The Ruskin Bond Mini Bus

by Ruskin Bond

  THE RUSKIN BOND

  MINI BUS

  Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2006

  First Published 2006

  Fifth Impression 2011

  Published by

  Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd.

  7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj,

  New Delhi 110 002

  Sales Centres:

  Allahabad Bengaluru Chennai

  Hyderabad Jaipur Kathmandu

  Kolkata Mumbai

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a

  retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,

  electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without

  the prior permission of the publishers.

  Typeset in 11 pts. Revival by

  Mindways Design

  1410 Chiranjiv Tower

  43 Nehru Place

  New Delhi 110 019

  B.B Press.

  C-243, Sector 4

  DSIDC, Bawana

  Delhi-110 039

  HIMALAYAN TALES

  Contents

  HIMALAYAN TALES

  On Wings of Sleep

  The Wind on Haunted Hill

  Mother Hill

  The Whistling Schoolboy

  Song of the Whistling Thrush

  The Night the Roof Blew Off

  The Cherry Tree

  From the Pool to the Glacier

  The Last Truck Ride

  A walk through Garhwal

  Haikus and Other Short Verses

  A long Walk for Bina

  These Simple Things

  Mussoorie's Landour Bazaar

  The Old Lama

  Visitors from the Forest

  A Bouquet of Love

  THE INDIA I LOVE

  Preface

  Come Roaming With Me

  Children of India

  Boy In A Blue Pullove

  Our Local Team

  And Now We Are Twelve

  Spell Broken

  Simply Living

  Garhwal Himalaya

  The India I Carried with Me

  Friends of My Youth

  Midwinter, Deserted Hill Station

  Adventures in Reading

  To Light a Fire

  A Song of Many Rivers

  My Far Pavilions

  Return To Dehra

  Joyfully I Write

  His Last Words

  Thoughts on Approaching Seventy

  On Wings of Sleep

  On wings of sleep

  I dreamt I flew

  Across the valley drenched in dew

  Over the roof-tops

  Into the forest

  Swooping low

  Where the Sambhur belled

  And the peacocks flew.

  And the dawn broke

  Rose-pink behind the mountains

  And the river ran silver and gold

  As I glided over the trees

  Drifting with the dawn breeze

  Across the river,

  over fields of corn.

  And the world awoke

  To a new day, a new dawn.

  Time to fly home,

  As the sun rose, red and angry,

  Ready to singe my wings,

  I returned to my sleeping form,

  Creaking bed and dusty window-pane,

  To dream of flying with the wind again.

  The Wind on Haunted Hill

  hoo, whoo, whoo, cried the wind as it swept down from the Himalayan snows. It hurried over the hills and passes and hummed and moaned through the tall pines and deodars. There was little on Haunted Hill to stop the wind—only a few stunted trees and bushes and the ruins of a small settlement.

  On the slopes of the next hill was a village. People kept large stones on their tin roofs to prevent them from being blown off. There was nearly always a strong wind in these parts. Three children were spreading clothes out to dry on a low stone wall, putting a stone on each piece.

  Eleven-year-old Usha, dark-haired and rose-cheeked, struggled with her grandfather's long, loose shirt. Her younger brother, Suresh, was doing his best to hold down a bedsheet, while Usha's friend, Binya, a slightly older girl, helped.

  Once everything was firmly held down by stones, they climbed up on the flat rocks and sat there sunbathing and staring across the fields at the ruins on Haunted Hill.

  "I must go to the bazaar today," said Usha.

  "I wish I could come too," said Binya. "But I have to help with the cows."

  "I can come!" said eight-year-old Suresh. He was always ready to visit the bazaar, which was three miles away, on the other side of the hill.

  "No, you can't," said Usha. "You must help Grandfather chop wood."

  "Won't you feel scared returning alone?" he asked. "There are ghosts on Haunted Hill!"

  "I'll be back before dark. Ghosts don't appear during the clay."

  "Are there lots of ghosts in the ruins?" asked Binya.

  "Grandfather says so. He says that over a hundred years ago, some Britishers lived on the hill. But the settlement was always being struck by lightning, so they moved away."

  "But if they left, why is the place visited by ghosts?"

  "Because—Grandfather says—during a terrible storm, one of the houses was hit by lightning, and everyone in it was killed. Even the children."

  "How many children?"

  "Two. A boy and his sister. Grandfather saw them playing there in the moonlight."

  "Wasn't he frightened?"

  "No. Old people don't mind ghosts."

  Usha set out for the bazaar at two in the afternoon. It was about an hour's walk. The path went through yellow fields of flowering mustard, then along the saddle of the hill, and up, straight through the ruins. Usha had often gone that way to shop at the bazaar or to see her aunt, who lived in the town nearby.

  Wild flowers bloomed on the crumbling walls of the ruins, and a wild plum tree grew straight out of the floor of what had once been a hall. It was covered with soft, white blossoms. Lizards scuttled over the stones, while a whistling thrush, its deep purple plumage glistening in the sunshine, sat on a window-sill and sang its heart out.

  Usha sang too, as she skipped lightly along the path, which dipped steeply down to the valley and led to the little town with its quaint bazaar.

