by Ruskin Bond
And as I sat there, pondering on my future, a line from Thoreau kept running through my head. ‘Why should I feel lonely? Is not our planet in the Milky Way?’
Wherever I went, the stars were there to keep me company. And I knew that as long as I responded, in both a physical and mystical way, to the natural world—sea, sun, earth, moon and stars—I would never feel lonely upon this planet.
A boy stretches out on the bench by the road like a cat, and the setting sun is trapped in his eyes, golden brown, glowing like a tiger’s eyes. He reminds me of a friend from my youth; from long, long ago.
Where is he now? He would be an old man, like me. How much has he changed with time? How much have I?
I say a silent prayer for him and hope that he is happy and well. Because it makes me happy.
For as long as I can remember, I have been happiest taking a path—any old path will do—and following it until it leads me to a forest glade or village or stream or hilltop, or a face I long to see. But for some years now, I can rarely do this, and never on my own. Age demands the surrender of many pleasures (though they are replaced by other, less intense, more enduring ones).
So I turn to my diaries and notebooks to relive the days when I tramped all over my patch of the hills, sometimes sleeping at a roadside teashop or a village school.
Here’s something I wrote of a winter afternoon some twenty years ago:
I have been cooped up in my room for several days, while outside it has rained and hailed and snowed and the wind has been blowing icily from all directions. It seems ages since I took a long walk. Fed up with it all, I pull up my overcoat, bang the door shut and set off up the hillside.
I keep to the main road, but because of the heavy snow there are no vehicles on it. Even as I walk, flurries of snow strike my face, and collect on my coat and head. Up at the top of the hill, the deodars are clothed in a mantle of white. It is fairyland: everything still and silent. The only movement is the circling of an eagle over the trees. I walk for an hour and pass only one person, the milkman on his way back to his village. His cans are crowned with snow. He looks a little high. He shakes my hand, gives me a tipsy salute, a tipsy grin and walks on, tipsily singing a Garhwali love song.
I come home exhilarated and immediately sit down beside the old stove to write. I find some lines of Stevenson’s which seem appropriate:
And this shall be for music when no one else is near,
The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!
That only I remember, that only you admire,
Of the broad road that stretches, and the roadside fire.
He speaks directly to me, across the mists of time: R.L. Stevenson, prince of essayists. There is none like him today. We hurry, hurry in a heat of hope—and who has time for roadside fires, except, perhaps, those who must work on the roads in all weathers?
Whenever I walk into the hills, I come across gangs of road workers breaking stones, cutting into the rocky hillsides, building retaining walls. I am not against more roads—especially in the hills, where the people have remained impoverished largely because of the inaccessibility of the villages. Besides, a new road is one more road for me to explore, and in the interests of progress I am prepared to put up with the dust raised by the occasional bus. And if it becomes too dusty, I can always leave the main road. There is no dearth of paths leading off into the valleys.
On one such diversionary walk, I reached a village where I was given a drink of curds and a meal of rice and beans. That is another of the attractions of tramping to nowhere in particular—the finding of somewhere in particular; the striking up of friendships; the discovery of new springs and waterfalls, rare flowers, strange birds.
And old familiars. Returning to Mussoorie from Rajpur around midnight, I saw a leopard leap over a parapet wall, then her three cubs scurrying into the bushes. I had thought I’d seen my last leopard some years ago. But there they were—a family of survivors.
I learned early—without quite realizing it—that the pleasure of travel is in the journey, and not so much in reaching one’s destination. Destinations rarely live up to the traveller’s expectations. And the pleasure is further reduced if you’re checking your watch all the time. In travel, as in life, give yourself plenty of time, so that you won’t have to rush—you miss seeing the world around you when you are in a great rush, or if you seal yourself off in air-conditioned cars and trains, afraid of the heat and dust.
I like to think that I invented the zigzag walk. Tiring of walking in straight lines, I took to going off at tangents—taking sudden unfamiliar turnings, wandering down narrow alleyways, following cart tracks or paths through fields instead of the main roads, and in general making the walk as long and leisurely as possible. In this way I saw much more than I would normally have seen. Here a temple, there a mosque; now an old church, now a railway line; here a pond full of buffaloes, there a peacock preening itself under a tamarind tree; and now I’m in a field of mustard, and soon I’m walking along a canal bank, and the canal leads me back into the town, and I follow the line of the mango trees until I am home.
The adventure is not in arriving, it’s in the on-the-way experience. It is not in the expected; it’s in the surprise. You are not choosing what you shall see in the world, but giving the world an even chance to see you.
It’s like drawing lines from star to star in the night sky, not forgetting many dim, shy, out-of-the-way stars, which are full of possibilities. The first turning to the left, the next to the right… I am still on my zigzag way, pursuing the diagonal between reason and the heart.
Love your art, poor as it may be, which you have learned, and be content with it; and pass through the rest of life like one who has entrusted to the gods with his whole soul and all that he has, making yourself neither the tyrant nor the slave of any man.
