by Ruskin Bond
The bear at once scrambled several feet higher up the tree and lay flat on a branch. Since it wasn’t a very big branch, there was a lot of bear showing on either side. He tucked his head behind another branch. He could no longer see me, so he apparently was satisfied that he was hidden, although he couldn’t help grumbling.
Like all bears, this one was full of curiosity. So, slowly, inch by inch, his black snout appeared over the edge of the branch. As soon as he saw me, he drew his head back and hid his face.
He did this several times. I waited until he wasn’t looking, then moved some way down my tree. When the bear looked over and saw that I was missing, he was so pleased that he stretched right across to another branch and helped himself to a plum. At that, I couldn’t help bursting into laughter.
The startled young bear tumbled out of the tree, dropped through the branches some fifteen feet, and landed with a thump in a pile of dried leaves. He was unhurt, but fled from the clearing, grunting and squealing all the way.
Another time, my friend Jai told me that a bear had been active in his cornfield. We took up a post at night in an old cattle shed, which gave a clear view of the moonlit field.
A little after midnight, the bear came down to the edge of the field. She seemed to sense that we had been about. She was hungry, however. So, after standing on her hind legs and peering around to make sure the field was empty, she came cautiously out of the forest.
The bear’s attention was soon distracted by some Tibetan prayer flags, which had been strung between two trees. She gave a grunt of disapproval and began to back away, but the fluttering of the flags was a puzzle that she wanted to solve. So she stopped and watched them.
Soon the bear advanced to within a few feet of the flags, examining them from various angles. Then, seeing that they posed no danger, she went right up to the flags and pulled them down. Grunting with apparent satisfaction, she moved into the field of corn.
Jai had decided that he didn’t want to lose any more of his crop, so he started shouting. His children woke up and soon came running from the house, banging on empty kerosene tins.
Deprived of her dinner, the bear made off in a bad temper. She ran downhill at a good speed, and I was glad that I was not in her way.
Uphill or downhill, an angry bear is best given a very wide path.
Sleeping out, under the stars, is a very romantic conception. ‘Stones thy pillow, earth thy bed,’ goes an old hymn, but a rolled-up towel or shirt will make a more comfortable pillow Do not settle down to sleep on sloping ground, as I did once when I was a Boy Scout during my prep school days. We had camped at Tara Devi, on the outskirts of Shimla, and as it was a warm night I decided to sleep outside our tent. In the middle of the night I began to roll. Once you start rolling on a steep hillside, you don’t stop. Had it not been for a thorny dog-rose bush, which halted my descent, I might well have rolled over the edge of a precipice.
I had a wonderful night once, sleeping on the sand on the banks of the Ganga above Rishikesh. It was a balmy night, with just a faint breeze blowing across the river, and as I lay there looking up at the stars, the lines of a poem by R.L. Stevenson kept running through my head:
Give to me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly heaven above
And the byway nigh me.
Bed in the bush with stars to see,
Bread I dip in the river—
There’s the life for a man like me,
There’s the life for ever.
The following night I tried to repeat the experience, but the jolly heaven above opened up in the early hours, the rain came pelting down, and I had to run for shelter to the nearest Ashram. Never take Mother Nature for granted!
The best kind of walk, and this applies to the plains as well as to the hills, is the one in which you have no particular destination when you set out.
‘Where are you off?’ asked a friend of mine the other day, when he met me on the road.
‘Honestly, I have no idea,’ I said, and I was telling the truth.
I did end up in Happy Valley, where I met an old friend whom I hadn’t seen for years. When we were boys, his mother used to tell us stories about the bhoots that haunted her village near Mathura. We reminisced and then went our different ways. I took the road to Hathipaon and met a schoolgirl who covered ten miles every day on her way to and from her school. So there were still people who used their legs, though out of necessity rather than choice.
