Burn books burn

By the age of thirteen I discovered old Mills & Boons, having read Enid Blyton the last two years. The first book I read belonged to my cousin. I was hooked there and then. It was a time of discoveries as it made me realize there was a world of love out there. Virginal heroines and dashing heroes who would come and sweep distressed damsels off their feet. Of course, there were scoundrels and cads to make the heroines wiser before they found their own sweet loves.

One day my mother found me reading a book. ‘Are you reading a book you’re not supposed to read? So engrossed, it can’t be a text book! Give it to me.’ Instead of giving the book to her I got up and ran. She came after me, hot at my heels. I ran past my father who sat in the living room. I ran to my room and like a cornered animal I ran under my bed. My mother squatted down and demanded me to give the book to her. With quick thinking, I tore the revealing cover and then with a show of reluctance I passed the book to her.

She gave the book to my father who looked at it and passed it back to her. I thought it was a narrow escape.

Next day, upon my return from school she nonchalantly remarked, ‘I burnt all your books.’ She burnt the books that most mattered. I spent all my allowance on them albeit they were mostly bought from second-hand shop.

What left of my books were ashes and a few fire marked pages. It didn’t hurt so much when she got rid of the dolls. She said close proximity would introduce spirits into them.

At this time, boys discovered me. One day I was walking home minding my own business, thinking it was just another routine walk home when I heard a shout behind me.

‘Hey, not bad-looking!’ Then I was surrounded by four or five boys who wanted to know my name. I didn’t answer them and tried to walk as fast as I could. From that day onwards, every time I walked past them they would either kick a ball close to me, cycling beside me, behind me or whatever. I would try to walk away from them as quickly as possible.

Then one started chanting, ‘Fire in the mountain, run, run…….’ Soon it was like a choral singing. Every time they saw me they started chanting.

For months, it was with trepidation that I had to walk past that road. Occasionally, there were no boys around. It was a relief.

One day, only one boy I saw. He followed me and asked questions which got no response from me. That was also the last time I saw him as I had found another route to my house albeit a longer one.

Two years later, I heard he was a school drop-out and he had impregnated a girl from my school. She was one year my junior.