The Ruskin Bond Mini Bus

by Ruskin Bond

  In a small garden she grew dahlias, chrysanthemums, gladioli and a few rare orchids. She knew a great deal about wild flowers, trees, birds and insects. She never seriously studied them, but had an intimacy with all that grew and flourished around her.

  It was September, and the rains were nearly over. Miss Mackenzie's African marigolds were blooming. She hoped the coming winter wouldn't be too severe because she found it increasingly difficult to bear the cold. One day, as she was pottering about in her garden, she saw a schoolboy plucking wild flowers on the slope above the cottage. "What're you up to, young man?" she called.

  Alarmed, the boy tried to dash up the hillside, but slipped on pine needles and slid down the slope into Miss Mackenzie's nasturtium bed. Finding no escape he gave a bright smile and said, "Good morning, Miss."

  He attended the local English medium school, and wore a blazer and a tie. Like most polite schoolboys, he called every woman 'Miss'.

  "Good morning," said Miss Mackenzie severely. 'Would you mind moving out of my flower bed?"

  The boy stepped gingerly over the nasturtiums and looked at Miss Mackenzie with appealing eyes.

  "You ought to be in school," she said. "What're you doing here?"

  "Picking flowers, Miss." He held up a bunch of ferns and wild flowers.

  "Oh," Miss Mackenzie was disarmed. It had been a long time since she had seen a boy taking an interest in flowers.

  "Do, you like flowers?" she asked.

  "Yes, Miss. I'm going to be a botan ... a botanitist?"

  "You mean a botanist?"

  "Yes, Miss."

  "That's unusual. Do you know the names of these flowers?"

  "No, Miss."

  "This is a buttercup," said Miss Mackenzie. "And that purple stuff is Salvia. Do you have any books on flowers?"

  "No, Miss."

  "Come in and I'll show you one."

  She led the boy into a small front room crowded with furniture, books, vases and jam jars. He sat awkwardly on the edge of a chair. The cat jumped on to his knees and settled down, purring softly.

  "What's your name?" asked Miss Mackenzie, as she rummaged through her books.

  "Anil, Miss."

  "And where do you live?"

  "When school closes, I go to Delhi. My father has a business there."

  "Oh, and what's that?"

  "Bulbs, Miss."

  "Flower bulbs?"

  "No. Electric bulbs."

  "Ah, here we are!" she said taking a heavy volume from the shelf. "Flora Himaliensis, published in 1892, and probably the only copy in India. This is a valuable book, Anil. No other naturalist has recorded as many wild Himalayan flowers. But there are still many plants unknown to the botanists who spend all their time at microscopes instead of in the mountains. Perhaps you'll do something about that one day."

  "Yes, Miss."

  She lit the stove, and put the kettle on for tea. And then the old English lady and the small Indian boy sat side by side, absorbed in the book. Miss Mackenzie pointed out many flowers that grew around the hill-station, while the boy made notes of their names and seasons.

  "May I come again?" asked Anil, when finally he rose to go.

  "If you like," said Miss Mackenzie. "But not during school hours. You mustn't miss your classes."

  After that, Anil visited Miss Mackenzie about once a week, and nearly always brought a wild flower for her to identify. She looked forward to the boy's visits. Sometimes, when more than a week passed and he didn't come, she would grumble at the cat.

  By the middle of October, with only a fortnight left before school closed, snow fell on the distant mountains. One peak stood higher above the others, a white pinnacle against an azure sky. When the sun set, the peak turned from orange to pink to red.

  "How high is that mountain?" asked Anil.

  "It must be over 12,000 feet," said Miss Mackenzie. "I always wanted to go there, but there is no proper road. At the height, there'll be flowers that you don't get here—blue gentian, purple columbine."

  The day before school closed, Anil came to say goodbye. As he was about to leave, Miss Mackenzie thrust the Flora Himaliensis into his hands.

  "It's so valuable!" he said.

