Ruskin Bond Children's Omnibus Volume 2

by Ruskin Bond

  ‘Let’s stick it in the ground,’ I said. ‘Then in the spring a chestnut tree will come up.’

  So we went outside and planted the chestnut on a plot of wasteland. Hopefully a small tree will burst through the earth at about the time this little book is published.

  1

  OU DON’T see them so often now, those tiny books and almanacs—genuine pocket books—once so popular with our parents and grandparents; much smaller than the average paperback, often smaller than the palm of the hand. With the advent of coffee-table books, new books keep growing bigger and bigger, rivalling tombstones! And one day, like Alice after drinking from the wrong bottle, they will reach the ceiling and won’t have anywhere else to go. The average publisher, who apparently believes that large profits are linked to large books, must look upon these old miniatures with amusement or scorn. They were not meant for a coffee table, true. They were meant for true book lovers and readers, for they took up very little space—you could slip them into your pocket without any discomfort, either to you or to the pocket.

  I have a small collection of these little books, treasured over the years. Foremost is my father’s prayer book and psalter, with his name, ‘Aubrey Bond, Lovedale, 1917’, inscribed on the inside back cover. Lovedale is a school in the Nilgiri Hills in South India, where, as a young man, he did his teacher’s training. He gave it to me soon after I went to a boarding school in Shimla in 1944, and my own name is inscribed on it in his beautiful handwriting.

  Another beautiful little prayer book in my collection is called The Finger Prayer Book. Bound in soft leather, it is about the same length and breadth as the average middle finger. Replete with psalms, it is the complete book of common prayer and not an abridgement; a marvel of miniature book production.

  Not much larger is a delicate item in calf leather, The Humour of Charles Lamb. It fits into my wallet and often stays there. It has a tiny portrait of the great essayist, followed by some thirty to forty extracts from his essays, such as this favourite of mine: ‘Every dead man must take upon himself to be lecturing me with his odious truism, that “Such as he is now, I must shortly be”. Not so shortly friend, perhaps as thou imaginest. In the meantime, I am alive. I move about. I am worth twenty of thee. Know thy betters!’

  No fatalist, Lamb. He made no compromise with Father Time. He affirmed that in age we must be as glowing and tempestuous as in youth! And yet Lamb is thought to be an old-fashioned writer.

  Another favourite among my ‘little’ books is The Pocket Trivet, An Anthology for Optimists, published by The Morning Post newspaper in 1932. But what is a trivet? the unenlightened may well ask. Well, it’s a stand for a small pot or kettle, fixed securely over a grate. To be right as a trivet is to be perfectly right. Just right, like the short sayings in this book, which is further enlivened by a number of charming woodcuts based on the seventeenth century originals; such as the illustration of a moth hovering over a candle flame and below it the legend—‘I seeke mine owne hurt.’

  But the sayings are mostly of a cheering nature, such as Emerson’s ‘Hitch your wagon to a star!’ or the West Indian proverb: ‘Every day no Christmas, an’ every day no rainy day.’

  My book of trivets is a happy example of much concentrated wisdom being collected in a small space—the beauty separated from the dross. It helps me to forget the dilapidated building in which I live and to look instead at the ever-changing cloud patterns as seen from my bedroom windows. There is no end to the shapes made by the clouds, or to the stories they set off in my head. We don’t have to circle the world in order to find beauty and fulfilment. After all, most of living has to happen in the mind. And, to quote one anonymous sage from my trivet, ‘The world is only the size of each man’s head.’

  2

  Amongst the current fraternity of writers, I must be that very rare person—an author who actually writes by hand!

  Soon after the invention of the typewriter, most editors and publishers understandably refused to look at any mansucript that was handwritten. A decade or two earlier, when Dickens and Balzac had submitted their hefty manuscrips in longhand, no one had raised any objection. Had their handwriting been awful, their manuscripts would still have been read. Fortunately for all concerned, most writers, famous or obscure, took pains over their handwriting. For some, it was an art in itself, and many of those early manuscripts are a pleasure to look at and read.

