by Ruskin Bond
Life at Maplewood was quite idyllic, and when Rakesh’s baby brother, Suresh, came into the world, it seemed we were all set for a long period of domestic bliss; but at such times tragedy is often lurking just around the corner. Suresh was just over a year old when he contracted tetanus. Doctors and hospitals were of no avail. He suffered—as any child would from this terrible affliction—and left this world before he had a chance of getting to know it. His parents were broken-hearted. And I feared for Rakesh, for he wasn’t a very healthy boy, and two of his cousins in the village had already succumbed to tuberculosis.
It was to be a difficult year for me. A criminal charge was brought against me for a slightly risque story I’d written for a Bombay magazine. I had to face trial in Bombay and this involved three journeys there over a period of a year and a half, before an irate but perceptive judge found the charges baseless and gave me an honourable acquittal.
It’s the only time I’ve been involved with the law and I sincerely hope it is the last. Most cases drag on interminably, and the main beneficiaries are the lawyers. My trial would have been much longer had not the prosecutor died of a heart attack in the middle of the proceedings. His successor did not pursue it with the same vigour. His heart was not in it. The whole issue had started with a complaint by a local politician, and when he lost interest so did the prosecution. Nevertheless the trial, once begun, had to be seen through. The defence (organized by the concerned magazine) marshalled its witnesses (which included Nissim Ezekiel and the Marathi playwright Vijay Tendulkar). I made a short speech which couldn’t have been very memorable as I have forgotten it! And everyone, including the judge, was bored with the whole business. After that, I steered clear of controversy publications. I have never set out to shock the world. Telling a meaningful story was all that really mattered. And that is still the case.
I was looking forward to continuing our idyllic existence in Maplewood, but it was not to be. The powers-that-be, in the shape of the Public Works Department (PWD), had decided to build a ‘strategic’ road just below the cottage and without any warning to us, all the trees in the vicinity were felled (including the friendly old oak) and the hillside was rocked by explosives and bludgeoned by bulldozers. I decided it was time to move. Prem and Chandra (Rakesh’s mother) wanted to move too; not because of the road, but because they associated the house with the death of little Suresh, whose presence seemed to haunt every room, every corner of the cottage. His little cries of pain and suffering still echoed through the still hours of the night.
I rented rooms at the top of Landour, a good thousand feet higher up the mountain. Rakesh was now old enough to go to school, and every morning I would walk with him down to the little convent school near the clock tower. Prem would go to fetch him in the afternoon. The walk took us about half an hour, and on the way Rakesh would ask for a story and I would have to rack my brains in order to invent one. I am not the most inventive of writers, and fantastical plots are beyond me. My forte is observation, recollection and reflection. Small boys prefer action. So I invented a leopard who suffered from acute indigestion because he’d eaten one human too many and a belt buckle was causing an obstruction.
This went down quite well until Rakesh asked me how the leopard got around the problem of the victim’s clothes.
‘The secret,’ I said, ‘is to pounce on them when their trousers are off!’
Not the stuff of which great picture books are made, but then, I’ve never attempted to write stories for beginners. Red Riding Hood’s granny-eating wolf always scared me as a small boy, and yet parents have always found it acceptable for toddlers. Possibly they feel grannies are expendable.
Mukesh was born around this time and Savitri (Dolly) a couple of years later. When Dolly grew older, she was annoyed at having been named Savitri (my choice), which is now considered very old fashioned; so we settled for Dolly. I can understand a child’s dissatisfaction with given names.
My first name was Owen, which in Welsh means ‘brave’ As I am not in the least brave, I have preferred not to use it. One given name and one surname should be enough.
When my granny said, ‘But you should try to be brave, otherwise how will you survive in this cruel world?’ I replied: ‘Don’t worry, I can run very fast.’
Not that I’ve ever had to do much running, except when I was pursued by a lissome Australian lady who thought I’d make a good obedient husband. It wasn’t so much the lady I was running from, but the prospect of spending the rest of my life in some remote cattle station in the Australian outback. Anyone who has tried to drag me away from India has always met with stout resistance.
Up on the heights of Landour lived a motley crowd. My immediate neighbours included a Frenchwoman who played the sitar (very badly) all through the night; a Spanish lady with two husbands, one of whom practised acupuncture—rather ineffectively as far as he was concerned, for he seemed to be dying of some mysterious debilitating disease. The other came and went rather mysteriously, and finally ended up in Tihar Jail, having been apprehended at Delhi airport carrying a large amount of contraband hashish.