  "That's why I'm giving it to you. Otherwise, it will fall into the hands of the junk dealers."

  "But, Miss..."

  "Don't argue."

  The boy tucked the book under his arm, stood at attention, and said, "Good-bye, Miss Mackenzie." It was the first time he had spoken her name.

  Strong winds soon brought rain and sleet, killing the flowers in the garden. The cat stayed indoors, curled up at the foot of the bed. Miss Mackenzie wrapped herself in old shawls and mufflers, but still felt cold. Her fingers grew so stiff that it took almost an hour to open a can of baked beans. Then it snowed, and for several days the milkman did not come.

  Tired, she spent most of her time in bed. It was the warmest place. She kept a hot-water bottle against her back, and the cat kept her feet warm. She dreamed of spring and summer. In three months, the primroses would be out, and Anil would return.

  One night the hot-water bottle burst, soaking the bed. The sun didn't shine for several days, and the blankets remained damp. Miss Mackenzie caught a chill and had to keep to her cold, uncomfortable bed.

  A strong wind sprang up one night and blew the bedroom window open. Miss Mackenzie was too weak to get up and close it. The wind swept the rain and sleet into the room. The cat snuggled close to its mistress's body. Toward morning, the body lost its warmth, and the cat left the bed and started scratching about the floor.

  As sunlight streamed through the window, the milkman arrived. He poured some milk into the saucer on the doorstep, and the cat jumped down from the window-sill.

  The milkman called a greeting to Miss Mackenzie. There was no answer. Knowing she was always up before sunrise, he poked his head in the open window and called again.

  Miss Mackenzie did not answer. She had gone to the mountain, where the blue gentian and purple columbine grow.

  THE INDIA I LOVE

  Preface

  The India that I love does not make the headlines. The India that I love comprises the goodwill and good humour of ordinary people; a tolerance for all customs; a non-interference in others' private lives; a friendly reciprocation at all times; a philosophical acceptance of hardships; love and affection, especially in children.

  That is on the human side. And there's the land itself Forest and plain, mountain and desert, river and sea, all mean different things to me. The sea brings memories of collecting seashells along palm-fringed beaches. The rivers — some of them described in these pages — represent the continuity, the timelessness of India. The grandeur of the mountains, the changing colours of the desert, the splendours of the forest, and the riches of the fertile plains; all these I have loved, and have attempted to celebrate over the years, in the way I know best, using the words I know best.

  The essays and poems in this collection will tell the reader something of what I feel for people, places and things. Some of those feelings emanate from my childhood, some from the present.

  Although I have occasionally had to cover old ground, the writing has been new, the approach still fresh and eager for love and understanding.

  Of the ten essays in this collection, seven were written during the last two months. Three are taken from unpublished material in my journals.

  Most of these essays are of a personal nature; not embarrassingly so, I hope. Young Kapish Mehra of Rupa and Company wanted me to write about the family who chose to adopt me (or was it the other way round), and some of the people and places that have been dear to me. I have enjoyed writing about them, and about some of the things that have happened to me on the way to becoming (and remaining) a writer.

  I do think I hold a record of sorts for having had the largest number of publishers, at least for a writer in India. A number of the smaller ones have fallen by the wayside — still owing me royalties, of course! Others,
like Rupa, have continued to grow and put up with me. The encouraging thing is that publishing in India has finally come of age. Even in this age of televised entertainment, people are picking up books perhaps due to the wide range that publishers offer. More and more writers are getting published, and some are even making money. No longer do I have to hawk my books and stories in other lands. My readership has always been here, and now I can write exclusively for the Indian reader, without having to make the compromises that are often necessary in order to get published in the UK or USA. So away with sensationalism, away with the exotic East, away with maharajas, beggars, spies and shikaris, away with romantic Englishwomen and their far pavilions. No longer do we have to write for the 'foreign reader'. I can write about the people living across the road, and behold, the people across the road are sometimes reading my books.