  And it wasn’t only authors who wrote with an elegant hand. Parents and grandparents of most of us had distinctive styles of their own. I still have my father’s last letter, written to me when I was at boarding school in Shimla some fifty years ago. He used large, beautifully formed letters, and his thoughts seemed to have the same flow and clarity as his handwriting.

  In his letter he advises me (then a nine-year-old) about my own handwriting: ‘I wanted to write before about your writing. Ruskin... Sometimes I get letters from you in very small writing, as if you wanted to squeeze everything into one sheet of letter paper. It is not good for you or for your eyes, to get into the habit of writing too small... Try and form a larger style of handwriting—use more paper if necessary!’

  I did my best to follow his advice, and I’m glad to report that after nearly forty years of the writing life, most people can still read my handwriting!

  Word processors are all the rage now, and I have no objection to these mechanical aids any more than I have to my old Olympia typewriter, made in 1956 and still going strong. Although I do all my writing in longhand, I follow the conventions by typing a second draft. But I would not enjoy my writing if I had to do it straight on to a machine. It isn’t just the pleasure of writing longhand. I like taking my notebooks and writing pads to odd places. This particular essay is being written on the steps of my small cottage facing Pari Tibba (Fairy Hill). Part of the reason for sitting here is that there is a new postman on this route, and I don’t want him to miss me.

  For a freelance writer, the postman is almost as important as a publisher. I could, of course, sit here doing nothing, but as I have pencil and paper with me, and feel like using them, I shall write until the postman comes and maybe after he has gone, too! There is really no way in which I could set up a word processor on these steps.

  There are a number of favourite places where I do my writing. One is under the chestnut tree on the slope above the cottage. Word processors were not designed keeping mountain slopes in mind. But armed with a pen (or pencil) and paper, I can lie on the grass and write for hours. On one occasion, last month, I did take my typewriter into the garden, and I am still trying to extricate an acorn from under the keys, while the roller seems permanently stained yellow with some fine pollen dust from the deodar trees.

  My friends keep telling me about all the wonderful things I can do with a word processor, but they haven’t got around to finding me one that I can take to bed, for that is another place where I do much of my writing—especially on cold winter nights, when it is impossible to keep the cottage warm.

  While the wind howls outside, and snow piles up on the windowsill, I am warm under my quilt, writing pad on my knees, ballpoint pen at the ready. And if, next day, the weather is warm and sunny, these simple aids will accompany me on a long walk, ready for instant use should I wish to record an incident, a prospect, a conversation, or simply a train of thought.

  When I think of the great eighteenth- and nineteenth-century writers, scratching away with their quill pens, filling hundreds of pages every month, I am amazed to find that their handwriting did not deteriorate into the sort of hieroglyphics that often make up the average doctor’s prescription today. They knew they had to write legibly, if only for the sake of the typesetters.

  Both Dickens and Thackeray had good, clear, flourishing styles. (Thackeray was a clever illustrator, too.) Somerset Maugham had an upright, legible hand. Churchill’s neat handwriting never wavered, even when he was under stress. I like the bold, clear, straighforward hand of Abraham Lincoln; it mirrors the man. Mahatma G
andhi, another great soul who fell to the assassin’s bullet, had many similarities of both handwriting and outlook.

  Not everyone had a beautiful hand. King Henry VIII had an untidy scrawl, but then, he was not a man of much refinement. Guy Fawkes, who tried to blow up the British Parliament, had a very shaky hand. With such a quiver, no wonder he failed in his attempt! Hitler’s signature is ugly, as you would expect. And Napoleon’s doesn’t seem to know where to stop; how much like the man!

  I think my father was right when he said handwriting was often the key to a man’s character, and that large, well-formed letters went with an uncluttered mind. Florence Nightingale had a lovely handwriting, the hand of a caring person. And there were many like her amongst our forebears.

  3

  When I was a small boy, no Christmas was really complete unless my Christmas stocking contained several recent issues of my favourite comic paper. If today my friends complain that I am too voracious a reader of books, they have only these comics to blame; for they were the origin, if not of my tastes in reading, then certainly of the reading habit itself.