Apart from these and a few other colourful characters, the area was inhabitated by some very respectable people, retired brigadiers, air marshals and rear admirals, almost all of whom were busy writing their memoirs. I had to read or listen to extracts from their literary efforts. This was slow torture. A few years before, I had done a stint of editing for a magazine called Imprint. It had involved going through hundreds of badly written manuscripts, and in some cases (friends of the owner!) rewriting some of them for publication. One of life’s joys had been to throw up that particular job, and now here I was, besieged by all the top brass of the Army, Navy and Air Force, each one determined that I should read, inwardly digest, improve, and if possible find a publisher for their outpourings. Thank goodness they were all retired. I could not be shot or court-martialled. But at least two of them set their wives upon me, and these intrepid ladies would turn up around noon with my ‘homework’—typescripts to read and edit! There was no escape. My own writing was of no consequence to them. I told them that I was taking sitar lessons, but they disapproved, saying I was more suited to the tabla.
When Prem discovered a set of vacant rooms further down the Landour slope, close to the school and bazaar, I rented them without hesitation. This was Ivy Cottage. Come up and see me sometimes, but leave your manuscripts behind.
When we came to Ivy Cottage in 1980, we were six, Dolly having just been born. Now, twenty-four years later, we are twelve. I think that’s a reasonable expansion. The increase has been brought about by Rakesh’s marriage twelve years ago, and Mukesh’s marriage two years ago. Both precipitated themselves into marriage when they were barely twenty, and both were lucky. Beena and Binita, who happen to be real sisters, have brightened and enlivened our lives with their happy, positive natures and the wonderful children they have brought into the world. More about them later.
Ivy Cottage has, on the whole, been kind to us, and particularly kind to me. Some houses like their occupants, others don’t. Maplewood, set in the shadow of the hill, lacked a natural cheerfulness; there was a settled gloom about the place. The house at the top of Landour was too exposed to the elements to have any sort of character. The wind moaning in the deodars may have inspired the sitar player but it did nothing for my writing. I produced very little up there.
On the other hand, Ivy Cottage—especially my little room facing the sunrise—has been conducive to creative work. Novellas, poems, essays, children’s stories, anthologies, have all come tumbling on to whatever sheets of paper happen to be nearest me. As I write by hand, I have only to grab for the nearest pad, loose sheet, page-proof or envelope whenever the muse takes hold of me; which is surprisingly often.
I came here when I was nearing fifty. Now I’m seventy, and instead of drying up, as some writers do in their later years, I find myself writing with as much ease and assurance as when I was twenty. And I enjoy writing. It
’s not a burdensome task. I may not have anything of earth-shattering significance to convey to the world, but in conveying my sentiments to you, dear readers, and in telling you something about my relationship with people and the natural world, I hope to bring a little pleasure and sunshine into your life.
Life isn’t a bed of roses, not for any of us, and I have never had the comforts or luxuries that wealth can provide. But here I am, doing my own thing, in my own time and my own way. What more can I ask of life? Give me a big cash prize and I’d still be here. I happen to like the view from my window. And I like to have Gautam coming up to me, patting me on the tummy, and telling me that I’ll make a good goalkeeper one day.
It’s a Sunday morning, as I come to the conclusion of this chapter. There’s bedlam in the house. Siddharth’s football keeps smashing against the front door. Shrishti is practising her dance routine in the back veranda. Gautam has cut his finger and is trying his best to bandage it with Sellotape. He is, of course, the youngest of Rakesh’s three musketeers, and probably the most independent-minded. Siddharth, now ten, is restless, never quite able to expend all his energy. ‘Does not pay enough attention,’ says his teacher. It must be hard for anyone to pay attention in a class of sixty! How does the poor teacher pay attention?
If you, dear reader, have any ambitions to be a writer, you must first rid yourself of any notion that perfect peace and quiet is the first requirement. There is no such thing as perfect peace and quiet except perhaps in a monastery or a cave in the mountains. And what would you write about, living in a cave? One should be able to write in a train, a bus, a bullock cart, in good weather or bad, on a park bench or in the middle of a noisy classroom.
Of course, the best place is the sun-drenched desk right next to my bed. It isn’t always sunny here, but on a good day like this, it’s ideal. The children are getting ready for school, dogs are barking in the street, and down near the water tap there’s an altercation between two women with empty buckets, the tap having dried up. But these are all background noises and will subside in due course. They are not directed at me.
Hello! Here’s Atish, Mukesh’s little ten-month old infant, crawling over the rug, curious to know why I’m sitting on the edge of my bed scribbling away, when I should be playing with him. So I shall play with him for five minutes and then come back to this page. Giving him my time is important. After all, I won’t be around when he grows up.
