Ruskin Bond's Book of Verse

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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  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Penguin Books India 2007

  This edition published in Penguin Books 2016

  www.penguinbooksindia.com

  Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2007

  Cover design by Ahlawat Gunjan

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-0-143-42670-7

  This digital edition published in 2016.

  e-ISBN: 978-8-184-75099-7

  Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.