  It also gives me a thrill when I find that something I have written turns up in a Hindi translation, or in Bengali or Marathi or Kannada or one of the many great languages with which this country is blessed. The potential for a writer is tremendous. Multilingual publishing is still in its infancy, but this creative energy has only to be harnessed and properly channelled, and a literary explosion is just around the corner.

  In the West, the fate of a book is now in the hands of the agents, the publicity men, the prize-winning committees, the media — almost everyone but the reader!

  I like to think that in India, a book can still make its way into the hearts and minds of readers without all the ballyhoo and beating of drums that goes with the release of the most mundane creations, especially those written by celebrities.

  I like to think that there is still a certain mystery about the success of a book; that, like Jane Eyre or Leaves of Grass, it can be ignored by the critics and publicists, and still find a niche for itself, and that you can never be certain what may happen to your creation. In other words, that the fate of a book is still on the knees of the Gods.

  December 23, 2003

  Ruskin Bond

  Landour, Mussoorie

  One

  Come Roaming With Me

  Out of the city and over the hill,

  Into the spaces where Time stands still,

  Under the tall trees, touching old wood,

  Taking the way where warriors once stood;

  Crossing the little bridge, losing my way,

  But finding a friendly place where I can stay.

  Those were the days, friend, when we were strong

  And strode down the road to an old marching song

  When the dew on the grass was fresh every morn,

  And we woke to the call of the ring-dove at dawn.

  The years have gone by, and sometimes I falter,

  But still I set out for a stroll or a saunter,

  For the wind is as fresh as it was in my youth,

  And the peach and the pear, still the sweetest of fruit,

  So cast away care and come roaming with me,

  Where the grass is still green and the air is still free.

  Two

  Children of India

  THEY PASS ME EVERYDAY, ON THEIR WAY TO SCHOOL — BOYS AND girls from the surrounding villages and the outskirts of the hill station. There are no school buses plying for these children: they walk.

  For many of them, it's a very long walk to school.

  Ranbir, who is ten, has to climb the mountain from his village, four miles distant and two thousand feet below the town level. He comes in all weathers, wearing the same pair of cheap shoes until they have almost fallen apart.

  Ranbir is a cheerful soul. He waves to me whenever he sees me at my window. Sometimes he brings me cucumbers from his father's field. I pay him for the cucumbers; he uses the money for books or for small things needed at home.

  Many of the children are like Ranbir — poor, but slightly better off than what their parents were at the same age. They cannot attend the expensive residential and private schools that abound here, but must go to the government-aided schools with only basic facilities. Not many of their parents managed to go to school. They spent their lives working in the fields or delivering milk in the hill station. The lucky ones got into the army. Perhaps Ranbir will do something different when he grows up.

  He has yet to see a train but he sees planes flying over the mountains almost every day.

  "How far can a plane go?" he asks.

  "All over the world," I tell him. "Thousands of miles in a day. You can go almost anywhere."

  "I'll go round the world one day," he vows. "I'll buy a plane and go everywhere!"

  And maybe he will. He has a determined chin and a defiant look in his eye.

  The following lines in my journal were put down for my own inspiration or encouragement, but they will do for any determined young person:

  We get out of life what we bring to it. There is not a dream which may not come true if we have the energy which determines our own fate. We can always get what we want if we will it intensely enough... So few people succeed greatly because so few people conceive a great end, working towards it without giving up. We all know that the man who works steadily for money gets rich; the man who works day and night for fame or power reaches his goal. And those who work for deeper, more spiritual achievements will find them too. It may come when we no longer have any use for it, but if we have been willing it long enough, it will come!

  Up to a few years ago, very few girls in the hills or in the villages of India went to school. They helped in the home until they were old enough to be married, which wasn't very old. But there are now just as many girls as there are boys going to school.

  Bindra is something of an extrovert — a confident fourteen year old who chatters away as she hurries down the road with her companions. Her father is a forest guard and knows me quite well: I meet him on my walks through the deodar woods behind Landour. And I had grown used to seeing Bindra almost every day. When she did not put in an appearance for a week, I asked her brother if anything was wrong.

