Why does anyone read? Is it a primeval desire to know someone else’s story, the curiosity to know how someone else has fared in a like situation? Or is it the desire to be transported to some realm of fantasy where you can flit around until you are ready to come back to terra firma? Is reading a kind of opium? Why this compulsion? Why? If it isn’t reading it is watching, some media to know the other life than one’s own. Probably, the grannies perpetuated this desire to read with their knack of spinning wondrous tales that kept children mesmerized. I remember when I first started reading. I grew motherless, brought up by a paternal grandfather. I learnt my alphabets early and built up quite a vocabulary early (unfortunately it has stagnated now). So my father used to bring me illustrated children’s books to keep me occupied. It was probably a ruse to keep me from thinking about my mother. Nevertheless, it worked. My first book was one of fairy tales. That was when I got hooked. I lived, played and supped with fairies and elves all my childhood life. Enid Blyton gave me sustenance. Then I joined the secret seven band and the famous five troupe. I remember spending several days thinking of my own passwords. The taste of their favourite drink, lemonade, still lingers raking up nostalgic memories. Then I was Heidi for a long long time roaming the hills with grandpa and the goats. For quite a while the hayloft was my preferred bed.

Ambuli mama has always been a hot favourite. What endeared it to me first were the colourful illustrations. You have men and horses who always seem to be on the move with their sashes and tails flapping bringing a gust of wind in their wake. My childhood days were peopled with all these fictitious characters and figments from my imagination. It was a wild childhood unfettered by parental admonitions, except for a fond grandfather who loved me dearly and let me live my life. (To continue….)