by Bond, Ruskin
Ruskin Bond
THE BEST OF RUSKIN BOND
Delhi is Not Far
Contents
About the Author
By the Same Author
Dedication
Introduction
Love and Friendship
The Eyes Have It
The Thief
The Night Train At Deoli
The Photograph
My First Love
A Guardian Angel
The Kitemaker
My Father’s Trees In Dehra
The Leopard
The Man Who Was Kipling
The Last Time I Saw Delhi
From Small Beginnings
Would Astley Return?
The Funeral
The Room Of Many Colours
The Girl From Copenhagen
Tribute To A Dead Friend
Tales of the Macabre
A Job Well Done
The Trouble With Jinns
He Said It With Arsenic
Hanging At The Mango-Tope
A Face In The Dark
From a Little Room
Life At My Own Pace
The Old Gramophone
A Little World Of Mud
Adventures Of A Book Lover
Upon An Old Wall Dreaming
A Golden Voice Remembered
At Home In India
Getting The Juices Flowing
Bird Life In The City
Home Is Under The Big Top
Pedestrian In Peril
Escape To Nowhere
In The Garden Of My Dreams
Owls In The Family
Adventures In A Banyan Tree
From My Notebook
Thus Spoke Crow
On The Road
Ganga Descends
Beautiful Mandakini
The Magic Of Tungnath
On The Road To Badrinath
Flowers On The Ganga
Mathura’s Hallowed Haunts
Footloose In Agra
Street Of The Red Well
Songs And Love Poems
Lost
Love Lyrics For Binya Devi
It Isn’t Time That’s Passing
Kites
Cherry Tree
Lovers Observed
Lone Fox Dancing
Secondhand Shop In Hill Station
A Frog Screams
A Song For Lost Friends
Scenes From The Novels
Extract From A Flight Of Pigeons
Extract From The Room On The Roof
The Lafunga
Extract From Rosebud
Time Stops At Shamli
Time Stops At Shamli
Delhi Is Not Far
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Acknowledgements
Read More
Follow Penguin
Copyright
About the Author
Born in Kasauli, Himachal Pradesh, in 1934, Ruskin Bond grew up in Jamnagar (Gujarat), Dehradun and Simla. His first novel, Room on the Roof, written when he was seventeen, received the John Llewellyn Rhys Memorial Prize in 1957. Since then he has written over three hundred short stories, essays and novellas (including Vagrants in the Valley and A Flight of Pigeons) and more than thirty books for children. He has also published two volumes of autobiography, Scenes from a Writer’s Life, which describes his formative years growing up in Anglo-India, and The Lamp is Lit, a collection of essays and episodes from his journal. In 1992 he received the Sahitya Akademi award for English writing in India. He was awarded the Padma Shree in 1999.
Ruskin Bond lives with his adopted family in Mussoorie.
By the Same Author
FICTION
The Room on the Roof and Vagrants in the Valley
Night Train at Deoli & Other Stories
Time Stops at Shamli & Other Stories
Our Trees Still Grow in Dehra (Stories)
The Penguin Book of Indian Ghost Stories (Edited)
The Penguin Book of Indian Railway Stories (Edited)
NON-FICTION
Rain in the Mountains
CHILDREN’S BOOKS
Panther’s Moon & Other Stories
The Room on the Roof
For Siddharth—
Good luck, little one
Introduction
And when all the wars are done, a butterfly will still be beautiful.
*
And here I am again, in my little room overlooking the winding road to Tehri, writing another Introduction.
No one has ever offered to write an Introduction for any of my books, and so, perforce, I must do my own.
Back in the 1950’s, when I wrote my first novel, unknown authors went around trying to get their more famous counterparts to write introductions for their books. Ever ready to oblige were men of the stature of Graham Greene, George Orwell, E. M. Forster and V. S. Pritchett. But I was far too shy to approach any or the ‘greats’. Moreover, I thought I was quite capable of standing up without any support. And although at times I have tottered, or come down with a loud thump, I think I have managed to maintain my independence, both as a writer and as an individual. Like the Jolly Miller of Dee, I care for nobody, no, not I—and nobody cares for me! I refer, of course, to introducers, celebrities, and the purveyors of literary criticism. A lot of other people have cared for me. Indeed, the stories and selected writings in this volume are testimonies to the many loving and caring people I have known over the years.
*
With the help of Anubha Doyle of Penguin India, I have made a fairly representative selection of my best writing, excluding my work for children which is well represented elsewhere. I have not made any selections from my non-fiction work, Rain in the Mountains (Viking, 1994), as this was published only recently.