  "Oh, nothing," he says, "she is helping my mother cut grass. Soon the monsoon will end and the grass will dry up. So we cut it now and store it for the cows in winter."

  "And why aren't you cutting grass too?"

  "Oh, I have a cricket match today," he says, and hurries away to join his team-mates. Unlike his sister, he puts pleasure before work!

  Cricket, once the game of the elite, has become the game of the masses. On any holiday, in any part of this vast country, groups of boys can be seen making their way to the nearest field, or open patch of land, with bat, ball and any other cricketing gear that they can cobble together. Watching some of them play, I am amazed at the quality of talent, at the finesse with which they bat or bowl. Some of the local teams are as good, if not better, than any from the private schools, where there are better facilities. But the boys from these poor or lower middle-class families will never get the exposure that is necessary to bring them to the attention of those who select state or national teams. They will never get near enough to the men of influence and power. They must continue to play for the love of the game, or watch their more fortunate heroes' exploits on television.

  As winter approaches and the days grow shorter, those children who live far away must quicken their pace in order to get home before dark. Ranbir and his friends find that darkness has fallen before they are halfway home.

  "What is the time, Uncle?" he asks, as he trudges up the steep road past Ivy Cottage.

  One gets used to being called 'Uncle' by almost every boy or girl one meets. I wonder how the custom began. Perhaps it has its origins in the folktale about the tiger who refrained from pouncing on you if you called him 'uncle'. Tigers don't eat their relatives! Or do they? The ploy may not work if the tiger happens to be a tigress. Would you call her 'Aunty' as she (or your teacher!) descends on you?

  It's dark at six and by then, Ranbir likes to be out of the deodar forest and on the open road to the village. The moon and the stars and the villag
e lights are sufficient, but not in the forest, where it is dark even during the day. And the silent flitting of bats and flying-foxes, and the eerie hoot of an owl, can be a little disconcerting for the hardiest of children. Once Ranbir and the other boys were chased by a bear.

  When he told me about it, I said, "Well, now we know you can run faster then a bear!"

  "Yes, but you have to run downhill when chased by a bear." He spoke as one having long experience of escaping from bears. "They run much faster uphill!"

  "I'll remember that," I said, "thanks for the advice." And I don't suppose calling a bear 'Uncle' would help.

  Usually Ranbir has the company of other boys, and they sing most of the way, for loud singing by small boys will silence owls and frighten away the forest demons. One of them plays a flute, and flute music in the mountains is always enchanting.

  Not only in the hills, but all over India, children are constantly making their way to and from school, in conditions that range from dust storms in the Rajasthan desert to blizzards in Ladakh and Kashmir. In the larger towns and cities, there are school buses, but in remote rural areas getting to school can pose a problem.

  Most children are more than equal to any obstacles that may arise. Like those youngsters in the Ganjam district of Orissa. In the absence of a bridge, they swim or wade across the Dhanei river everyday in order to reach their school. I have a picture of them in my scrapbook. Holding books or satchels aloft in one hand, they do the breast stroke or dog paddle with the other; or form a chain and help each other across.

  Wherever you go in India, you will find children helping out with the family's source of livelihood, whether it be drying fish on the Malabar Coast, or gathering saffron buds in Kashmir, or grazing camels or cattle in a village in Rajasthan or Gujarat.

  Only the more fortunate can afford to send their children to English medium private or 'public' schools, and those children really are fortunate, for some of these institutions are excellent schools, as good, and often better, than their counterparts in Britain or USA. Whether it's in Ajmer or Bangalore, New Delhi or Chandigarh, Kanpur or Kolkata, the best schools set very high standards. The growth of a prosperous middle-class has led to an ever-increasing demand for quality education. But as private schools proliferate, standards suffer too, and many parents must settle for the second-rate.