When I was younger, I used to have hundreds of translated Enid Blyton books. I used to imagine she was a man because the stories tell of adventures and mysteries – things not incorporated with a lady.

The Malay translation sometimes made me read the book twice. There are good and bad translations but as a little girl, you just don’t understand if the writer’s vocabulary was too much or your head just can’t stomach the complicated idea just yet.

It was amazing reading those books because they changed the setting to Malaysian names and places and you, naively thought that this Mister Enid surely knew a lot of Malaysian stuffs.

Now that I realized the truth, apart of being duped for a decade or so, I should forward my appreciation to Miss Blyton who planted the seed of curiosity deep into my unconscious being.

The tiny thing sprouted into a big tree, which is a nice place to grow a pair of wings. The roots penetrated the crusty heart and the leaves shade me from the merciless storm.

It is a nice thing to have: roots and wings.

The Treasure Island

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