A doll called Delia

“Annabelle’s come home,” announced my grand-nephew Gabriel, adroitly adapting the title of a movie as he pointed to one of my prized possessions. The 8-year-old is too young to watch horror films, but he is familiar with The Conjuring series since he sees snatches of scenes on TV.

“My doll is Delia,” I said firmly. “She is a walkie-talkie doll but doesn’t move about stealthily. Her sweet smile bears no resemblance to Annabelle’s ghastly grin. Annabelle is made of porcelain and Delia of a similar substance, but the only thing they have in common is that both are vintage dolls.”

“They are not very different,” remarked Gabriel, craning his neck upwards to gaze at Delia who was perched on an elevated shelf. “They are almost equal in size, and have red lips, rosy cheeks and bright staring eyes. Delia’s hair is plaited in the same style as Annabelle’s and its shade...”

“Delia’s hair is golden,” I interrupted grandly.

“Delia’s hair is dusty,” said Gabriel, with more candour than courtesy. “If you bring her down, I could give her a clean-up.”

“Delia is too delicate to be disturbed. I have had her nearly 60 years,” I explained. “60 years!” exclaimed Gabriel.

I first met Delia decades ago, but I vividly recall the events preceding the encounter. In the 1950s, I was living in Cranfield (a village in the county of Bedfordshire, England), where my IAF father was pursuing a course of study at the College of Aeronautics.

My mother involved herself in local activities. She used the skills acquired at sewing classes to stitch dresses for Daphne, Diana and several other dolls that I collected during our two-year UK sojourn.

In October, 1959, we boarded the MV (Motor Vessel) Cilicia at Liverpool, for our return voyage. The ship would take three weeks to reach Mumbai, docking at Gibraltar, Port Said, Aden and Karachi before arriving at its destination. I was observing our fellow passengers embark, when my parents told me that a friend was awaiting me in our cabin. I was not yet five-years-old, and if they exchanged amused glances I did not notice.

I followed them below deck and found that they had got me a surprise present. On my bunk bed sat a beautiful doll in a pink and white frock.

“That was Delia,” I told Gabriel, nostalgically. “We named her after a lady who had taken us around Oxford University.”

Unimpressed by my mention of that hallowed seat of learning, Gabriel said softly, “Annabelle has been with you all this time, in the form of a doll called Delia.”