A couple of nights ago, as we were making our usual torturous, slow march towards the kids' bedtime, I suddenly found myself hollering: "And remember you have to brush every one of your teeth. Not just the ones in front".
As soon as the words escaped my mouth, I realised I had never in my life thought I'd ever need to say anything quite like that. An exchange of this kind would sound so very peculiar to someone who has never been a parent. But to any mother of typical, scraggly pre-teen boys, that sentence is nothing out of the ordinary.
Every time my father overhears me saying something that bizarre to my kids, he guffaws and refers to the 1960 Doris Day classic Please Don't Eat the Daisies. Now that movie title would flummox most, but never a parent of young children. To a mum or dad it sounds like a completely sane and reasonable request to the imps.
As a parent, you do honestly catch yourself saying the strangest things every once in a while. Like I distinctly remember telling one of my boys once not to lick the banister. And another time to kindly not try to stuff his head into a dog's mouth. And to please not press the elevator buttons with the nose. And to please not use his teeth to pick litter off the carpet. And to please not leave shoe prints on the ceiling by tossing footwear up every night. And to please not chuck the school uniform out of the sixth floor window when changing. And to please learn to ignore the monster he imagines is standing behind him when he is in the shower (this at lunch today).
If you're not a parent, yes, our breed does say the darndest things. If you are a parent, please share some of the gems in your "things you never thought you'd say" collection.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Nightgowns kill taste-of-home glow
It felt very much like being home this Wednesday; like being in faraway India. A hot (albeit comparatively benevolent) sun had been beating down all day. The asphalt glittered in the glare. A strong warm breeze raced through leafy avenues, knocking planters over and blowing the lids off litter bins lined up along the kerbs for garbage collection day. The wind wrestled stray bits of garbage out of the bins, dry leaves and clumps of mowed grass out of yard waste bags and tossed them around the streets.
Coming after a long stretch of a gray, wet spring, this was all very welcome. Smiles were back on the faces of passers-by, as was a leisurely gait, replacing the tight, crumpled expressions and urgent pace of walking through frigid air. Ah, it was nice. And it reminded me so much of home.
The icing on the cake of the uninterrupted Indian experience was dinner at China Cottage. Don't be misled by the name. China Cottage is as Chinese as paneer pakora. This is a Hakka Chinese chain of restaurants, as far removed from authentic Chinese cuisine as India's ubiquitous chicken manchurian. The pictures on the walls include the Taj Mahal. Hindi film songs from the 1950s and 1960s waft through the air. The clientele is almost entirely South Asian. And sickly-sweet, congealed sweet-and-sour dishes fly out of the kitchen faster than you can say bhel puri.
So there we were sitting back, letting this overwhelming feel and taste of home wash over us when in walked another Indian family and immediately our nostalgic trip came to a dramatic screeching halt, wheels throwing off sparks. The party in question consisted of a baby in a portable car seat, her mother, her father and the two grand moms. It was all very casual. The young couple wore tees and slacks, and their moms nightgowns. Yes, NIGHTGOWNS. For dinner at a restaurant.
The vision transported us right back to middle class New Delhi where auntyjis and matajis come out for their evening strolls in their billowing cotton nightgowns in gawdy prints. The only difference was the matajis at China Cottage in Toronto had shed the sheath of modesty that is the dupatta, casually draped over ample, sagging bosoms in New Delhi.
The spectacle immediately pushed our Indian high from a healthy dose to a potentially lethal overdose. We'd had enough of a taste of home. Thanks, matajis, for killing the afterglow.
Coming after a long stretch of a gray, wet spring, this was all very welcome. Smiles were back on the faces of passers-by, as was a leisurely gait, replacing the tight, crumpled expressions and urgent pace of walking through frigid air. Ah, it was nice. And it reminded me so much of home.
The icing on the cake of the uninterrupted Indian experience was dinner at China Cottage. Don't be misled by the name. China Cottage is as Chinese as paneer pakora. This is a Hakka Chinese chain of restaurants, as far removed from authentic Chinese cuisine as India's ubiquitous chicken manchurian. The pictures on the walls include the Taj Mahal. Hindi film songs from the 1950s and 1960s waft through the air. The clientele is almost entirely South Asian. And sickly-sweet, congealed sweet-and-sour dishes fly out of the kitchen faster than you can say bhel puri.