—Marcus Aurelius
‘Love your art, poor as it may be…’ I have never regretted following this precept, despite the fact that it was sometimes difficult to make ends meet as a writer. The gift for putting together words and sentences to make stories or poems or essays has carried me through life with a certain serenity and inner harmony, which could not have come from any unloved vocation.
Within my own ‘art’ I think I have known my limitations and worked within them, thus sparing myself the bitter disappointment that comes to those whose ambitions stretch far beyond their talents. To know one’s limitations and to do good work within them: more is achieved that way than by overreaching oneself. It is no use trying to write a masterpiece every year if you are so made as to write only one in ten or twenty. In between, there are other good things that can be written—smaller things, but satisfying in their own way.
Do what you know best, and do it well. Act impeccably. Everything will then fall into place.
I was looking for an example to try and illustrate this precept, and came upon it, some twenty years ago, in the persons of Mahboob Khan and Ramji Mal, stonemasons who were engaged in restoring Shah Jahan’s Hall of Mirrors in the Agra Fort. They had been at work for nearly a decade, slowly but deftly bringing their epic task to completion.
The restoration work was so intricate that these two skilled craftsmen could restore only about six inches in a day. In recreating the original stucco work on walls and ceiling, everything had to be done impeccably; millions of pieces of tiny mirrors and coloured glass had to find their exact place in order to reflect just the right amount of light and, at the same time, conform to a certain pattern.
It was a small art, theirs, but it required infinite patience, skill and dedication. No fame for them, no great material reward. Their greatest reward came from the very act of taking pains in the pursuit of perfection.
Surely they must have been happy, or at least contented men. In truth, I have yet to meet a neurotic carpenter or stonemason or clay-worker or bangle-maker or master craftsman of any kind. Those who work with wood or stone or glass—those who fashion beautiful things with t
heir hands—are usually well-balanced people. Working with the hands is in itself a therapy. Those of us who work with our minds—composers or artists or writers—must try to emulate these craftsmen’s methods, paying attention to every detail and working with loving care.
Because I have loved my art, I think I have been able to pass through life without being any man’s slave or tyrant. I doubt I have ever written a story or essay or workaday article unless I have really wanted to write it. And in this way I have probably suffered materially, because I have never attempted a blockbuster of a novel, or a biography of a celebrity, or a soap opera. But in the end things have worked out well. I am a writer without regrets, and that is no small achievement!
There comes a time when almost every author asks himself what his effort and output really amount to. We expect our work to influence people, to affect a great many readers, when in fact its impact is infinitesimal. Those who work on a larger scale must feel discouraged by the world’s indifference. That is why I am happy to give a little innocent pleasure to a handful of readers. This is a reward worth having.
As a writer, I have difficulty in doing justice to momentous events, the wars of nations, the politics of power; I am more at ease with the dew of the morning, the sensuous delights of the day, the silent blessings of the night, the joys and sorrows of children, the strivings of ordinary folk, and of course, the ridiculous situations in which we sometimes find ourselves.
We cannot prevent sorrow and pain and tragedy. And yet, when we look around us, we find that the majority of people are actually enjoying life! There are so many lovely things to see, there is so much to do, so much fun to be had, and so many charming and interesting people to meet… How can my pen ever run dry?
‘Friendship, of itself a holy tie,’ wrote Dryden. All my life has been the making of friends, and I have been luckier in this than most. I’ve been my own person, doing my own thing, and often stubborn. But, for the most part, I haven’t lacked companionship. The trick, I think, is to trust people and not be suspicious of strangers—the people who become our friends are all strangers before they do.
The ancient Hebrew sage Hillel has been my guide:
If I am not for myself,
Who will be for me?
And if I am not for others,
What am I?
And if not now, when?
‘What’s this?’ asked Rakesh when he was a small boy, touching a huge horseshoe that stood on my desk.
‘It’s a horseshoe,’ I said, ‘I keep it for luck.’
And then I tell him them about Miss Bean, the old English lady who had grown up in Mussoorie, and who lived in Maplewood Cottage when I came to live there in 1963. The little cottage stood on its own on the edge of a maple and oak forest.
Miss Bean was in her eighties then, the ‘last surviving Bean’ as she described herself. Her parents, brother and sister were all buried in the Camel’s Back Road cemetery. She received a tiny pension and lived in a small room full of bric-a-brac, bits of furniture rescued from her old home, and paintings done by her late mother. I was on my own then, living on sardines, baked beans, and other tinned stuff. Sometimes I shared my simple meals with her.
She told me stories of Mussoorie’s early days—the balls and fancy dress parties at the Hackmans and Savoy hotels; the scandals that erupted from time to time; houses that were said to be haunted; friends who had gone away or gone to their maker; her father’s military exploits.
