A Memory Marvel
One of my colleagues has a collection of some exceptional children’s books. Very recently, he brought Wilfred Gordon McDonald Partridge by Mem Fox to share. When I looked at the cover, the first thing that stood out were the watercolour illustrations— a certain lightness that was part quirky and eccentric.
I’ve always loved books with watercolour illustrations; there’s something timeless and delicate about them—something undeniably comforting too. Perhaps it's the softness of the colours, or the way they seem to blur the lines between reality and a child's dreamscape—one that invites an adult into nostalgia, a yearning for simpler times filled with boundless imagination.
I put aside what I was doing and decided to spend a few moments relishing the joy and exuberance I always feel while reading children’s books. As Maria Popova says, “Great children’s books move young hearts, yes, but they also move the great common heart that beats in the chest of humanity by articulating in the language of children, which is the language of simplicity and absolute sincerity, the elemental truths of being: what it means to love, what it means to be mortal, what it means to live with our fragilities and our frissons.”
So true isn’t it?
What we cannot say as adults or won’t make an attempt at saying, is laid out simply in children’s stories or will hit us quite unexpectedly in conversations with children.
In Wilfrid Gordon McDonald Partridge, the young protagonist embarks on a heartwarming quest to help his elderly friend, Miss Nancy, regain her memories. The story is a poignant reminder of the preciousness of memories, both happy and sad, and how they shape who we are.
Much like Wilfred Gordon McDonald Partridge and Nancy Alison Delacort Cooper (the senior lady), as a child, I had three names, bestowed by my parents. One, however, had faded into obscurity, used only on the day of my christening. Fate, it seemed, mirrored Wilfred's quest. I had to visit the church where the ceremony took place; an emotionally charged visit. My parents must have spoken about the day, but the intervening years had dimmed those memories. However, as the sacristan presented the weighty, leather-bound register, a flood of forgotten details surged back to shore. The baby blanket that was used on the christening day is tucked away in the Godrej almirah at home even today—a pristine white baby blanket – delicate and soft with white lace and embroidery, a silent testament to the tiny life it once held.
Another powerful memory wraps me up as I round the corner near our old neighbourhood. There, by the familiar roundabout, used to stand a tinshop on wheels. It was from this very cart, every time my aunt visited, that she'd treat us each to a five-paise peppermint candy. So even now, on the odd occasion when I find it at a grocery store, I buy it because it takes me back to her warmth and generosity.
And just like that, the gift of this book, a gift received with casual delight, unexpectedly embarked on a journey with me. Like a child tumbling down a joyous slide, I plunged back into the forgotten well of memories, collecting and treasuring them like precious trinkets in a newly discovered box. This experience served as a powerful reminder that the greatest stories sometimes reside not just within the pages of a book, but also within the labyrinthine corridors of our own hearts. Thanks Dhruva for being Wilfred in that moment :-)