The selection includes many of my early stories. Some are old favourites. Others (like the stories set in London) would be unfamiliar to most of my readers. I haven’t written much about the years I spent in London (in the 1950’s) but I hope to rectify this omission before long. The essays are fairly recent. I have always enjoyed writing essays. An essay is built around a particular mood in the mind of the writer. ‘Give the mood, and the essay, from the first sentence to the last, grows around it as the cocoon grows around the silkworm.’ (Alexander Smith, 1863)
What is the difference between an essay and a short story? It depends, I suppose, upon whose personality comes through more strongly, the author’s or the characters he describes. If it is the author’s, then it is really an essay. If it is the characters, then it is a story. Or is that too much of a simplification? In my own case, I have often found my stories becoming essays and vice-versa! One merges into the other. To communicate and be readable is, in the last resort, a matter of style.
People often ask me why my style is so simple. It is, in fact, deceptively simple, for no two sentences are really alike. It is clarity that I am striving to attain, not simplicity.
‘When you talk you sound quite complicated,’ said a friend. And I had to explain that I’ve spent forty years trying to simplify my style and clarify my thoughts!
Of course some people want literature to be difficult. And there are writers who like to make their readers toil and sweat. They hope to
be taken more seriously that way. I have always tried to achieve a prose that is easy and conversational. And those who think this is simple should try it for themselves.
*
Also included here, on the suggestion of my publisher, is a complete short novel, Delhi Is Not Far, which is seeing the light of day for the first time.
In 1960, when I wrote it, there were no takers for short novels. Indian publishers would not touch fiction; and a novel had to be fairly long and substantial (or sensational) to find a publisher in Britain or America. Delhi was very low key. Another factor that went against it was the bisexual nature of its central character. After several rejections, the typescript went into a packing-case full of old papers and files and was forgotten for many years. Last winter, when I was emptying the box of its mildewed contents, I found the typescript and was about to toss it into the fire when my eye fell on the name of one of the characters for whom I’d had a particular affection. I’ll keep it for old time’s sake, I said to myself. And browsing through its yellowed pages again, I decided that it had improved a bit with age. When I showed the novel to David Davidar, he suggested that I include it in this collection. So here it is, along with extracts from some of my other novels ( The Room on the Roof, Vagrants in the Valley, A Flight of Pigeons), the opening chapters of one that has yet to be written (Rosebud), and some of my verse, including the long autobiographical poem, A Song For Lost Friends.
*
When I made the notes for this Introduction (I am still old-fashioned enough to make notes), it was just another misty September morning, the hillsides lush with monsoon foliage. By evening Mussoorie was under curfew.
Today, as I type this out, it is the fifth day of curfew, and the town has yet to recover from the tragedy that overtook it last week, on September 2, Mussoorie’s Black Friday. Six citizens were shot dead and a police officer was lynched by a section of the crowd. For weeks the agitation had been allowed to continue unchecked. When the crackdown came, it was devastating.
Confrontations between demonstrators and the authorities are fairly commonplace throughout the country, the causes varying from one region to another. But it was the first time the hill-station had experienced this sort of thing. The middle of a fashionable Mall is the last place you’d expect to find the dead, the dying and the wounded. The children’s park wore the look of a battlefield, and the fountain, dry for months, was splashed with blood.
A curfew was the natural consequence, but no one expected it to last quite so long. On Sunday, the Jaunpuris—hill people from the outlying villages, largely unconcerned with politics and urban affairs—could not hold their annual Janmashtami fair, during which they take the image of Krishna in procession through the town. God Krishna could not bless Mussoorie this year. Perhaps he did not want to. The previous week, on Krishna’s birthday, when it always rains heavily, there was no rain at all—a bad omen.
As for this hill-station, it can never be the same again. It had been going downhill for some time—a very shabby ‘queen of the hills’, sans character, sans charm—and now, finally, she has lost all her pretensions to royalty.
But there are compensations, even during a curfew. Confined to the house, we must finally spend more time with our families, 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 live outside the main bazaar and the hillside is just above me, I can scramble up the slopes and discover anew the rich September flora.
The wild ginger is in flower. So is agrimony, lady’s lace, wild geranium. The ferns are turning yellow. The fruit of the snake lily has turned red, signifying an end to the rains. A thrush whistles cheerfully on the branch of a dead walnut tree.
Yes, and when all the wars are done, a butterfly will still be beautiful.
Ruskin Bond
7 September 1994
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP
Short Stories
The Eyes Have It
I had the train compartment to myself up to Rohana, then a girl got in. The couple who saw her off were probably her parents; they seemed very anxious about her comfort, and the woman gave the girl detailed instructions as to where to keep her things, when not to lean out of windows, and how to avoid speaking to strangers.
They called their goodbyes and the train pulled out of the station. As I was totally blind at the time, my eyes sensitive only to light and darkness, I was unable to tell what the girl looked like; but I knew she wore slippers from the way they slapped against her heels.