Anyway, she gave me a story to write and thus I ended the day with two stories, one a memoir and the other based on a fresh encounter. And all because I had set out without a plan. The adventure is not in getting somewhere, it’s the on-the-way experience. It is not the expected; it’s the surprise. Not the fulfilment of prophecy, but the providence of something better than that prophesied.
Running for Cover
The right to privacy is a fine concept and might actually work in the West, but in Eastern lands it is purely notional. If I want to be left alone, I have to be a shameless liar-pretend that I am out of town or, if that doesn’t work, announce that I have measles, mumps or some new variety of Asian flu.
Now I happen to like people and I like meeting people from all walks of life. If this were not the case, I would have nothing to write about. But I don’t like too many people all at once. They tend to get in the way. And if they arrive without warning, banging on my door while I am in the middle of composing a poem or writing a story, or simply enjoying my afternoon siesta, I am inclined to be snappy or unwelcoming. Occasionally I have even turned people away.
As I get older, that afternoon siesta becomes more of a necessity and less of an indulgence. But it’s strange how people love to call on me between two and four in the afternoon. I suppose it’s the time of day when they have nothing to do.
‘How do we get through the afternoon?’ one of them will say.
‘I know! Let’s go and see old Ruskin. He’s sure to entertain us with some stimulating conversation, if nothing else.’ Stimulating conversation in mid-afternoon? Even Socrates would have balked at it.
‘I’m sorry I can’t see you today,’ I mutter. ‘I don’t feel at all well.’ (In fact, extremely unwell at the prospect of several strangers gaping at me for at least half-an-hour.)
‘Not well? We’re so sorry. My wife here is a homeopath.’
It’s amazing the number of homeopaths who turn up at my door. Unfortunately they never seem to have their little powders on them, those miracle cures for everything from headaches to hernias.
The other day a family burst in—uninvited of course. The husband was an ayurvedic physician, the wife was a homeopath (naturally), the eldest boy a medical student at an allopathic medical college.
‘What do you do when one of you falls ill?’ I asked, ‘Do you try all three systems of medicine?’
‘It depends on the ailment,’ said the young man. ‘But we seldom fall ill. My sister here is a yoga expert.’
His sister, a hefty girl in her late twenties (still single) looked more like an all-in wrestler than a supple yoga practitioner. She looked at my tummy. She could see I was in bad shape.
‘I could teach you some exercises,’ she said. ‘But you’d have to come to Ludhiana.’
I felt grateful that Ludhiana was a six-hour drive from Mussoorie.
‘I’ll drop in some day,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’ll come and take a course.’
We parted on excellent terms. But it doesn’t always turn out that way.
There was this woman, very persistent, in fact downright rude, who wouldn’t go away even when I told her I had bird-flu.
‘I have to see you,’ she said, ‘I’ve written a novel, and I want you to recommend it for a Booker Prize.’
‘I’m afraid I have no influence there,’ I pleaded. ‘I’m completely unknown in Britain.’
‘Then how about the Nobel Prize?’
I thought about that for a minute. ‘Only in th
e science field,’ I said. ‘If it’s something to do with genes or stem cells?’
She looked at me as though I was some kind of worm. ‘You are not very helpful,’ she said.
‘Well, let me read your book.’
‘I haven’t written it yet.’
‘Well, why not come back when it’s finished? Give yourself a year—two years—these things should never be done in a hurry.’ I guided her to the gate and encouraged her down the steps.
‘You are very rude,’ she said. ‘You did not even ask me in. I’ll report you to Khushwant Singh. He’s a friend of mine. He’ll put you in his column.’
‘If Khushwant Singh is your friend,’ I said, ‘why are you bothering with me? He knows all the Nobel and Booker Prize people. All the important people, in fact.’
I did not see her again, but she got my phone number from someone, and now she rings me once a week to tell me her book is coming along fine. Any day now, she’s going to turn up with the manuscript.
