Subscribe to enjoy similar stories. A long, long time ago, in an age before literature festivals, I met a man who wrote books. I was just a wide-eyed schoolboy in Kolkata and I don’t recall anything the portly pink-faced man with twinkling eyes and a bushy beard said when he visited our school, but I remember the delightful little animal sketches he made on the fly on the optical projector.
Later, he signed a copy of one of his books for me. It was my first literary autograph. It felt incredibly thrilling.
It was as if the book had sprung to life. I was starstruck. This was not just any author but Gerald Durrell, who had written one of my most beloved books—My Family and Other Animals.
This January marks Durrell’s centenary. My father had bought me the book. I don’t know why he got it.
It was possibly because I loved animals. I would drag the family to see documentaries like Elephant Called Slowly. I doubt my father knew Durrell’s India connection.
He was born in Jamshedpur in 1925. His father, a civil engineer for the Tatas, built their administrative offices and hospital, even the bungalow where Durrell was born. Durrell was a toddler when the family returned to England after his father’s death.
None of his 40-plus books are set in India. But he said that the family moved to the Greek island of Corfu, the setting for My Family and Other Animals, because they missed the warmth of India in dreary grey England. Sitting in Kolkata, I would not be able to find Corfu on a map.
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