by Ruskin Bond
Which is the best of these views’?
Some would say the hills, but the hills never change. Some would say the road, because the road is full of change and movement—tinkers, tailors, tourists, salesmen, cars, trucks and motorcycles, mules, ponies and even, on one occasion, an elephant.
The road is never dull, but, given a choice, I’d opt for the sky. The sky is never the same. Even when it is cloudless, the sky colours are different. The morning sky, the daytime sky, the evening sky, the moonlit sky, the starry sky, these are all different skies. And there are almost always birds in the sky—eagles flying high, mountain swifts doing acrobatics, cheeky mynah birds meeting under the eaves of the roof, sparrows flitting in and out of the room at will. Sometimes a butterfly floats in on the breeze. And on summer nights, great moths enter at the open window, dazzled by my reading light. I have to catch them and put them out again, lest they injure themselves.
When the monsoon rains arrive, the window has to be closed, otherwise cloud and mist fill the room, and that isn’t good for my books. But the sky is even more fascinating at this time of the year. From my desk I can, at this very moment, see the clouds advancing across the valley, rolling over the hills, ascending the next range. Raindrops patter against the window panes, closed until the rain stops.
And when the shower passes and the clouds open up, the heavens are a deeper, darker blue.
Darkness falls, and it is time to pull my chair to the window. Much that is lovely comes at this hour.
There is the fragrance of raat ki rani, queen of the night, from a neighbour’s balcony, two feet by two. And soon there will be moonlight falling on those white flowers, and moonbeam in my room. Sometimes a field mouse drops in for a bite (he remembers my dinnertime). High in the treetops, an owl hoots softly, as if testing, trying to remember. The nightjar plays trombone, and the crickets join in to complete the orchestra. They go silent when the swamp deer calls. A leopard is out hunting.
A breeze has sprung up, it hums in the trees, and now the window is rattling. Time to shut the window. A star falls in the heavens.
Live close to nature and your spirit will not be easily broken, for you learn something of patience and resilience. You will not grow restless, and you will never feel lonely.
My relationship with the natural world has sustained and inspired me over the years. It is a relationship that has grown stronger and more meaningful ever since I came to live in the hills half a century ago.
‘Is Nature your religion?’ someone asked me recently. It would be presumptuous to say so. Nature doesn’t promise you anything—an afterlife, rewards for good behaviour, protection from enemies, wealth, happiness, progeny, all the things that humans desire and pray for. No, Nature does not promise these things. Nature is a reward in itself. It is there, to be appreciated, to be understood, to be lived and loved. And in its way it gives us everything—the bounty and goodness of the earth, the sea, the sky. Food, water, the air we breathe. All the things we take for granted.
And sometimes, when we take it too much for granted, or misuse its generosity, Nature turns against us and unleashes forces that overwhelm us—earthquake, tidal wave, typhoon, flood, drought. But then it settles down again and resumes its generous ways.
For it is all about renewal—seasons and the weather, sunlight and darkness, the urgency of growth, the fertility of the seed and the egg. Governments rise and fall, machines rust away, great buildings crumble, but mountains still stand, rivers flow to the sea, and the earth is clothed with grass and verdure.
September 1994. Mussoorie had been under curfew for days. People had lost their lives at a rally for a separate state of Uttarakhand. The children’s park on the Mall wore the look of a battlefield, and the fountain, dry for months, was splashed with blood. Violence of this nature was not something we had expected in our hill station. Our world had changed; after this tragedy perhaps it would never be the same again.
But there are compensations even during a curfew. Confined to the house, we must finally spend more time with our children; try to reassure them that the world is not such a bad place after all. Forage for food and make do with less of everything. Be friendlier with previously unsympathetic neighbours, because for once we are sharing the same hardships, the same uncertainty.
Since I lived outside the main bazaar and the hillside was just above me, I could safely defy the curfew and scramble up the slopes to discover anew the rich September flora. The wild ginger was in flower. So was agrimony, lady’s lace, wild geranium. The ferns were turning yellow. The fruit of the snake lily had turned red, signifying an end to the rains. A thrush whistled on the branch of a dead walnut tree. A tiny swarm of butterflies rose from behind a lime-green bush.
When all the wars are done, a butterfly will still be beautiful.
Wars and upheavals destroy lives, but it is always worth remembering that life and humanity are bigger than them. We hear of heroic stands and superhuman perseverance, but fortitude and resilience are usually found in mundane things and are easily missed.
It was in Jersey, in UK’s Channel Islands, that I first realized this. I was there for a year in the early 1950s. It was a quiet and very law-abiding island. Even through the German occupation during World War II, the islanders had gone about their business—mostly fishing and growing tomatoes—without paying much heed to the occupying power. And when the war ended in Europe, the Germans simply melted away and the islanders carried on growing their tomatoes. It was as though nothing had happened.
The smallest insect in the world is a sort of firefly and its body is only a fifth of a millimetre long. One can only just see it with the naked eye. Almost like a speck of dust, yet it has perfect little wings and little combs on its legs for preening itself.
That is perfection.
