As an eight year-old weaned into the sanitised world of Enid Blyton from an even earlier age, one didn’t really know that there could be another world that children’s books could describe. My world, like that of many others was the green of rural England where a group of happy children in sailor suits roamed free solving mysteries safely, where dogs were called Timmy or Buster and bumbling policemen were called Mr Goon. Someone with red happy cheeks called Cookie made scones and cakes and ginger ale for the children, and the children who were all white, said, “smashing” and “scrumptious.” And while I read, nibbling on a piece of Flora sliced bread heavily layered with Amul butter and sprinkled liberally with sugar, hoping it was a bit like a scone, outside my window, in the scorching Calcutta sun, rickshaws trundled by, dogs barked and the local beggar woman let out her customary keening wail.