So there we were sitting back, letting this overwhelming feel and taste of home wash over us when in walked another Indian family and immediately our nostalgic trip came to a dramatic screeching halt, wheels throwing off sparks. The party in question consisted of a baby in a portable car seat, her mother, her father and the two grand moms. It was all very casual. The young couple wore tees and slacks, and their moms nightgowns. Yes, NIGHTGOWNS. For dinner at a restaurant.
The vision transported us right back to middle class New Delhi where auntyjis and matajis come out for their evening strolls in their billowing cotton nightgowns in gawdy prints. The only difference was the matajis at China Cottage in Toronto had shed the sheath of modesty that is the dupatta, casually draped over ample, sagging bosoms in New Delhi.
The spectacle immediately pushed our Indian high from a healthy dose to a potentially lethal overdose. We'd had enough of a taste of home. Thanks, matajis, for killing the afterglow.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
A pointless, premature ritual?
Popularised in Thatcher-era Britain and enthusiastically embraced in Indian polity, "TINA", it appears, is coming home to roost in Canada. So far it seems there is no alternative (TINA) to ousted prime minister Stephen Harper. Canadian voters will most likely wake up on May 3 to see they've gone through another premature and expensive election the previous day just to return Harper to office.
This is the first time I'm in the midst of an election without feeling an emotional tug towards any side. This cold objectivity is actually quite refreshing. As a non-Canadian in Canada I am sort of on the outside looking in, though I am in the general vicinity. It sure is fun.
I just watched the first televised debate between the leaders of the four major parties - Harper representing his Conservative Party, Michael Ignatieff of the Liberal Party, Jack Layton of the New Democratic Party (NDP) and Gilles Duceppe of the Bloc Quebecois. To be brutally honest, the debate was a little dull. There were no fireworks. There was very little charisma. And there wasn't much conviction.
You see, I am used to the very shrill, colourful and chaotic Indian general election. Now that is electrifying and extremely entertaining. There are scores of parties, thousands of candidates. There is high drama at every turn. There is no possibility of a televised debate. Imagine if a representative of every party with an MP in the outgoing Parliament was allowed to participate (that's the criterion for the Canadian TV debate). For the current Lok Sabha (lower house of Indian Parliament), that would be 38 debaters! In contrast, this was a very Canadian affair - restrained, polite and, er, dull.
Going by the Liberal Party's past record, Ignatieff is the challenger with the best shot at knocking Harper off the throne. But it's hard to take the man seriously. Even if you don't let Harper's vilification campaign through TV ads sway you, it is impossible to completely trust Ignatieff. The man seems like an ageing party boy. And I don't know why, each time he took the floor during the debate I kept seeing Dubya Bush! No, Ignatieff isn't as thick. But there's just something about the man that is so much like W. And it came as no surprise to me when NDP's Layton pointed out that the Liberal leader had played hooky through most sessions of the just dissolved Parliament. (See, there's the party boy).
To me, Layton came across as the most credible and sincere of the lot. Now I don't know much about the man. This is my outsider's perspective, judging just by his debate performance. But his NDP just doesn't have enough following to propel him to office.
As for Duceppe, he needn't have been there at all. It was Quebec vs Canada all the way. Harper was the only debater who mentioned on a few occasions that Duceppe's Bloc hopes to break the country. It reminded me of Kashmir and India, seeing how Quebec is treated with kid gloves; how Quebec doesn't agree with the rest of Canada's belief in celebrating multiculturalism; how it keeps telling Ottawa to back off or else....
Now for Harper. It is ironic that this much reviled man completely lacking in people skills still has the best chance of returning to the prime minister's office. Harper's is the first government to be held in contempt by Canadian Parliament for allegedly misleading the legislature on government expenditure. The Liberals moved the no-confidence motion, specifically over federal spending on fighter jets and construction of mammoth prisons.
When I came to this country in May last year and spoke to people about the government, not one person had anything nice to say about Harper. So I asked how on earth he got elected to the highest political office in the land. "There was no one else," was the unanimous response.