Walking along the beach as a little boy in Jamnagar, collecting seashells, I got into the habit of staring hard at the ground, a habit which has stayed with me all my life. Apart from helping my thought processes, it also results in my picking up odd objects—coins, keys, broken bangles, marbles, pens, bits of crockery, pretty stones, ladybirds, feathers, snail-shells. I use them to decorate my room, to make it more like the outdoors, full of little surprises.
Occasionally, of course, this habit results in my walking some way past my destination (if I happen to have one), and why not? It simply means discovering a new and different destination, sights and sounds that I might not have experienced had I ended my walk exactly where it was supposed to end. But I’m not looking at the ground all the time. Sensitive like the snake to approaching footfalls, I look up from time to time to examine the faces of passers-by, just in case they have something they wish to say to me.
A bird singing in a bush or tree has my immediate attention; so does any unfamiliar flower or plant, particularly if it grows in any unusual place such as a crack in a wall or a chimney, or in a yard full of junk, where I once found a rose-bush blooming on the roof of an old Ford car.
Slow down, and listen. There are sounds that are good to hear.
At night, rain drumming on the corrugated tin roof. It helps one to lie awake; at the same time, it doesn’t keep one from sleeping. And it is a good sound to read by—the rain outside, the quiet within.
And early in the morning, when the rain has stopped, there are other sounds—a crow shaking the raindrops from his feathers and cawing rather disconsolately, but not sadly. Babblers and bulbuls bustling in and out of bushes and long grass in search of worms and insects. The sweet ascending trill of the Himalayan whistling thrush. Dogs rushing through damp undergrowth.
Some of the best sounds are made by water. The water of a mountain stream, always in a hurry, bubbling over rocks and chattering, ‘I’m late, I’m late!’ like the White Rabbit, tumbling over itself in its anxiety to reach the bottom of the hill. The sound of the sea, especially when it is far away—or when you hear it by putting a seashell to your ear.
Or the sound of a child drinking thirstily, t
he water running down her chin and throat.
Bullock-cart wheels creaking over rough country roads. The clip-clop of a tonga, and the tinkle of its bell.
Bells in the hills: A school bell ringing, and children’s voices drifting through an open window. A temple bell heard faintly from across the valley. Heavy silver ankle bells on the feet of sturdy hill women. Sheep bells heard high up on the mountainside.
The sweet and solitary music of a flute at dusk.
A faraway voice on the shortwave radio, rising and fading through static.
The rich and famous have bought houses in this quiet part of our hill station. They come here for short visits and their big cars take over the winding roads.
Sometimes they invite their friends from the city and have jolly parties. The wind carries the muted sound of conversation, and the hillside rings with laughter. From a distance, these are good sounds on a cold and silent night. Theirs is not a party I would join, but the thought of happy people in the neighbourhood puts me in a good mood.
I am not, by nature, a gregarious person. Although I love people, and have often made friends with complete strangers, I am also a lover of solitude. Naturally, one thinks better when one is alone. I prefer walking alone to walking with others. That ladybird on the wild rose would escape my attention if I was engaged in a lively conversation with a companion. Not that the ladybird is going to change my life. But by acknowledging its presence, stopping to admire its beauty, I have paid obeisance to the natural scheme of things of which I am only a small part.
It is upon a person’s power of holding fast to such undimmed beauty that his or her inner hopefulness depends. As we journey through the world, we will inevitably encounter meanness and selfishness. And as we fight for our survival, the higher visions and ideals often fade. It is then that we need ladybirds! Contemplating that tiny creature, or the flower on which it rests, gives one the hope—the certainty—that there is more to life than interest rates, dividends, market forces and infinite technology. There is space for the big and the small, for you and me and the ladybird.
Living in a small room for the greater part of my life, I have always felt the need for small, familiar objects that become a part of me, even if sometimes I forget to say hello to them. A glass paperweight, a laughing Buddha, an old horseshoe, a print of Hokusai’s Great Wave, a suitcase that has seen better days, an old school tie (never worn), a potted fern, an old address book (not one address is relevant today, after some fifty years, but I keep it all the same).
Not all are objects. I had a pet tomato plant once, which did well in my sunny room. I have had geraniums in old cans. I had Suzie, a very independent-minded cat.
And today I remember the mouse who shared my little bed-sitting room in London when I was seventeen and all on my own. Those early months in London were lonely times for a shy young man going to work during the day and coming back to a cold, damp empty room late in the evening. In the morning I would make myself a hurried breakfast, and at night I’d make myself a cheese or ham sandwich. This was when I noticed the little mouse peeping at me from behind the books I had piled upon the floor, there being no bookshelf. I threw some crumbs in his direction, and he was soon making a meal of them and a piece of cheese. After that, he would present himself before me every evening, and the room was no longer as empty and lonely as when I had first moved in. He was a smart little mouse and sometimes he would speak to me—sharp little squeaks to remind me it was dinner time.
Months later, when I moved to another part of London, it was a fat little mouse I left behind.
Good company upon the road, says the proverb, is the shortest cut.