  Moving leisurely, Usha bought spices, sugar and matches. With the two rupees she had saved from her pocket-money, she chose a necklace of amber-coloured beads for herself and some marbles for Suresh. Then she had her mother's slippers repaired at a cobbler's shop.

  Finally, Usha went to visit Aunt Lakshmi at her flat above the shops. They were talking and drinking cups of hot, sweet tea when Usha realized that dark clouds had gathered over the mountains. She quickly picked up her things, said good-bye to her aunt, and set out for the village.

  Strangely, the wind had dropped. The trees were still, the crickets silent. The crows flew round in circles, then settled in an oak tree.

  'I must get home before dark,' thought Usha, hurrying along the path.

  But the sky had darkened and a deep rumble echoed over the hills. Usha felt the first heavy drop of rain hit her cheek. Holding the shopping bag close to her body, she quickened her pace until she was almost running. The raindrops were coming down faster now—cold, stinging pellets of rain. A flash of lightning sharply outlined the ruins on the hill, and then all was dark again. Night had fallen.

  'I'll have to shelter in the ruins,' Usha thought and began to run. Suddenly the wind sprang up again, but she did not have to fight it. It was behind her now, helping her along, up the steep path and on to the brow of the hill. There was another flash of lightning, followed by a peal of t
hunder. The ruins loomed before her, grim and forbidding.

  Usha remembered part of an old roof that would give some shelter. It would be better than trying to go on. In the dark, with the howling wind, she might stray off the path and fall over the edge of the cliff.

  Whoo, whoo, whoo, howled the wind. Usha saw the wild plum tree swaying, its foliage thrashing against the ground. She found her way into the ruins, helped by the constant flicker of lightning. Usha placed her hands flat against a stone wall and moved sideways, hoping to reach the sheltered corner. Suddenly, her hand touched something soft and furry, and she gave a startled cry. Her cry was answered by another—half snarl, half screech—as something leapt away in the darkness.

  With a sigh of relief Usha realized that it was the cat that lived in the ruins. For a moment she had been frightened, but now she moved quickly along the wall until she heard the rain drumming on a remnant of a tin roof. Crouched in a corner, she found some shelter. But the tin sheet groaned and clattered as if it would sail away any moment.

  Usha remembered that across this empty room stood an old fireplace. Perhaps it would be drier there under the blocked chimney. But she would not attempt to find it just now—she might lose her way altogether.

  Her clothes were soaked and water streamed down from her hair, forming a puddle at her feet. She thought she heard a faint cry—the cat again, or an owl? Then the storm blotted out all other sounds.

  There had been no time to think of ghosts, but now that she was settled in one place, Usha remembered Grandfather's story about the lightning-blasted ruins. She hoped and prayed that lightning would not strike her.

  Thunder boomed over the hills, and the lightning came quicker now. Then there was a bigger flash, and for a moment the entire ruin was lit up. A streak of blue sizzled along the floor of the building. Usha was staring straight ahead, and, as the opposite wall lit up, she saw, crouching in front of the unused fireplace, two small figures—children!

  The ghostly figures seemed to look up and stare back at Usha. And then everything was dark again.

  Usha's heart was in her mouth. She had seen without doubt, two ghosts on the other side of the room. She wasn't going to remain in the ruins one minute longer.

  She ran towards the big gap in the wall through which she had entered. She was halfway across the open space when something—someone—fell against her. Usha stumbled, got up, and again bumped into something. She gave a frightened scream. Someone else screamed. And then there was a shout, a boy's shout, and Usha instantly recognized the voice.

  "Suresh!"

  "Usha!"

  "Binya!"

  They fell into each other's arms, so surprised and relieved that all they could do was laugh and giggle and repeat each other's names.

  Then Usha said, "I thought you were ghosts."

  "We thought you were a ghost," said Suresh.

  "Come back under the roof," said Usha.

  They huddled together in the corner, chattering with excitement and relief.

  "When it grew dark, we came looking for you," said Binya. "And then the storm broke."

  "Shall we run back together?" asked Usha. "I don't want to stay here any longer."

  "We'll have to wait," said Binya. "The path has fallen away at one place. It won't be safe in the dark, in all this rain."

  "We'll have to wait till morning," said Suresh, "and I'm so hungry!"

  The storm continued, but they were not afraid now. They gave each other warmth and confidence. Even the ruins did not seem so forbidding.

  After an hour the rain stopped, and the thunder grew more distant.

  Towards dawn the whistling thrush began to sing. Its sweet, broken notes flooded the ruins with music. As the sky grew lighter, they saw that the plum tree stood upright again, though it had lost all its blossoms.

  "Let's go," said Usha.

  Outside the ruins, walking along the brow of the hill, they watched the sky grow pink. When they were some distance away, Usha looked back and said, "Can you see something behind the wall? It's like a hand waving."

  "It's just the top of the plum tree," said Binya.

  "Good-bye, good-bye ..." They heard voices.

  "Who said 'good-bye'?" asked Usha.

  "Not I," said Suresh.

  "Not I," said Binya.