  I like to think that my conversion to comics began at the age of five, with a comic strip on the children’s page of The Statesman. In the late 1930s, Benji, whose head later appeared only on the Benji League badge, had a strip to himself; I don’t remember his adventures very clearly, but every day (or was it once a week?) I would cut out the Benji strip and paste it into a scrapbook. Two years later, this scrapbook, bursting with the adventures of Benji, accompanied me to boarding school, where, of course, it passed through several hands before finally passing into limbo.

  Of course, comics did not form the only reading matter that found its way into my Christmas stocking. Before I was eight, I had read Peter Pan, Alice, and most of Mr Midshipman Easy; but I had also consumed thousands of comic papers which were, after all, slim affairs and mostly pictorial, ‘certain little penny books radiant with gold and rich with bad pictures’, as Leigh Hunt described the children’s papers of his own time.

  But though they were mostly pictorial, comics in those days did have a fair amount of reading matter, too. The Hostspur, Wizard, Magnet (a victim of the Second World War) and Champion contained stories woven round certain popular characters. In Champion, which I read regularly right through my prep school years, there was Rockfist Rogan, Royal Air Force (R.A.F.), a pugilist who managed to combine boxing with bombing, and Fireworks Flynn, a footballer who always scored the winning goal in the last two minutes of play.

  Billy Bunter has, of course, become one of the immortals—almost a subject for literary and social historians. Quite recently, The Times Literary Supplement devoted its first two pages to an analysis of the Bunter stories. Eminent lawyers and doctors still look back nostalgically to the arrival of the weekly Magnet; they are now the principal customers for the special souvenir edition of the first issue of the Magnet, recently reprinted in facsimile. Bunter, ‘forever young’, has become a folk hero. He is seen on stage, screen and television, and is even quoted in the House of Commons.

  From this, I take courage. My only regret is that I did not preserve my own early comics—not because of any bibliophilic value which they might possess today, but because of my sentimental regard for early influences in art and literature.

  The first venture in children’s publishing, in 1774, was a comic of sorts. In that year, John Newberry brought out:

  According to Act of Parliament (neatly bound and gilt): A Little Pretty Pocket-Book, intended for the Instruction and Amusement of Little Master Tommy and Pretty Miss Polly, with an agreeable Letter to read from Jack the Giant-Killer...

  The book contained pictures, rhymes and games. Newberry’s characters and imaginary authors included Woglog the Giant, Tommy Trip, Giles Gingerbread, Nurse Truelove, Peregrine Puzzlebrains, Primrose Prettyface, and many others with names similar to those found in the comic papers of our own century.

  Newberry was also the originator of the ‘Amazing Free Offer’, so much a part of American comics. At the beginning of 1755, he had this to offer:

  Nurse Truelove’s New Year Gift, or the Book of Books for children, adorned with Cuts and designed as a Present for every little boy who would become a great Man and ride upon a fine Horse; and to every little Girl who would become a great Woman and ride in a Lord Mayor’s gilt Coach. Printed for the Author, who has ordered these books to be given gratis to all little Boys in St. Paul’s churchyard, they paying for the Binding, which is only Two pence each Book.

  Many of today’s comics are crude and, like many television serials, violent in their appeal. But I did not know American comics until I was twelve, and by then I had become quite discriminating. Superman, Bulletman, Batman and Green Lantern, and other super heroes all left me cold. I had, by then, passed into the world of real books but the weakness for the comić strip remains. I no longer receive comics in my Christmas stocking, but I do place a few in the stockings of Gautam and Siddharth. And, needless to say, I read them right through beforehand.

  WAS A Boy Scout once, although I couldn’t tell a slip knot from a granny knot, nor a reef knot from a thief knot. I did know that a thief knot was to be used to tie up a thief, should you happen to catch one. I have never caught a thief—and wouldn’t know what to do with one since I can’t tie the right knot. I’d just let him go with a warning, I suppose. And tell him to become a Boy Scout.