TINA favoured Harper in 2008. Looks like it might do so again in May 2011. That's how I call it. If I'm wrong, at least this election will become a little more entertaining.
This is the first time I'm in the midst of an election without feeling an emotional tug towards any side. This cold objectivity is actually quite refreshing. As a non-Canadian in Canada I am sort of on the outside looking in, though I am in the general vicinity. It sure is fun.
I just watched the first televised debate between the leaders of the four major parties - Harper representing his Conservative Party, Michael Ignatieff of the Liberal Party, Jack Layton of the New Democratic Party (NDP) and Gilles Duceppe of the Bloc Quebecois. To be brutally honest, the debate was a little dull. There were no fireworks. There was very little charisma. And there wasn't much conviction.
You see, I am used to the very shrill, colourful and chaotic Indian general election. Now that is electrifying and extremely entertaining. There are scores of parties, thousands of candidates. There is high drama at every turn. There is no possibility of a televised debate. Imagine if a representative of every party with an MP in the outgoing Parliament was allowed to participate (that's the criterion for the Canadian TV debate). For the current Lok Sabha (lower house of Indian Parliament), that would be 38 debaters! In contrast, this was a very Canadian affair - restrained, polite and, er, dull.
Going by the Liberal Party's past record, Ignatieff is the challenger with the best shot at knocking Harper off the throne. But it's hard to take the man seriously. Even if you don't let Harper's vilification campaign through TV ads sway you, it is impossible to completely trust Ignatieff. The man seems like an ageing party boy. And I don't know why, each time he took the floor during the debate I kept seeing Dubya Bush! No, Ignatieff isn't as thick. But there's just something about the man that is so much like W. And it came as no surprise to me when NDP's Layton pointed out that the Liberal leader had played hooky through most sessions of the just dissolved Parliament. (See, there's the party boy).
To me, Layton came across as the most credible and sincere of the lot. Now I don't know much about the man. This is my outsider's perspective, judging just by his debate performance. But his NDP just doesn't have enough following to propel him to office.
As for Duceppe, he needn't have been there at all. It was Quebec vs Canada all the way. Harper was the only debater who mentioned on a few occasions that Duceppe's Bloc hopes to break the country. It reminded me of Kashmir and India, seeing how Quebec is treated with kid gloves; how Quebec doesn't agree with the rest of Canada's belief in celebrating multiculturalism; how it keeps telling Ottawa to back off or else....
Now for Harper. It is ironic that this much reviled man completely lacking in people skills still has the best chance of returning to the prime minister's office. Harper's is the first government to be held in contempt by Canadian Parliament for allegedly misleading the legislature on government expenditure. The Liberals moved the no-confidence motion, specifically over federal spending on fighter jets and construction of mammoth prisons.
When I came to this country in May last year and spoke to people about the government, not one person had anything nice to say about Harper. So I asked how on earth he got elected to the highest political office in the land. "There was no one else," was the unanimous response.
TINA favoured Harper in 2008. Looks like it might do so again in May 2011. That's how I call it. If I'm wrong, at least this election will become a little more entertaining.
Friday, January 21, 2011
No news, good news for a nation
Coming from a crowded, disparate, chaotic nation like India where there's always something sensational going on and whose broadsheets don't have enough column inches to accommodate all the screaming headlines, it is taking me the longest time to adjust to bland Canadian newspapers. I still open the paper every morning and wonder "where's the news?".
In the eight months I've been in this country, there has been little of consequence to report. The biggest story was the police excesses on demonstrators during the G-20 summit in Toronto last year. Before the summit there were daily reports on just how much money the government was spending on the affair. In the past week it's been all about the shocking death of a policeman mowed down by a crazed man who stole a snow plow. Once in a while you hear of some corruption scandal. Reports appear now and then about tragic Canadian casualties in Afghanistan. And there was the Toronto mayoral election in October. That's it - since May of 2010.
These were all on exceptional, heavy news days. On an average day, it's quite amusing to see what the front pages here are filled with. There are gripes in bold print about a likely hike of $20-30 in an annual utility bill. In the summer there were a slew of reports on how the city wasn't allowing people to make money off golfers parking in their driveways during a golf tournament at a course that couldn't accommodate too many cars. Once there was something about a woman getting into trouble with the city over widening her driveway. Transit issues, understandably, make frequent appearances. And then there's hockey.