  "I heard someone calling," said Usha.

  "It's only the wind," assured Binya.

  Usha looked back at the ruins. The sun had come up and was touching the top of the wall.

  "Come on," said Suresh. "I'm hungry."

  They hurried along the path to the village.

  "Good-bye, good-bye ..." Usha heard them calling. Was it just the wind?

  Mother Hill

  t is hard to realize that I've been here all these years—twenty-five summers, winters and Himalayan springs. When I look back to the time of my first coming here, it does seem like yesterday.

  That probably sums it all up. Time passes, and yet it doesn't pass; people come and go, the mountains remain. Mountains are permanent things. They are stubborn, they refuse to move. You can blast holes out of them for their mineral wealth, strip them of their trees and foliage, or dam their streams and divert their currents. You can make tunnels and roads and bridges; but no matter how hard they try, humans cannot actually get rid of the mountains. That's what I like about them; they are here to stay.

  I like to think that I have become a part of these mountains, this particular range, and that by living here for so long, I am able to claim a relationship with the trees, wild flowers, and even the rocks that are an integral part of it.

  Yesterday at twilight, when I passed beneath a canopy of oak leaves, I felt that I was a part of the forest. I put out my hand and touched the bark of an old tree, and as I turned away, its leaves brushed against my face as if to acknowledge me.

  One day, I thought, if we trouble these great creatures too much, and hack away at them and destroy their young, they will simply uproot themselves and march away, whole forests on the move, over the next range and next, far from the haunts of man. I have seen many forests and green places dwindle and disappear. Now there is an outcry. It is suddenly fashionable to be an environmentalist. That's all right. Perhaps, it is not too late to save the little that is left.

  By and large, writers have to stay in the plains to make a living. Hill people have their work cut out trying to wrest a livelihood from their thin, calcinated soil. And as for mountaineers, they climb their peaks and move on in search of other peaks.

  But to me, as a writer, mountains have been kind. They were kind from the beginning, when I left a job in Delhi and rented a small cottage on the outskirts of the hill-station. Today, most hill-stations are rich men's playgrounds, but years ago they were places where people of modest means would live quite cheaply. There were few cars and everyone walked about.

  The cottage was on the edge of an oak and maple forest and I spent eight or nine years in it, most of them happy, writing stories, essays, poems and books for children. I think this had something to do with Prem's children. He and his wife had taken on the job of looking after the house and all practical matters (I remain helpless with fuses, clogged cisterns, leaking gas cylinders, ruptured water pipes, tin roofs that blow away when there is a storm, and the do-it-yourself world of small-town India).

  Naturally, I grew attached to them and became a part of the family, an adopted grandfather. For Rakesh, I wrote a story about a cherry tree that had difficulty in growing up. For Mukesh, who liked upheavals, I wrote a story about an earthquake and put him in it, and for Dolly I wrote rhymes.

  'Who goes to the Hills, goes to his Mother', wrote Kipling, and he seldom wrote truer words. For living in the hills was like living in the bosom of a strong, sometimes proud, but always a comforting mother. And every time I went away, the homecoming would be tender and precious. It became increasingly difficult for me to go away.

  It has not always been happiness and light though. There were times when money ran o
ut. Editorial doors sometimes close; but when one door closes another has, for me, almost immediately, miraculously opened.

  When you have received love from people and the freedom that only mountains can give, then you have come very near the borders of Heaven.

  The Whistling Schoolboy

  From the gorge above Gangotri

  Down to Kochi by the sea,

  The whistling thrush keeps singing

  That same sweet melody.

  He was a whistling schoolboy once,

  Who heard god Krishna's flute,

  And tried to play the same sweet tune,

  But touched a faulty note.

  Said Krishna to the errant youth—

  A bird you must become,

  And you shall whistle all your days

  Until your song is done.

  Song of the Whistling Thrush

  had been in the hills for a few days when I heard the song of the Himalayan whistling thrush. I did not see the bird that day. It kept to the deep shadows of the ravine below the old stone cottage. I was sitting at the window, gazing out at the new leaves on the walnut and wild pear trees. All was still; the wind was at peace with itself, the mountains brooded massively under the darkening sky. Then, emerging from the depths of the forest like a dark, sweet secret, came the indescribably beautiful call of the whistling thrush.

  It is a song that never fails to thrill me. The bird starts with a hesitant schoolboy whistle, as though trying out the melody; then, confident of the tune, it bursts into full song, a crescendo of sweet notes and variations that ring clearly across the hillside. Then suddenly the song breaks off, right in the middle of a cadenza, and the enchanted listener is left wondering what happened to the bird to make it stop so suddenly. Nothing, really, because a few moments later the song is taken up again.

  At first the bird was heard but never seen. Then one day I found the whistling thrush perched on the garden fence. He was a deep, glistening purple, his shoulders flecked with white; he had sturdy black legs and a strong yellow beak; rather a dapper fellow, who could have looked well in a top hat dancing with Fred Astaire. When he saw me coming down the path he uttered a sharp kree-ee—unexpectedly harsh when one remembered his singing—and flew away into the shadowed ravine.