—Oliver Goldsmith
Last night, as I lay sleepless
In the summer dark
With window open to invite a breeze,
Softly a firefly flew in
And circled round the room
Twinkling at me from floor or wall
Or ceiling, never long in one place
But lighting up little spaces…
A friendly presence, dispelling
The settled gloom of an unhappy day.
And after it had gone, I left
The window open, just in case
It should return.
I had wandered some way down the Tehri road, and it is quite late by the time I return to Landour Bazaar. Lights still twinkle on the hills, but the shopfronts are shuttered and the narrow street is silent. It is a cold night, doors and windows are shut. The people living on either side of the street can hear my footsteps, and I can hear the occasional loud remark, music from a transistor radio (this is before TV came to our hills), a burst of laughter, someone coughing and groaning in the dark.
A three-quarters moon is up, and the tin roofs of the bazaar, drenched with dew, glisten in the moonlight. The street is unlit, but I need no torch. I can see every step of the way. I can even read the headlines on the discarded newspaper lying in the gutter.
Although I am alone on the road, I am aware of the life pulsating around me. Three stray dogs are romping in the middle of the road. It is their road now, and they abandon themselves to a wild chase.
The rickshaw stand is deserted. One rickshaw catches the eye because it is decorated with marigolds, many of them still fresh.
A jackal slinks across the road, looking to right and left to make sure the dogs have gone. A field rat wriggles its way through a hole in a rotting plank, on its nightly foray among sacks of grain and pulses.
As I walk further along the empty street, under the shadow of the clock tower I find a boy huddled in a recess, a thin shawl wrapped around his shoulders. He is wide awake and shivering.
I pass by, head down, my thoughts already on the warmth of my room in the small cottage only a mile away. And then I stop. It is almost as though the bright moonlight has stopped me, holding my shadow in thrall. I make no conscious decision, but I’m walking back to the shadows where the boy crouches. He does not say anything, but he looks up at me, puzzled and apprehensive. All the warnings of well-wishers crowd in upon me—stories of crime by night, of assault, robbery, blackmail.
Well, we are equals, in our fear as in our loneliness.
I can tell from his features that he comes from the hills beyond Tehri. He has come here looking for work and he has yet to find any.
‘Have you somewhere to stay?’ I ask. He shakes his head; but something about my tone of voice has given him confidence, because now there is a glimmer of hope, a friendly appeal in his eyes.
I have committed myself. I cannot pass on. A shelter for the night—that’s the very least one human should be able to expect from another.
‘If you can walk some way,’ I offer, ‘I can give you a bed and blanket.’
He gets up immediately—a thin boy, wearing only a shirt and part of an old army tracksuit. He follows me without any hesitation. I cannot now betray his trust. Nor can I fail to trust him.
So now there are two in the sleeping moonlit bazaar. I glance up at the tall and shaky wooden houses, packed with families. They seem to lean towards each other for warmth and companionship.
The boy walks silently beside me. Soon we are out of the bazaar and on the footpath. The mountains loom over us. A fox crosses our path and a night-bird calls. And although no creature of the forest has ever harmed me, I’m glad I have a companion.
Geraniums are good companions. I can meditate upon a geranium. That is, I can spend a long time gazing at one. And as I can get geraniums to flower in my sunny bedroom, summer and winter, I have every opportunity to do so.
The geranium that has done best is the one I have grown in an old plastic bucket standing on the chest of drawers and facing the early morning sun. Here, protected from wind and rain, this generous plant has produced no less than eight florets of soft pink confetti. Other shades are appealing too—the salmon pink, the cerise, the flaming red—but this pale pink is restful, intimate. From my bed or desk I can gaze at it and have pleasant thought
s. Is that meditation? Or is it contemplation? The latter, probably. I am the contemplative type.
But meditation is in fashion—people give and take courses in it—whereas I have yet to meet someone taking a course in contemplation. I suspect that meditation is something that you do deliberately (hence the need for practice), and contemplation is simply what comes naturally.
When we meditate, we look within, and hopefully there is something to find there. When I look at a flower, I am looking without contemplating at the miracle of creation. I suppose we should do a little of both, just to get the right balance.
There are memories that we fear and run away from all our lives. But we also find solace in memory, often in unexpected ways, as unbidden images return from our past.
When I was living in London as a young man in the 1950s, I was homesick and miserable, separated by a thousand miles of ocean, plain and desert from my beloved Himalayas. And then one morning the depressing London fog became a mountain mist, and the sound of traffic became the hoo-hoo-hoo of the wind in the branches of tall deodar trees.
I remembered a little mountain path from my boyhood which led my restless feet into a cool forest of oak and rhododendron, and then on to the windswept crest of a naked hilltop. The hill was called Cloud’s End. It commanded a view of the plains on one side, and of the snow peaks on the other. Little silver rivers twisted across the valley below, where the rice fields formed a patchwork of emerald green.
During the rains, clouds enveloped the valley but left the hill alone, an island in the sky. Wild sorrel grew among the rocks, and there were many flowers—convolvulus, clover, wild begonia, dandelion—sprinkling the hillside.