Hardly any national politics from Ottawa makes its way into front pages in Toronto. The most frequent (and I use the term "frequent" loosely here) issue raised is Canadians' concern over Prime Minister Stephen Harper's foreign policies alienating the country further from the rest of the world.
For actual news, you have to turn to the world pages.
Things are the same with television news. One morning a livestock truck overturned on a ramp coming off a busy highway and spilled its load of pigs. There were long discussions on breakfast news programmes about the incident and the conversation then led to the psyche of pigs! The anchors discussed how the pigs would be too traumatised to be herded in a hurry into another truck that had arrived on the scene. Apart from weather and traffic, breaking news here is generally about crime - both petty and serious.
While it's all slightly amusing to the erstwhile journalist in me, it got me thinking that this lack of news is definitely very news good for Canada. It means there is no serious malaise plaguing the country. If you can go on for hours, even days, discussing a rare power outage, the country must be in fairly good shape. There is no strife being reported, so all the diverse communities that make up this nation must be getting along reasonably well. Reports of serious corruption aren't common, so people in public service must be doing their jobs fairly sincerely. There aren't daily gripes and protests about things affecting everyday life, so infrastructure and basic services must be fairly well organised.
Wouldn't it be great if Indian papers and TV news bulletins also became as bland some day? Wouldn't it feel good not to wake up to reports of another politician shamelessly abusing power, or one community attacking another over a trivial matter? Wouldn't it be nice to surmise from the absence of "news" that our country is, for the most part, functioning as it should - efficiently, honestly, peacefully?
In the eight months I've been in this country, there has been little of consequence to report. The biggest story was the police excesses on demonstrators during the G-20 summit in Toronto last year. Before the summit there were daily reports on just how much money the government was spending on the affair. In the past week it's been all about the shocking death of a policeman mowed down by a crazed man who stole a snow plow. Once in a while you hear of some corruption scandal. Reports appear now and then about tragic Canadian casualties in Afghanistan. And there was the Toronto mayoral election in October. That's it - since May of 2010.
These were all on exceptional, heavy news days. On an average day, it's quite amusing to see what the front pages here are filled with. There are gripes in bold print about a likely hike of $20-30 in an annual utility bill. In the summer there were a slew of reports on how the city wasn't allowing people to make money off golfers parking in their driveways during a golf tournament at a course that couldn't accommodate too many cars. Once there was something about a woman getting into trouble with the city over widening her driveway. Transit issues, understandably, make frequent appearances. And then there's hockey.
Hardly any national politics from Ottawa makes its way into front pages in Toronto. The most frequent (and I use the term "frequent" loosely here) issue raised is Canadians' concern over Prime Minister Stephen Harper's foreign policies alienating the country further from the rest of the world.
For actual news, you have to turn to the world pages.
Things are the same with television news. One morning a livestock truck overturned on a ramp coming off a busy highway and spilled its load of pigs. There were long discussions on breakfast news programmes about the incident and the conversation then led to the psyche of pigs! The anchors discussed how the pigs would be too traumatised to be herded in a hurry into another truck that had arrived on the scene. Apart from weather and traffic, breaking news here is generally about crime - both petty and serious.
While it's all slightly amusing to the erstwhile journalist in me, it got me thinking that this lack of news is definitely very news good for Canada. It means there is no serious malaise plaguing the country. If you can go on for hours, even days, discussing a rare power outage, the country must be in fairly good shape. There is no strife being reported, so all the diverse communities that make up this nation must be getting along reasonably well. Reports of serious corruption aren't common, so people in public service must be doing their jobs fairly sincerely. There aren't daily gripes and protests about things affecting everyday life, so infrastructure and basic services must be fairly well organised.
Wouldn't it be great if Indian papers and TV news bulletins also became as bland some day? Wouldn't it feel good not to wake up to reports of another politician shamelessly abusing power, or one community attacking another over a trivial matter? Wouldn't it be nice to surmise from the absence of "news" that our country is, for the most part, functioning as it should - efficiently, honestly, peacefully?
