by Ruskin Bond
And ten hundred broken dreams.
A hat-pin and an Iron Cross
Lie down with a blackened pistol,
While a bronze Buddha smiles across
At a plastic doll from Bristol.
Old clothes, old books (perhaps a first edition?),
A dressing-gown, a dagger marked with rust.
A card for some lost Christmas,
And inside, a letter:
‘Dear Jane, I am getting better.’
A Chinese vase and a china-dog.
The shop is cold and thick with dust,
The Mall is far from grand;
But Abdul Salaam grows prosperous,
In a suit that’s secondhand.
At the Grave of John Mildenhall in Agra
In the year 1594,
Visiting first Lahore
And then the garden city of Ajmer,
Came a merchant adventurer,
John Mildenhall by name,
From London by the River Thame.
To Agra’s mart he brought
His goods and baggage; then sought
Audience with the great
Moghul, who sat in state
In a vast red sandstone audience-hall.
‘We are pleased, Mr. Mildenhall,
To have you at our court,’ great Akbar said;
‘Your Queen is known to have an astute head,
Your country many ships, and I hear
Of a poet called Shakespeare—
Who, though not as good as Fazl or Faiz,
Writes a pretty line and does plays on the side.
But tell us—when will you be on your way?’
‘Most gracious King, I’d like to stay—
With your permission—for a while,’
Said the traveller with the Elizabethan smile.
To this request the Emperor complied.
John stayed, and settled down, and died.
Over three hundred years had passed
When those who followed, left at last.
Words to Live By
The Wind and the Rain
Like the wind, I run;
Like the rain, I sing;
Like the leaves, I dance;
Like the earth, I’m still;
And in this, Lord, I do thy will.
Pebbles
Pebbles on the seashore.
Millions of pebbles, and yet each one is different.
I pick up a pebble and throw it far out to sea.
For thousands of years the sea will roll over it,
And the pebble will become smoother and rounder,
But after all that time it will still be a pebble,
As you made it, as I threw it.
After all, what is a thousand years?
One Flower
It has bloomed again,
This flower that I thought dead.
In one moment of despair
And pain,
I’d trampled it in the ground
Upon this barren plain.
Little did I know
That it would rise again,
This flower that I thought dead.
My soul would need
A surer weapon than despair
To crush a thing so bright, so fair.
To Live in Magic
What more perfect friend
than the friend you have given me, Lord;
What more perfect song than the
whistling-thrush at dawn’s first light;
What lovelier thing than the ladybird
opening its wings on the rose-petal;
What greater gift than this moment in time,
this heart-beat in the night?
For Silence
Thank you, Lord, for silence;
The silence of great mountains
and deserts and forests.
For the silence of the street
late at night
when the last travellers
are safely home
and the traffic is still.
For the silence in my room
in which I can hear small sounds outside:
a moth fluttering against the window pane,
the drip of the dew running off the roof,
and a field mouse rustling through dry leaves.
Last Words
Observing Ananda weeping, Gautama said,
‘O Ananda do not weep. This body of ours
contains within itself the powers which renew
its strength for a time, but also the causes which
lead to its destruction. Is there anything put
together which shall not dissolve?’
Then, turning to his disciples, he said, ‘When
I am passed away and am no longer with you,
do not think the Buddha has left you, and is not
still in your midst. You have my words, my
explanations, my laws…’ And again, ‘Beloved
disciples, if you love my memory, love one another.’
And after another pause he said, ‘Beloved,
that which causes life causes also decay
and death. Never forget this. I called you to tell you this.’
These were the last words of Gautama
Buddha, as he stretched himself out and died
under the great sal tree, at Kasinagara.
This Land Is Mine
This land is mine
Although I do not own it,
This land is mine
Because I grew upon it.
This dust, this grass,
This tender leaf
And weathered bark
All in my heart are finely blended
Until my time on earth is ended.
Dare to Dream
Build castles in the air
But first, give them foundations.
Hold fast to all your dreams,
Make perfect your creations.
All glory comes to those who dare.
Failed works are sad lame things.
Act impeccably, sing
Your own song, but do not take
Another’s song from her or him;
Look for your art within,
You’ll find your own true gift,
For you are special too.
And if you try, you’ll find
There’s nothing you can’t do.