  ‘Be prepared!’ That’s the Boy Scout motto. And it is a good one, too. But I never seem to be well prepared for anything, be it an exam or a journey or the roof blowing off my room. I get halfway through a speech and then forget what I have to say next. Or I make a new suit to attend a friend’s wedding, and then turn up in my pyjamas.

  So, how did I, the most impractical of boys, survive as a Boy Scout?

  Well, it seems a rumour had gone around the junior school (I was still a junior then) that I was a good cook. I had never cooked anything in my life, but of course I had spent a lot of time in the tuck shop making suggestions and advising Chimpu, who ran the tuck shop, and encouraging him to make more and better samosas, jalebies, tikkees and pakoras. For my unwanted advice, he would favour me with an occasional free samosa. So, naturally, I looked upon him as a friend and benefactor. With this qualification, I was given a cookery badge and put in charge of our troop’s supply of rations.

  There were about twenty of us in our troop. During the summer break our Scoutmaster, Mr Oliver, took us on a camping expedition to Taradevi, a temple-crowned mountain a few miles outside Shimla. That first night we were put to work, peeling potatoes, skinning onions, shelling peas and pounding masalas. These various ingredients being ready, I was asked, as the troop cookery expert, what should be done with them.

  ‘Put everything in that big degchi,’ I ordered. ‘Pour half a tin of ghee over the lot. Add some nettle leaves, and cook for half an hour.’

  When this was done, everyone had a taste, but the general opinion was that the dish lacked something. ‘More salt,’ I suggested.

  More salt was added. It still lacked something. ‘Add a cup of sugar,’ I ordered.

  Sugar was added to the concoction, but it still lacked something.

  ‘We forgot to add tomatoes,’ said one of the Scouts. ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘We have tomato sauce. Add a bottle of tomato sauce!’

  ‘How about some vinegar?’ suggested another boy. ‘Just the thing,’ I said. ‘Add a cup of vinegar!’

  ‘Now it’s too sour,’ said one of the tasters.

  ‘What jam did we bring?’ I asked.

  ‘Gooseberry jam.’

  ‘Just the thing. Empty the bottle!’

  The dish was a great success. Everyone enjoyed it, including Mr Oliver, who had no idea what had gone into it.

  ‘What’s this called?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s an all-Indian sweet-and-sour jam-potato curry,’ I ventured.

  ‘For short, just call it Bond bhujjia,’ said one of the boys. I had earned my cookery badge!
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  Poor Mr Oliver; he wasn’t really cut out to be a Scoutmaster, any more than I was meant to be a Scout.

  The following day, he told us he would give us a lesson in tracking. Taking a half-hour start, he walked into the forest, leaving behind him a trail of broken twigs, chicken feathers, pine cones and chestnuts. We were to follow the trail until we found him.

  Unfortunately, we were not very good trackers. We did follow Mr Oliver’s trail some way into the forest, but then we were distracted by a pool of clear water. It looked very inviting. Abandoning our uniforms, we jumped into the pool and had a great time romping about or just lying on its grassy banks and enjoying the sunshine. Many hours later, feeling hungry, we returned to our campsite and set about preparing the evening meal. It was Bond bhujjia again, but with a few variations.

  It was growing dark, and we were beginning to worry about Mr Oliver’s whereabouts when he limped into the camp, assisted by a couple of local villagers. Having waited for us at the far end of the forest for a couple of hours, he had decided to return by following his own trail, but in the gathering gloom he was soon lost. Village folk returning home from the temple took charge and escorted him back to the camp. He was very angry and made us return all our good-conduct and other badges, which he stuffed into his haversack. I had to give up my cookery badge.

  An hour later, when we were all preparing to get into our sleeping bags for the night, Mr Oliver called out, ‘Where’s dinner?’

  ‘We’ve had ours,’ said one of the boys. ‘Everything is finished, sir.’

  ‘Where’s Bond? He’s supposed to be the cook. Bond, get up and make me an omelette.’

  ‘I can’t, sir.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You have my badge. Not allowed to cook without it. Scout rule, sir.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of such a rule. But you can take your badges, all of you. We return to school tomorrow.’