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Cherry and the blinding technicolour dreamcoats
As Indians we've grown up gossiping about Bappi Lahiri and his dazzling, if aesthetically challenged, wardrobe. If ever India could nominate someone for the popular television series What Not to Wear, Bappi da would probably top the list of possible candidates for the makeover show. I thought a man's wardrobe couldn't get much more shocking. Boy, was I wrong!
Thousands of miles away, halfway around the world, there is an iconic man who could potentially make Bappi da appear conservative in his sartorial choices. It's Canadian hockey legend Don Cherry, a commentator with big attitude and blinding blazers. The first time I saw him on television, Halloween was around the corner and I thought he'd worn his dazzling plaid jacket in the spirit of the outlandish season. Not quite, I was informed. He always dresses like that when appearing on the sports channels for hockey games.
I'm surprised Cherry's vision hasn't failed him after years of facing his blinding closet day after day. Among other gems he possesses is a plaid blazer in all the colours of the rainbow, and every hue in between. Plaid is clearly his favourite. He has plaid jackets in every colour imaginable. Cherry also loves going floral. The most memorable specimen from the floral collection are a white jacket with carnations all over, a blue one with daisies and another with gerbera. (You can see a few of them here - http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/multimedia/photo_gallery/0805/don.cherry.fashion.statements/content.1.html). On days when he chooses a fairly conservative suit or jacket, he embellishes with elaborate headgear.
Here's what inspired this blog post. I was watching a comedy show this afternoon when on came Bowser & Blue. Catch their act here - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HOuO2S5MjyE&feature=BF&list=UL4Jn87NUmHl0&index=20
So the song got me curious about the man behind the bedazzling blazers. And while I was reading up, there was a big "awwwwww" moment. You will never catch Cherry without a rose on his lapel every time he's on air. I'd wondered about that. Apparently the floral tribute is to his wife Rose, who passed away in 1997.
Anyway, how do you think Cherry rates against Bappi da, or Austin Powers?
Thousands of miles away, halfway around the world, there is an iconic man who could potentially make Bappi da appear conservative in his sartorial choices. It's Canadian hockey legend Don Cherry, a commentator with big attitude and blinding blazers. The first time I saw him on television, Halloween was around the corner and I thought he'd worn his dazzling plaid jacket in the spirit of the outlandish season. Not quite, I was informed. He always dresses like that when appearing on the sports channels for hockey games.
I'm surprised Cherry's vision hasn't failed him after years of facing his blinding closet day after day. Among other gems he possesses is a plaid blazer in all the colours of the rainbow, and every hue in between. Plaid is clearly his favourite. He has plaid jackets in every colour imaginable. Cherry also loves going floral. The most memorable specimen from the floral collection are a white jacket with carnations all over, a blue one with daisies and another with gerbera. (You can see a few of them here - http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/multimedia/photo_gallery/0805/don.cherry.fashion.statements/content.1.html). On days when he chooses a fairly conservative suit or jacket, he embellishes with elaborate headgear.
Here's what inspired this blog post. I was watching a comedy show this afternoon when on came Bowser & Blue. Catch their act here - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HOuO2S5MjyE&feature=BF&list=UL4Jn87NUmHl0&index=20
So the song got me curious about the man behind the bedazzling blazers. And while I was reading up, there was a big "awwwwww" moment. You will never catch Cherry without a rose on his lapel every time he's on air. I'd wondered about that. Apparently the floral tribute is to his wife Rose, who passed away in 1997.
Anyway, how do you think Cherry rates against Bappi da, or Austin Powers?
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Out in the cold
There was once a woman who lived in the Indian capital. Every year as the leaves began to fall, as the days grew shorter and a chill permeated the air, she felt an inexplicable gloom descend on her. When winter set in in earnest, she hated that her hands, feet and the tip of her nose were always cold. She detested putting on layer after layer of clothing. She abhorred shivering inside her home even after bolting the doors and windows shut.