It would take me some time to discover something about her looks, and perhaps I never would. But I liked the sound of her voice, and even the sound of her slippers.
‘Are you going all the way to Dehra?’ I asked.
I must have been sitting in a dark corner, because my voice startled her. She gave a little exclamation and said, ‘I didn’t know anyone else was here.’
Well, it often happens that people with good eyesight fail to see what is right in front of them. They have too much to take in, I suppose. Whereas people who cannot see (or see very little) have to take in only the essentials, whatever registers most tellingly on their remaining senses.
‘I didn’t see you either,’ I said. ‘But I heard you come in.’
I wondered if I would be able to prevent her from discovering that I was blind. Provided I keep to my seat, I thought, it shouldn’t be too difficult.
The girl said, ‘I’m getting off at Saharanpur. My aunt is meeting me there.’
‘Then I had better not get too familiar,’ I replied. ‘Aunts are usually formidable creatures.’
‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
‘To Dehra, and then to Mussoorie.’
‘Oh, how lucky you are. I wish I were going to Mussoorie. I love the hills. Especially in October.’
‘Yes, this is the best time,’ I said, calling on my memories. ‘The hills are covered with wild dahlias, the sun is delicious, and at night you can sit in front of a log fire and drink a little brandy. Most of the tourists have gone, and the roads are quiet and almost deserted. Yes, October is the best time.’
She was silent. I wondered if my words had touched her, or whether she thought me a romantic fool. Then I made a mistake.
‘What is it like outside?’ I asked.
She seemed to find nothing strange in the question. Had she noticed already that I could not see? But her next question removed my doubts.
‘Why don’t you look out of the window?’ she asked.
I moved easily along the berth and felt for the window ledge. The window was open, and I faced it, making a pretence of studying the landscape. I heard the panting of the engine, the rumble of the wheels, and, in my mind’s eye, I could see telegraph posts flashing by.
‘Have you noticed,’ I ventured, ‘that the trees seem to be moving while we seem to be standing still?’
‘That always happens,’ she said. ‘Do you see any animals?’
‘No,’ I answered quite confidently. I knew that there were hardly any animals left in the forests near Dehra.
I turned from the window and faced the girl, and for a while we sat in silence.
‘You have an interesting face,’ I remarked. I was becoming quite daring, but it was a safe remark. Few girls can resist flattery. She laughed pleasantly—a clear, ringing laugh.
‘It’s nice to be told I have an interesting face. I’m tired of people telling me I have a pretty face.’
Oh, so you do have a pretty face, thought I: and aloud I said: ‘Well, an interesting face can also be pretty.’
‘You are a very gallant young man,’ she said, ‘but why are you so serious?’
I thought, then, I would try to laugh for her, but the thought of laughter only made me feel troubled and lonely.
‘We’ll soon be at your station,’ I said.
‘Thank goodness it’s a short journey. I can’t bear to sitin a train for more than two-or-three hours.’
Yet, I was prepared to sit there for almost any length of time, just to listen to her talking. Her voice had the sparkle of a mountain stream. As soon as she left the train, she would forget our brief encounter; but it would stay with me for the rest of the journey, and for some time after.
The engine’s whistle shrieked, the carriage wheels changed their sound and rhythm, the girl got up and began to collect her things. I wondered if she wore her hair in a bun, or if it was plaited; perhaps it was hanging loose over her shoulders, or was it cut very short?
The train drew slowly into the station. Outside, there was the shouting of porters and vendors and a high-pitched female voice near the carriage door; that voice must have belonged to the girl’s aunt.
‘Goodbye,’ the girl said.
She was standing very close to me, so close that the perfume from her hair was tantalizing. I wanted to raise my hand and touch her hair but she moved away. Only the scent of perfume still lingered where she had stood.
There was some confusion in the doorway. A man, getting into the compartment, stammered an apology. Then the door banged, and the world was shut out again. I returned to my berth. The guard blew his whistle and we moved off. Once again, I had a game to play and a new fellow-traveller.
The train gathered speed, the wheels took up their song, the carriage groaned and shook. I found the window and sat in front of it, staring into the daylight that was darkness for me.
So many things were happening outside the window: it could be a fascinating game, guessing what went on out there.
The man who had entered the compartment broke into my reverie.
‘You must be disappointed,’ he said. ‘I’m not nearly as attractive a travelling companion as the one who just left.’
‘She was an interesting girl,’ I said. ‘Can you tell me—did she keep her hair long or short?’
‘I don’t remember,’ he said, sounding puzzled. ‘It was her eyes I noticed, not her hair. She had beautiful eyes—but they were of no use to her. She was completely blind. Didn’t you notice?’