Out of the Darkness
Out of darkness we came, into darkness we go,
Out of the sea to the land we know,
Out of the trembling hills and its streams,
From night unto day we come with our dreams.
The wind and the water gave form to our lives;
After thousands of aeons mankind still survives,
And beyond those great spaces, those planets and stars,
Who knows, there are heart-beats and children like ours.
Haikus and Other Verses
Haikus
Whenever I am in a pensive or troubled state, I read (or write) a Haiku. It helps to clear and calm my mind. Here are a few that I wrote last year…
Sweet-scented jasmine in this fold of cloth
I give to you on this your bridal day,
That you forget me not.
There’s a begonia in her cheeks,
Pink as the flush of early dawn
On Sikkim’s peaks.
Her beauty brought her fame.
But only the wild rose flowering beside her grave
Is there to hear her whispered name.
Bright red
The poinsettia flames
As autumn and the old year wanes.
Petunias I will praise,
Their soft perfume
Takes me by surprise!
The Indian Pink keep flowering without end,
Sturdy and modest,
A loyal friend.
Shaded in a deep ravine,
The ferns stand upright,
Dark and green.
One fine day my
kite took wing,
Then came a strong wind—
I was left with the string!
To the temple on the mountain top
We climbed. Forgot to pray!
But got home anyway.
Antirrhinums line the wall,
Sturdy little dragons all!
When I was a boy, I dreamt of
wealth and fame;
And now I’m old, I dream of being
a boy again.
Jasmine flowers in her hair,
Languid summer days are here,
And sweet longing scents the air.
Out of the Dark
At a ruin upon a hill outside the town
I found some shelter from a summer storm.
An alcove in a wall, moss-green and redolent of bats
But refuge from the wind and rain; an entrance once
To what had been a home, a mansion large and spacious;
Now dream-wrecked, desolate.
And as I stood there, pondering
Upon the mutability of stone, I thought I heard
A haunting cry, insistent on the wind—
‘Oh son, please let me in
Oh son, please let me in…’
Just the soughing of the wind
In the bending, keening pines;
Just the rain sibilant on old stones:
Or was it something more, a voice
Trapped in the woof of time, imploring still
And lingering at some door which stood
Where now I sheltered on a barren hill.
At home, that night, I settled down
To read, the bedlamp on. The night was warm
The storm had passed and all was still outside,
When something, someone, moved about, came tapping on the door.
‘Who’s there?’ I called.
The tapping stopped. And then,
Entreating, came that voice again:
‘Oh son, please let me in!’
‘Who’s there, who’s there?’ I cried,
And crossed the cold stone floor
Paused for a moment, hand on latch
Then opened wide the door.
Bright moonlight streamed across the sill
And crept along the stair;
I peered outside, to right and left:
Bright road returned my stare.
But long before the dawn, I heard
That tapping once again;
Not on the door this time, but nearer still—
Now rapping quickly on the window-pane.
I lay quite still and held my breath
And thought—surely it’s the old oak tree.
Leaves gently tapping on the glass,
Or a moth, or some great beetle winging past.
But through the darkness, pressing in,
As though in me it sought its will,
As though in me it yet would dwell—
‘Oh son, please let me in…
Oh, son, please let me in!’
Lost All My Money
I’ve lost all my money,
And I’m on my way home;
Home to the hills and a field full of rocks.
Nothing in the city but a sickness of the soul,
Nothing to earn but sorrow…
I’ve lost all my money
And I’m on my way home,
With nothing to buy my way home…
I’ve lost all my money
And I can’t bribe the guard,
So help me, O Lord,
On my way home…
If Mice Could Roar
If mice could roar
And elephants soar
And trees grow up in the sky,
If tigers could dine
On biscuits and wine,
And the fattest of folk could fly!
If pebbles could sing
And bells never ring
And teachers were lost in the post;
If a tortoise could run
And losses be won
And bullies be buttered on toast,
If a song brought a shower
And a gun grew a flower,
This world would be better than most.
THE BEGINNING
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First published by Penguin Books India 2007
This edition published in Penguin Books 2016
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Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2007
Cover design by Ahlawat Gunjan
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ISBN: 978-0-143-42670-7
This digital edition published in 2016.
e-ISBN: 978-8-184-75099-7
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