By Ashvani Sachdev
The doorbell rang a second time even as Aruna grappled with her slumber. Getting out of bed on a cold, clammy Delhi winter morning was not exactly pleasant; the fact that dawn was still battling with the fog outside made it more difficult. Who could it be at this hour? As a single parent, her fears included one of unwanted visitors. A precautious glance through the peephole assuaged her qualms; it was her father, his white, bushy walrus moustache embellished with beads of moisture, and his mouth emitting tiny, short lived clouds of vapour into the cold air. Aruna hastened to open the door and saw he was carrying a large, gift-wrapped package.
A big, fat ‘9’, pasted in blue, decorative ribbon on the side of the package, all bedecked in silver foil, reminded her of something that the alarm caused by the early morning doorbell ring had pushed back momentarily --- today was Agrima’s ninth birthday.
“Come in. Come in. Don’t stand out there in the cold!” she cried out, half entreaty, half command. Ushering him to a sofa, she turned on a heat convector and carefully aimed it at her father where he sat.
“You shouldn’t have started so early. Agrima is still asleep.”
“Wanted to surprise her as she awoke,” he grinned childishly. Aruna nodded, acknowledging in her mind the intense bond she sensed between her daughter and her father. As she set about preparing tea in the open kitchen, she asked, “What have you brought her this time? Another doll house?”
“No….she is a bit grown up for that!” To Aruna, the timbre betrayed a grandfatherly pride. “I brought her a set of 21 Enid Blyton books….the Famous Five series. She will love reading them, I am sure!”
Aruna clammed up in an eloquent silence. Her father turned to look at her in an effort to discover the cause of the palpable hush that now permeated the room. Her slight frown, the turned away gaze, and her still body….all deliberately conveyed her disapproval. Dutifully he ventured, “Something wrong?”
“Enid Blyton! For God’s sake! We don’t need Agrima reading books authored by a sexist, racist, xenophobic………”Aruna sputtered the last three words as if they were expletives, running out of breath abruptly as she looked at his stunned countenance. She watched his mouth opening to respond and then shutting again, his expression clearly betraying his disagreement to her. After a prudent pause, he said, “That is rather unkind. I practically grew up on Enid Blyton as a kid, and you know that! I would have made you read her books too except for the fact that your mother, God bless her soul, took charge of your school days, put her foot down, and did not let you read anything that was not in your school curriculum. You don’t know what you missed!”
Aruna was emphatic, “Did you know that BBC refused to dramatise her works in the 30s and 40s claiming it had no literary merit?”
“Yeah. But eventually BBC made a TV film called Enid and broadcast it in 2009! And her former house in Chessington has an English Heritage plaque on it. Now that is something!” “I know. But a couple of years ago there was talk of removing it because of public criticism of her racist writings.”
“Be that as it may, the plaque is still there! And the Heritage people have officially declared they have no intention of removing it,” he added emphatically.
A few moments of a quiet ceasefire was breached by Aruna, “Do you know the Royal Mint rejected a proposal to commemorate her a few years ago on a 50 p coin because the advisory committee found her writing racist, sexist, homophobic and mediocre.”
“That was just 4 or 5 years ago and by today’s value system, her writing can probably be labelled with all these gory labels. But what about when she actually wrote? I daresay it must have been appropriate, respectable, and conformant with contemporary values.” Aruna was momentarily silent, fumbling for a suitable riposte, and her father pressed on. “And that does not detract from the fact that she wrote around 700 books and sold more than half a billion copies of them world wide…..including to my school!” he offered with a grin, hoping for a durable armistice.
“But…..” Aruna started uncertainly and was interrupted.
“And after reading all her books, I have not become racist, sexist, xenophobic or whatever else attributes her detractors have heaped upon her in her defenceless absence,” her father persevered.
Unbeknownst to both of them, a witness had arrived at the scene of the father and daughter squabble. Agrima stood at the door, rubbing her sleepy eyes and looking from mother to grandfather and back to see if their loud voices were a cause for alarm. Taking advantage of the hiatus in the verbal row, she rushed into the room, straight into her grandfather’s arms. He kissed her on her brow and putting her down, held up his gift to her, mouthing a simple Happy Birthday.
Aruna watched her bellowing a quick “Thank you Nana Ji, I love you.” before she deposited the package on the floor, squatted next to it, and artlessly tore the silver wrapping into small strips which she strewed all over the floor in her childish hurry. When the attractively wrapped storage-cum-display box appeared to her view, revealing the spines of 21 books all set shoulder to shoulder in the box like a squadron of soldiers, she let out a squeal of delight that took away the last lingering doubt Aruna had about the objectionable and lasting effects reading Enid Blyton may have on her daughter’s impressionable mind --- yet to be sullied by the prejudices and predilections of the adult mind.
By Ashvani Sachdev
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