There were good winter moments too. Like sitting in the garden on a sunny afternoon, munching on roasted peanuts and sesame brittle (til patti). Rushing to the college cafeteria for a cup of sickeningly sweet tea, not to drink the brew but to clutch the hot cup in the hope of thawing the numb hands out after a freezing hour-long bus ride to the university. And year-end parties around bonfires.
But the good moments weren't enough to make her enjoy the north Indian winter. Her winter aversion was a standing joke in her family. Her father claimed that the woman in question put her woollies on in September and didn't shed them until March. I'd like to clarify here that he tends to exaggerate a bit for effect.
Then this woman (am sure you've figured by now that I'm speaking of myself) moved to one of the coldest regions in the world. Her family couldn't stop laughing (especially her brother)! The prospect of Rupa braving a frigid Canadian winter was just too amusing. It didn't matter that the move was to Toronto, which is one of the warmest places in this country any given time of year. I have to admit that the thought of winter did scare me. Acclimating to the cold was always going to be the single biggest challenge for me.
But here I am, making my way into my maiden Canadian winter, and quite enjoying it. Yes, you read it correctly the first time. Temperatures are already struggling to stay on the positive side of the Celsius scale. The lows have been dropping to -9 now and again. Next week they'll probably touch -12. And wind chill has been holding steady at -13 and will soon be -20. Frightening, if you just look at the figures.
But the fact is bearing the cold is so much easier in this part of the world. You are never, ever uncomfortable while indoors. And that makes all the difference. When you step out, you bundle up. You wear the right shoes, the right headgear and the right outerwear. And unless you're out for a day of winter sports, it's unlikely you will be exposed to the elements for prolonged periods. So you don't feel like a taxidermist's creation all the time, which is a big plus in my book. I absolutely despise being bundled up constantly. I feel constricted, stifled.
The few times you do step out here, you quite enjoy the crispness of the fresh, cold air. And because I'm obsessed with airing out the house, I open the door to the backyard for a few minutes most mornings when there's no one but me at home. It feels really good. And the house doesn't feel stifling and stale after that blast of freshness.
So I've realised that being out in this cold isn't as frightening as I'd feared. And that's certainly a very pleasant surprise.
There were good winter moments too. Like sitting in the garden on a sunny afternoon, munching on roasted peanuts and sesame brittle (til patti). Rushing to the college cafeteria for a cup of sickeningly sweet tea, not to drink the brew but to clutch the hot cup in the hope of thawing the numb hands out after a freezing hour-long bus ride to the university. And year-end parties around bonfires.
But the good moments weren't enough to make her enjoy the north Indian winter. Her winter aversion was a standing joke in her family. Her father claimed that the woman in question put her woollies on in September and didn't shed them until March. I'd like to clarify here that he tends to exaggerate a bit for effect.
Then this woman (am sure you've figured by now that I'm speaking of myself) moved to one of the coldest regions in the world. Her family couldn't stop laughing (especially her brother)! The prospect of Rupa braving a frigid Canadian winter was just too amusing. It didn't matter that the move was to Toronto, which is one of the warmest places in this country any given time of year. I have to admit that the thought of winter did scare me. Acclimating to the cold was always going to be the single biggest challenge for me.
But here I am, making my way into my maiden Canadian winter, and quite enjoying it. Yes, you read it correctly the first time. Temperatures are already struggling to stay on the positive side of the Celsius scale. The lows have been dropping to -9 now and again. Next week they'll probably touch -12. And wind chill has been holding steady at -13 and will soon be -20. Frightening, if you just look at the figures.
But the fact is bearing the cold is so much easier in this part of the world. You are never, ever uncomfortable while indoors. And that makes all the difference. When you step out, you bundle up. You wear the right shoes, the right headgear and the right outerwear. And unless you're out for a day of winter sports, it's unlikely you will be exposed to the elements for prolonged periods. So you don't feel like a taxidermist's creation all the time, which is a big plus in my book. I absolutely despise being bundled up constantly. I feel constricted, stifled.
The few times you do step out here, you quite enjoy the crispness of the fresh, cold air. And because I'm obsessed with airing out the house, I open the door to the backyard for a few minutes most mornings when there's no one but me at home. It feels really good. And the house doesn't feel stifling and stale after that blast of freshness.
