The children's book I remember best is The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling. I had an illustrated version with big colourful pictures, and it was a present from my uncle when I turned eight. I grew up in Chittagong, in Bangladesh.
My uncle Rafiq was a merchant sailor, so he was often away, but whenever he was home, he'd sit on my bed in the evening and read a chapter aloud. He did different voices for every animal, which made me laugh so much my mother would come in and tell us to be quiet. Later, when my English was better, I read it myself many times.
The book tells the story of Mowgli, a little boy who gets lost in the Indian jungle and is raised by a family of wolves. He's taught the laws of the jungle by Baloo, a sleepy brown bear, and protected by Bagheera, a clever black panther. The main danger is Shere Khan, a tiger who wants to kill him because humans are a threat. There's a sense of adventure all the way through, with Mowgli always having to prove he belongs.
I still remember it for several reasons. Partly it's because of my uncle, who died at sea when I was in secondary school, so the book is precious to me. I still have that copy, with the cover held together by tape. But the story itself also stayed with me. As a child, I loved the idea of animals talking and having rules. As an adult, I see it differently, as a story about not quite fitting in anywhere. I moved to Manchester to work as an accountant, and I sometimes feel a bit like Mowgli myself.