Half an hour later. Atish soon tired of playing with me, but meanwhile Gautam had absconded with my pen. When I asked him to return it, he asked, ‘Why don’t you get a computer? Then we can play games on it.’
‘My pen is faster than any computer,’ I tell him, ‘I wrote three pages this morning without getting out of bed. And yesterday I wrote two pages sitting under Billoo’s chestnut tree.’
‘Until a chestnut fell on your head,’ says Gautam, ‘Did it hurt?’
‘Only a little,’ I said, putting on a brave front.
He had saved the chestnut and now he showed it to me. The smooth brown horse-chestnut shone in the sunlight.
‘Let’s stick it in the ground,’ I said. ‘Then in the spring a chestnut tree will come up.’
So we went outside and planted the chestnut on a plot of wasteland. Hopefully a small tree will burst through the earth at about the time this little book is published.
Remember the old Road
Remember the old road,
The steep stony path
That took us up from Rajpur,
Toiling and sweating
And grumbling at the climb,
But enjoying it all the same.
At first the hills were hot and bare,
But then there were trees near Jharipani
And we stopped at the Halfway House
And swallowed lungfuls of diamond-cut air.
Then onwards, upwards, to the town,
Our appetites to repair!
Well, no one uses the old road any more.
Walking is out of fashion now.
And if you have a car to take you
Swiftly up the motor road
Why bother to toil up a disused path?
You’d have to be an old romantic like me
To want to take that route again.
But I did it last year,
Pausing and plodding and gasping for air—
Both road and I being a little worse for wear!
But I made it to the top and stopped to rest
And looked down to the valley and the silver stream
Winding its way towards the plains.
And the land stretched out before me, and the years fell away,
And I was a boy again,
And the friends of my youth were there beside me,
And nothing had changed.
All is Life
Whether by accident or design,
We are here.
Let’s make the most of it, my friend.
Make happiness our pursuit,
Spread a little sunshine here and there.
Enjoy the flowers, the breeze,
Rivers, sea and sky,
Mountains and tall waving trees.
Greet the children passing by,
Talk to the old folk. Be kind, my friend.
Hold on, in times of pain and strife:
Until death comes, all is life.
The Writer on the Hill
Ruskin Bond has been writing for over sixty years, and has now over 120 titles in print—novels, collections of stories, poetry, essays, anthologies and books for children. His most recent work is the novel, Tales of Fosterganj. His first novel, The Room on the Roof, received the prestigious John Llewellyn Rhys award in 1957. He has also received two awards from the Sahitya Akademi—one for his short stories and another for his writings for children. In 2012, the Delhi government gave him its Lifetime Achievement Award. Ruskin Bond was awarded the Padma Shri in 1999 and the Padma Bhushan in 2014.
Born in 1934, Ruskin Bond grew up in Jamnagar, Shimla, New Delhi and Dehradun. Apart from three years in the UK, he has spent all his life in India, and now lives in Mussoorie with his adopted family.
Published by
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Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2014
Edition copyright © Rupa Publications India 2014
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I hear the scent of her garland. But my nose being choked with darkness,
I do not see the sound of her ornaments.
Sudraka, king and poet, 200 BC
Some things a man should tell his wife, some things to friends and some
to sons; all these are trusted. He should not tell everything to everyone.
The Panchatantra
Contents
Selected Fiction
1950s: Dehra
The Thief’s Story
The Room on the Roof (An Excerpt)
The C
rooked Tree
The Eyes Have It
The Woman on Platform No. 8
The Fight
The Photograph
1960s and 1970s: Maplewood Lodge, Mussoorie
A Case for Inspector Lal
Masterji
A Face in the Dark
The Tunnel
The Kitemaker
Most Beautiful
The Cherry Tree
He Said It with Arsenic
The Last Time I Saw Delhi
The Blue Umbrella
1980s and Onwards: Ivy Cottage, Mussoorie
A Long Walk for Bina
From Small Beginnings
The Funeral
The Monkeys
Wilson’s Bridge
The Playing Fields of Simla
The Superior Man
The Hare in the Moon
Toria and the Daughter of the Sun
Selected Non-Fiction
1960s and 1970s: Maplewood Lodge
Colonel Gardner and the Princess of Cambay
The Lady of Sardhana
A Hill Station’s Vintage Murders
Grandfather’s Earthquake
A Village in Garhwal
Once upon a Mountain Time
Voting at Barlowganj
Sounds I Like to Hear
Bhabiji’s House
Break of the Monsoon
To See a Tiger
In Grandfather’s Garden
Man and Leopard
1980s and Onwards: Ivy Cottage
Landour Bazaar