So I've realised that being out in this cold isn't as frightening as I'd feared. And that's certainly a very pleasant surprise.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
A childhood without Aunt Enid?
The other day a friend and neighbour asked me at a kiddie party whether I had ever heard of Enid Blyton. Of course, I responded, finding the question a little peculiar. Her excitement at my response threw me completely. "Wow!" she gushed. "Finally someone who knows Enid Blyton!"
I was flummoxed. "Who doesn't know of Enid Blyton?" I asked. Mostly everyone in Canada, she responded. I refused to believe her. After all this country is very much part of the Commonwealth, which is the strongest market for Blyton's delightful children's books. So my friend called out to a young mother of 25 at the party and asked if she'd ever heard of Enid Blyton. No, never, came the reply. My jaw dropped. My friend then asked a couple of teenagers. The response was the same. I couldn't believe my ears.
I cannot envision a Blyton-less childhood. It couldn't be as magical. The world has produced few authors as prolific as Enid Blyton, who penned more than 600 books for kids and young adults in her four-decade career. Wikipedia tells me she is the fifth most translated author of all time, ranking just behind the legendary William Shakespeare. I believe her books have sold over 600 million copies worldwide. And they're still strong sellers more than four decades after her death.
Blyton gifted us some of our dearest childhood friends, including Noddy and his adorable gang. She made life in residential schools so very alluring with the Mallory Towers and St. Clare series. She brought adventure into our lives with Famous Five, Secret Seven and the Five Find-Outers. And she took our breath away with the Magic Faraway Tree and many other tales full of delightful characters.
The friend I refer to grew up in Guyana and moved to Canada about two decades ago. Her childhood, quite like mine, was punctuated with frequent Blyton moments. And she naturally wants to share that with her daughters. But it is apparently difficult to do so in this country because Enid Blyton books aren't readily available. That's something I haven't noticed. I suppose I took it for granted that all kids sections in all bookstores have shelves packed with Blyton's works. Apparently you have to place special orders for Blyton books here, and you don't always get what you ask for.
So perhaps I should make this a mission. Introduce at least a small section of kids to the treasure trove that is Enid Blyton's legacy. Indian city kids are definitely more fortunate on this count. Their parents grew up on Blyton and have made sure the kids haven't missed out on the magic of Aunt Enid.
I was flummoxed. "Who doesn't know of Enid Blyton?" I asked. Mostly everyone in Canada, she responded. I refused to believe her. After all this country is very much part of the Commonwealth, which is the strongest market for Blyton's delightful children's books. So my friend called out to a young mother of 25 at the party and asked if she'd ever heard of Enid Blyton. No, never, came the reply. My jaw dropped. My friend then asked a couple of teenagers. The response was the same. I couldn't believe my ears.
I cannot envision a Blyton-less childhood. It couldn't be as magical. The world has produced few authors as prolific as Enid Blyton, who penned more than 600 books for kids and young adults in her four-decade career. Wikipedia tells me she is the fifth most translated author of all time, ranking just behind the legendary William Shakespeare. I believe her books have sold over 600 million copies worldwide. And they're still strong sellers more than four decades after her death.
Blyton gifted us some of our dearest childhood friends, including Noddy and his adorable gang. She made life in residential schools so very alluring with the Mallory Towers and St. Clare series. She brought adventure into our lives with Famous Five, Secret Seven and the Five Find-Outers. And she took our breath away with the Magic Faraway Tree and many other tales full of delightful characters.
The friend I refer to grew up in Guyana and moved to Canada about two decades ago. Her childhood, quite like mine, was punctuated with frequent Blyton moments. And she naturally wants to share that with her daughters. But it is apparently difficult to do so in this country because Enid Blyton books aren't readily available. That's something I haven't noticed. I suppose I took it for granted that all kids sections in all bookstores have shelves packed with Blyton's works. Apparently you have to place special orders for Blyton books here, and you don't always get what you ask for.
So perhaps I should make this a mission. Introduce at least a small section of kids to the treasure trove that is Enid Blyton's legacy. Indian city kids are definitely more fortunate on this count. Their parents grew up on Blyton and have made sure the kids haven't missed out on the magic of Aunt Enid.
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