‘Well done, thou good and faithful servant’—
So ran his epitaph.
The gardener, who looked after the trees,
Also dug graves. One day
I found him working at the bottom of a new cavity,
‘They never let me know in time,’ he grumbled.
‘Last week I dug two graves, and now, without warning,
Here’s another. It isn’t even the season for dying.
There’s enough work all summer, when cholera’s about—
Why can’t they keep alive through the winter?’
Near the railway lines, watching the trains
(There were six every day, coming or going),
And across the line, the leper colony . . .
I did not know they were lepers till later
But I knew they were different: some
Were without fingers or toes
And one had no nose
And a few had holes in their faces
And yet some were beautiful
They had their children with them
And the children were no different
From other children.
I made friends with some
And won most of their marbles
And carried them home in my pockets.
One day my parents found me
Playing near the leper colony.
There was a big scene.
My mother shouted at the lepers
And they hung their heads as though it was all their fault,
And the children had nothing to say.
I was taken home in disgrace
And told all about leprosy and given a bath.
My clothes were thrown away
And the servants wouldn’t touch me for days.
So I took the marbles I’d won
And put them in my stepfather’s cupboard,
Hoping he’d catch leprosy from them.
6
A slim dark youth with quiet
Eyes and a gentle quizzical smile,
Manohar. Fifteen, working in a small hotel.
He’d come from the hills and wanted to return,
I forget how we met
But I remember walking the dusty roads
With this gentle boy, who held my hand
And told me about his home, his mother,
His village, and the little river
At the bottom of the hill where the water
Ran blue and white and wonderful,
‘When I go home, I’ll take you with me.’
So I sold my bicycle for thirty rupees
And left a note in the dining room:
‘Going away. Don’t worry—(hoping they would)—
I’ll come home
When I’ve grown up.’
We crossed the rushing waters of the Ganga
Where they issued from the doors of Vishnu
Then took the pilgrim road, in those days
Just a stony footpath into the mountains:
Not all who ventured forth returned;
Some came to die, of course,
Near the sacred waters or at their source.
We took this route and spent a night
At a wayside inn, wrapped tight
In the single blanket I’d brought along;
Even then we were cold
It was not the season for pilgrims
And the inn was empty, except for the locals
Drinking a local brew.
We drank a little and listened
To an old soldier from the hills
Talking of the women he’d known
In the first Great War, when stationed in Rome;
His memories were good for many drinks
In many inns; his face pickled in the suns
Of many mountain summers.
The mule-drivers slept in one room
And talked all night over hookahs.
Manohar slept bravely, but I lay watching
A bright star through the tiny window
And wished upon it, already knowing that wishes
Had no power, but wishing all the same . . .
And next morning we set off again
Leaving the pilgrim-route to march
Down a valley, above a smaller river,
Walking until I felt
We’d walk and walk for ever.
Late at night, on a cold mountain,
Two lonely figures, we saw the lights
Of scattered houses and knew we had arrived.
7
‘Not death, but a summing-up of life,’
Said the village patriarch, as we watched him
Treasure a patch of winter sunshine
On his string cot in the courtyard.
I remember his wisdom.
And I remember faces.
For it’s faces I remember best.
The people were poor, and the patriarch said:
‘I have heard it told that the sun
But who can eat sunsets?’
The patriarch was old in years,
But some grew old at their mother’s breast.
Perhaps, if I’d stayed longer,
I would have yearned for creature comforts.
We were hungry sometimes, eating wild berries
Or slyly milking another’s goat,
Or catching small fish in the river . . .
But I did not long for home.
Could I have grown up a village boy,
Grazing sheep and cattle, while the Collected Works
Of W. Shakespeare lay gathering dust
In Dehra? Who knows? But it was nice
Of my stepfather to send his office manager
Into the mountains to bring me home!
Manohar.
He called goodbye and waved
As I looked back from the bend in the road.
Bright boy on the mountainside,
Waving to me, calling, and I’ve loved you
All these years and looked for you everywhere,
In the mountains, in crowds at distant places,
In cities and villages, beside the sea.
And the trains roll on, every day
Hundreds of people coming or going or running
away—
Goodbye, goodbye!
Into the forest’s silence,
Outside the dark tunnel,
Out of the tunnel, out of the dark . . .
Parts of Old Dehra
Parts of old Dehra remain . . .
A peepul tree I knew
And flying foxes
In a mango grove
And here and there
A moss-encrusted wall
Old bungalows
Gone to seed
And giving way
To concrete slabs.
A garden town’s become a city
And the people faceless
As they pass or rather rush
Hell-bent
From place of work
To crowded tenement.
So change must come,
Fields make way for factories,
The trees succumb
The rivers plunge
Silt-laden
To our doom . . .
Too late to do a thing
About it now,
For we have grown
Too many,
And the world’s no bigger
Than before.
Do-gooders, don’t despair!
Nature will repair
Her own, long after
We are dust.
Read more in Penguin
LANDOUR DAYS: A WRITER’S JOURNAL
Ruskin Bond
‘In this slim volume of jottings . . . Ruskin Bond does what he’s best at—making you smile at the simple pleasures of life, and laughing at al
l its inanities. Light and breezy, full of delicious wit and humour. Just the kind of wonderfully refreshing stuff that one craves for . . .’ —First City
‘The habit of keeping a diary has led me into trouble more than once,’ writes Ruskin Bond in the introduction to this journal of a year in his hometown of Landour, Mussoorie. The events are small in themselves: the daily happenings in Landour, the birds and flowers that each season brings, and the eccentricities of friends and family.
Filled with warmth and gentle humour, this book captures the timeless rhythm of life in the mountains, and the serene wisdom of one of India’s best loved writers.
Memoir
Rs 175
Read more in Penguin
BOOK OF VERSE
Ruskin Bond
‘Read the poems out aloud, and let the words wash over. They have a soft silence—almost a sigh on the wind. A book to gift—one for keeps’ —Statesman
This leaf, so complete in itself,
Is only part of a tree.
And this tree, so complete in itself,
Is only part of the mountain.
And the mountain runs down to the sea.
And the sea, so complete in itself,
Rests like a raindrop
On the hand of God.
Ruskin Bond’s Book of Verse brings together the poetry of one of India’s best-loved writers. This charming collector’s edition is a treasury of poems on love and nature, travel, humour and childhood, and will be a lasting source of delight to readers.
Poetry
Rs 160
Read more in Penguin
TALES OF THE OPEN ROAD
Ruskin Bond
‘[Ruskin Bond] writes about the uncomplicated things in life, and raises the experience to the sublime’ —Deccan Herald
‘I have come to believe that the best kind of walk, or journey, is the one in which you have no particular destination when you set out.’
Tales of the Open Road is a collection of Ruskin Bond’s travel writing over fifty years. Here, you will encounter a tonga ride through the Shivaliks, a hidden waterfall near Rishikesh, walks along the myriad streets of Delhi (one of which used to be the richest in Asia), trips down the Grand Trunk Road, stopovers in little tea stalls in the hills around Mussoorie, and an excursion to the icy source of the Ganga at over ten thousand feet above sea level.
Enriched by rare photographs that Ruskin took during his travels, Tales of the Open Road is a celebration of small-town and rural India by its most engaging chronicler.
Non-fiction
Rs 200