I had noticed the big horseshoe on her mantelpiece, and asked her how she came by it. ‘My father brought it over from England,’ she said. ‘It was supposed to bring us luck. But the good luck ran out long ago…You can have it, if you like it.’ And she presented me with the horseshoe.
It has been with me for many years, going unnoticed most of the time, except when a visitor notices it and comments on its size.
Miss Bean passed away in her sleep, when I was still at Maplewood. Prem came to work for me soon after that and later brought his wife and three-month-old Rakesh from the village to live with us. They became my family. That was forty-three years ago.
Beena, Rakesh’s wife, asked me one day, ‘Did it really bring you good luck?’
‘We make our own luck,’ I said. ‘But the horseshoe has been with us all these years, and it always reminds me of its former owner, a little old lady who didn’t have much luck, but who enjoyed living, and stood alone, without complaining. It’s courage, not luck, that takes us through to the end of the road.’
Miss Bean had the courage to stand alone. And she lives
on through that old horseshoe on my desk.
By all means use sometimes to be alone!
Salute thyself: see what thy soul doth wear!
—George Herbert
It seems to me that most people are scared of solitude, for almost everything is carried out on a crowded scale. Clubs, wedding parties, sporting events, political meetings, victory parades, religious events, melas, even prayer meetings—the bigger the crowd, the more successful the event! Let a man be seen walking about the hills or countryside alone, and he will be labelled an eccentric.
For most people loneliness is wrongly linked to unhappiness. Their minds are not deep enough to appreciate the sweetness and balm of solitude; they are afraid of life itself, of coming face to face with themselves.
Most of the time we are taken up with family life or working for a living. To get away from it all, just once in a while, into the hills or fields or bylanes, where ‘I am I’, is to enjoy undisturbed serenity. It helps one to contemplate, to create a philosophy of life, to take the mind off the nagging cares of pressures of this age of technological mayhem.
But you do not have to turn your back on the world at large in order to find true solitude. A solitary spirit can move around with the crowd while still holding on to his innate reserve of solitude. Some people choose to sail around the world in small boats. Others remain in their own small patch, yet see the world in a grain of sand.
Homely sounds, though we don’t often think about them, are the ones we miss most when they are gone. A kettle on the boil. A door that creaks on its hinges. Old sofa springs. Familiar voices lighting up the dark. Ducks quacking in the rain. Sounds that make a house a home.
One summer long ago, S___ came to stay with me in the cottage on the wooded hill. I would sometimes take the little path to the stream at the bottom of the hill, and now I did that with S___. I took her down to the stream and we walked some way downstream, holding hands to help each other over the rough rocks and slippery boulders. We discovered a little cavern, with little jets of water cascading down from above. There was an opening at the top, and a shaft of sunlight came through, mingling with the spray of water and creating a tiny rainbow. Yes, a rainbow! We had never seen anything like it.
Later, on our way back, we collected ferns. The shady places around Mussoorie harbour a variety of ferns, and we soon had more than we could handle. So we made a bed of ferns, and lay down upon them, and talked and touched each other and made promises which we wouldn’t keep. Love is inconstant; but it was good to love. And it gave me memories that make me smile on gloomy days.
I see us now, S___ and I, younger, living in that moment and untroubled by the future, walking home like children, still excited about the little rainbow we had seen.
Another memory: On the road outside the cottage, someone came up to me in the dark and kissed me and ran away. Who could it have been? So soft and warm and all-encompassing…The moment stayed with me all night.
Who could it have been? I must find out. No, I must never find out.
There was light snowfall by morning. Just enough to cloak the deodars for an hour or two, before it all melted away.
Man cannot help but live in conformity with his nature; his subconscious is more powerful than his conscious mind.
A bright young schoolgirl once asked me, ‘Sir, what is your philosophy of life?’ She had me stumped. Should I tell her that I had just bum
bled along? Would I disappoint her if I said that I was old but had no wisdom to offer? Well, better give her the truth, I decided, and had her stumped.
This morning I was pondering on this absence of a philosophy or religious outlook in my make-up, and feeling a little low because it was cloudy and dark outside, and gloomy weather always seems to dampen my spirits. Then the clouds broke up and the sun came out, large, yellow splashes of sunshine in my room and upon my desk, and almost immediately I felt an uplift of spirit. And at the same time I realized that no philosophy would be of any use to a person so susceptible to changes in light and shade, sunshine and shadow.
I am a pagan, pure and simple; sensitive to touch and colour and fragrance and odour and sounds of every description; a creature of instinct, of spontaneous attractions, given to illogical fancies and attachments. As a guide I am of little use to anyone, least of all to myself.
I think the best advice I ever had was contained in these lines from Shakespeare which my father had copied into one of my notebooks when I was nine years old:
This above all, to thine own self be true,
And it must follow as the night of the day,
Thou can’st not then be false to any man.
Each one of us is a mass of imperfections, and to be able to recognize and live with our imperfections—our basic natures, defects of genes and birth—makes, I think, for an easier transit on life’s journey.