Anybody that went through the convent school system must have, at some point during their time spent in a school uniform, come in contact with a Hardy Boys novel. The stories, written by Franklin W. Dixon, chronicle the adventures of the brothers Frank and Joe, always 18 and 17, as they solved mysteries, with support from their friends the portly Chet Morton (whose sister Iola was Joe's girl friend), Tony Prito and Biff Hooper. Their father Fenton Hardy was a professional detective and their mother was Laura Hardy and they had a nagging Aunt Gertrude. Illustrated with the riskiest moment of the story on the cover, these books gave enough proof in favor of judging the book by its cover. Set to a common formula, much like a typical masala movie, the plot would involve a fixed number of thrills, twists and turns and one could be assured of a good read no matter what. As the mystery came to a screeching halt, the signature closing lines would be something like "...as the relieved mill owner/theater manager/antique dealer drove off, the boys wondered whether they would get another case to work on. Little did they know that "The XYZ title" was coming up." At the peak of my addiction, enrolled (at that time) in a boys school, Enid Blyton was, in my view, for the kids and Nancy Drew was the lamest amateur detective on earth who could never match up to the exploits of the Hardys. I even steered clear of the books in which the brothers teamed up with Ms. Drew. In my eyes, Carolyn Keene was the Hyundai parked next to the Rolls Royce that FWD was.
For some, it was the coolest thing to be seen walking around with a HB novel; a definite way to get the attention of the girls or teachers, an indulgence that would not be frowned upon, may be even appreciated. For some, it signalled the graduation from the league of Amar Chitra Katha/Tinkle/Champak, giving a sense of having arrived, of having entered the open seas of paper back novels. For some, it was just following peer pressure. And to the religiously fanatic, FWD was God, providing them with the keys to doors that would open into a world of Bayport, friendly police chiefs and moderately evil villains and thus escape from the nuisances of real life; namely homework and the never ending tests. Some even had the nerve to hurriedly employ the cool American phrases picked up from these novels atrociously. (Gosh! Naan innikki homework mudikkala! or Boy! Am I glad innikki Uma miss leave-u!)
Before the days of satellite television, these books managed to give a slice of American life in their pages. I wouldn't be surprised if these stories sowed the first seeds of U.S of A ambitions in the minds of Indian middle-class students.
More than the thrills of the mystery itself, I was completely captivated by the lifestyle that these guys enjoyed. They could drive cars (their yellow convertible, although I had little to no idea then about what a convertible was), had a plane (Sam Radley, their pilot) and a boat Sleuth, go places with friends, had girlfriends and were solving mysteries during their vacations. In comparison, I was sharing a BSA SLR with my brother, our family vehicle was a Bajaj scooter, I had to convince my parents to go to a movie and nearly every vacation involved a visit to some temple town. With dark hair and being the elder brother, I identified myself with Frank and my younger brother, equally dark haired, styled himself after the blond Joe. I began reading these just so that I could expereince vicarious thrills, immersing myself in their incredibly interesting lives and freedom and thus cultivated a voracious appetite for these novels.
After racing through all the titles in our school library and unable to satisfy our cravings, a friend and I enrolled ourselves at the "Pick and Choose Library" that was conveniently located near the school and carried the "case files" which were definitely risque and spicier and probably why weren't stocked by our school. We would maintain a running list of to-read titles, prepare reading schedules and make elaborate plans of exchanging the books during vacations or extended holidays. On more than one occasion, we were pulled up by the teacher reading a HB discretely tucked inside the desk during class. In no time, my mother was totally convinced that Franklin W Dixon was the enemy who had found his way into my sphere of existence with the sole aim of interrupting my studies. I still remember finishing The Witchmaster's Key in one evening, a record by my reading speeds, over my mom's constant reminders for putting it down and getting my homework done. Another of my friends, once even attempted to write a Hardy Boys novel of his own with a strong Indian flavor which began with the brothers playing a game of, well, cricket in their "backyard". The ball crosses the "hedge" and gets thrown back with a warning taped to it...
These books provided entertainment at many levels. After satiating the reader with their dose of excitement, the hardcover ones doubled up as table tennis bats or in some cases, even as a cricket bat in a game of sponge ball/tt ball cricket within the confines of the classroom. I could play any cricketing shot convincingly with my very own, seasoned "The Viking Symbol Mystery" bat. They could also come in handy for a crisp game of book cricket (which deserves a post of its own), especially on days when we didn't have geography class and hence weren't in possession of the geography text book - the fattest of the lot. Another book crime I was guilty of was to grab a clean, unmarked book and have the reader go from one page to another with messages like "Flip to page 59" and on page 59, follow that up with a "Good. Now you shath race to page 72" and so on and ending it with a really unimaginative joke. Just as a master painter puts his brush down to stand back and admire his own creation, I would then go through the drill myself to ensure that all was well before returning it to the library. So, in conclusion, thank you Franklin W Dixon and, to our librarian, if you are reading this, go to page 85! I mean, I'm sorry.