Casual visitors who bring me their books or manuscripts are the ones I dread most. They ask me for an opinion, and if I give them a frank assessment they resent it. It’s unwise to tell a would-be writer that his memoirs or novel or collected verse would be better off unpublished. Murders have been committed for less. So I play safe and say, ‘Very promising. Carry on writing.’ But this is fatal. Almost immediately I am asked to write a foreword or introduction, together with a letter of recommendation to my publisher—or any publisher of standing. Unwillingly I become a literacy agent; unpaid of course.
I am all for encouraging the arts and literature, but I do think writers should seek out their own publishers and write their own introductions.
The perils of doing this sort of thing was illustrated when 1 was prevailed upon to write a short introduction to a book about a dreaded man-eater who had taken a liking to the flesh of the good people of Dogadda, near Lansdowne. The author of the book could hardly write a decent sentence, but he managed to string together a lengthy account of the leopard’s depradations. He was so persistent, calling on me or ringing me up that I finally did the introduction. He then wanted me to edit or touch up his manuscript; but this I refused to do. 1 would starve if I had to sit down and rewrite other people’s books. But he prevailed upon me to give him a photograph.
Months later, the book appeared, printed privately of course. And there was my photograph, and a photograph of the dead leopard after it had been hunted down. But the local printer had got the captions mixed up. The dead animal’s picture earned the line: ‘Well-known author Ruskin Bond.’ My picture carried the legend: ‘Dreaded man-eater, shot after it had killed its 26th victim.’
The printer’s devil had turned me into a serial killer.
Now you know why I’m wary of writing introductions.
‘Vanity’ publishers thrive on writers who are desperate to see their work in print. They will print and deliver a book at your doorstep and then leave you with the task of selling it; or to be more accurate, disposing of it.
One of my neighbours, Mrs Santra—may her soul rest in peace—paid a publisher forty-thousand rupees to bring out a fancy edition of her late husband’s memoirs. During his lifetime he’d been unable to get it published, but before he died he got his wife to promise that she’d publish it for him. This she did, and the publisher duly delivered 500 copies to the good lady. She gave a few copies to friends, and then passed away, leaving the books behind. Her heir is now saddled with 450 hardbound volumes of unsaleable memoirs.
I have always believed that if a writer is any good he will find a publisher who will print, bind, and sell his books, and even give him a royalty for his efforts. A writer who pays to get published is inviting disappointment and heartbreak.
Many people are under the impression that I live in splendour in a large mansion, surrounded by secretaries and servants. They are disappointed to find that I live in a tiny bedroom-cum-study and that my living-room is so full of books that there is hardly space for more than three or four visitors at a time.
Sometimes thirty to forty schoolchildren turn up, wanting to see me. I don’t turn away children, if I can help it. But if they come in large numbers I have to meet and talk to them on the road, which is inconvenient for everyone.
If I had the means, would I live in a splendid mansion in the more affluent parts of Mussoorie, with a film star or TV personality as my neighbour? I rather doubt it. All my life I’ve been living in one or two rooms and I don’t think I could manage a bigger establishment. True, my extended family takes up another two rooms, but they see to it that my working space is not violated. And if I am hard at work (or fast asleep) they will try to protect me from unheralded or unwelcome visitors.
And I have learnt to tell lies. Especially when I’m asked to attend school functions as a chief guest or in some formal capacity. To spend two or three hours listening to speeches (and then being expected to give one) is my idea of hell. It’s hell for the students and it’s hell for me. The speeches are usually followed (or preceded) by folk dances, musical interludes or class plays, and this only adds to the torment. Sports days are just as bad. You can skip the speeches (hopefully), but you must sit out in the hot sun for the greater part of the day, while a loudspeaker informs you that little Parshottam has just broken the school record for the under-nine high jump, or that Pamela Highjinks has won the hurdles for the third year running. You don’t get to see the events because you are kept busy making polite conversation with the other guests. The only occasion when a sports’ event really came to life was when a misdirected discus narrowly missed decapitating the headmaster’s wife.
