Tell-Tales

All of us, in our childhood, were always fascinated by the stories narrated to us by our mothers, grandparents or even the aged domestic help working in our houses. However, I have scarcely been told tales of princes, dragons and other kiddish fantasies that mesmerises a child's brain. Perhaps the lack of a narrator lead me to pick up a story book (or probably my mother consciously put it in my hand at a tender age to save her skin!) and casually flip through the pages. It started with reading Bengali story books- Thakuma'r jhuli (Tales from the grandma's bag- or whatever the correct translation is) took me to lands unknown, introducing me to fairies and scary dragons, handsome princes who fought them bravely and wed the captivated princess later on and horrible witches who trapped kings and ate up the stable full of horses at night (I always wondered how they managed to do it!) Tenida'r kandokarkhana (The tales of Teni) made me roll out in laughter at the silliest things that he said and his description of events aroused the creative liar in me (for he is a very gifted liar in Bong fiction). My taste of adventure came from reading Kakababu'r Golpo (The Stories of Uncle) and Pandob Goenda (Five Detectives), the rush of adrenaline (!!!) everytime an encounter happened or there was a rapid exchange of bullets.

Growing up years saw a gradual shift towards English story books. Enid Blyton made a permanent place in my book-shelf along with Maths, History and vernacular text books. The excitement of a hostel-life, the thrill of living in a boarding school and organising midnight picnics was something I craved for as I grew up reading Malory Towers and St. Clares series. Famous Five stories sounded fancy, and every book fair brought about a competition in the class as to who had bought the most number of Enid Blytons. This streak of innocence carried on till the 8th standard till someone handed me a copy of Nancy Drew. As I read about Nancy kissing her boyfriend Ned, deep down I started fantasising myself to be in the same position. Ofcourse my orthodox upbringing strictly ruled out kisses- or even a peck at that time, but having a boyfriend was like winning the Oscar- though I neither had the guts nor the looks to go for it.

Soon enough, Nancy's romantic liaisons started seeming mundane, for all that she did was anyway kiss, while the teenager in me seeked for something more exciting. Again I did not have to wait too long as I lay my hands on a Sidney Sheldon book- Tomorrow never comes. Sheldon's narrative bowled me over as I hungrily read all his books- occasionally reading some Danielle Steels as well. Robin Cook did manage to distract me- but not for long and I loyally returned to Sheldon.

My college years saw a shift towards Indian authors- as I started to discover that even they could write juicy romances as well as hard, gripping tales of suffering. Jhumpa Lahiri, Chetan Bhagat, Khushwant Singh and even the lesser known Tuhin A Sinha were some authors I read up. My journey with books still continue, and at each juncture, every time I fumble upon a new author, there is an unknown happiness that only avid book-readers could identify with. The joy of discovering a new tale, transcending to unknown realms and becoming the character itself in the process- it all leads to deriving a satisfaction that can only be felt in print. Thus continues my tryst with tales.

P.S. I apologise for neglecting Harry Potter- he too contributed generously to the constant scoldings my mum showered at me for not being attentive to my text books. But then, how would muggles understand what we encounter!