades, piers and children who went to snow peaked mountains for convalescence – it hardly felt alien at all. Perhaps, one of the achievements as a writer is to be able to tell a story that captivates irrespective of locale and specificity.

Happy Hours Story Book is part of a collection of books by Enid Blyton featuring brownies, fairies, pixies, wizards and witches. So, for a woman who is nearing thirty and who was obsessed with fairies for a major part of that life, I must say I was very happy reading Oh, Flibberty-Gibberty under a November sun.