Former athletes and sportsmen seldom visit me. They have difficulty making it up my steps. Most of them have problems with their knees before they are fifty. They hobble (for want of a better word). Once their playing days are over, they start hobbling. Nandu, a former tennis champion, can’t make it up my steps, nor can Chand—a former wrestler. Too much physical activity when young has resulted in an early breakdown of the body’s machinery. As Nandu says, ‘Body can’t take it any more.’ I’m not too agile either, but then, I was never much of a sportsman. Second last in the marathon was probably my most memorable achievement.
Oddly enough, some of the most frequent visitors to my humble abode are honeymooners.
Why, I don’t know, but they always ask for my blessing even though I am hardly an advertisement for married bliss. A seventy-year-old bachelor blessing a newly married couple? Maybe they are under the impression that I’m a Brahmachari? But how would that help them? They are going to have babies sooner or later.
It is seldom that they happen to be readers or book-lovers, so why pick an author, and that too one who does not go to places of worship? However, since these young couples are inevitably attractive, and full of high hopes for their future and the future of mankind, I am happy to talk to them, wish them well…and if it’s a blessing they want, they are welcome. My hands are far from being saintly but at least they are well-intentioned.
I have, at times, been mistaken for other people.
‘Are you Mr Pickwick?’ asked a small boy. At least he’d been reading Dickens. A distant relative, I said, and beamed at him in my best Pickwickian manner.
I am at ease with children, who talk quite freely except when accompanied by their parents. Then it’s mum and dad who do all the talking.
‘My son studies your book in school,’ said one fond mother, proudly exhibiting her ten-year-old. ‘He wants your autograph.’
‘What’s the name of the book you’re reading?’ I asked.
‘Tom Sawyer,’ he said promptly.
So I signed Mark Twain in his autograph book. He seemed quite happy.
A schoolgirl asked me to autograph her maths textbook.
‘But I failed in maths,’ I said. ‘I’m just a story writer.’
‘How much did you get?’
‘Four out of a hundred.’
She looked at me rather
crossly and snatched the book away.
I have signed books in the names of Enid Blyton, R.K. Narayan, Ian Botham, Daniel Defoe, Harry Potter and the Swiss Family Robinson. No one seems to mind.
Cricket for the Crocodile
Ranji was up at dawn.
It was Sunday, a school holiday. Although he was supposed to be preparing for his exams, only a fortnight away, he couldn’t resist one or two more games before getting down to history and algebra and other unexciting things.
‘I’m going to be a Test cricketer when I grow up,’ he told his mother. ‘Of what use will maths be to me?’
‘You never know,’ said his mother, who happened to be more of a cricket fan than his father. ‘You might need maths to work out your batting average. And as for history, wouldn’t you like to be a part of history? Famous cricketers make history!’
‘Making history is all right,’ said Ranji. ‘As long as I don’t have to remember the date on which I make it!’
Ranji met his friends and teammates in the park. The grass was still wet with dew, the sun only just rising behind the distant hills. The park was full of flower-beds, and swings and slides for smaller children. The boys would have to play on the river bank against their rivals, the village boys. Ranji did not have a full team that morning, but he was looking for a ‘friendly’ match. The really important game would be held the following Sunday.
The village team was quite good because the boys lived near each other and practised a lot together, whereas Ranji’s team was drawn from all parts of the town. There was the baker’s boy, Nathu; the tailor’s son, Sunder; the postmaster’s son, Prem; and the bank manager’s son, Anil. These were some of the better players. Sometimes their fathers also turned up for a game. The fathers weren’t very good, but you couldn’t tell them that. After all, they helped to provide bats and balls and pocket-money.
A regular spectator at these matches was Nakoo the crocodile, who lived in the river. Nakoo means Nosey, but the village boys were very respectful and called him Nakoo-ji, Nakoo, sir. He had a long snout, rows of ugly-looking teeth (some of them badly in need of fillings), and a powerful scaly tail.