Whose pony-cart came rattling along the road
Under the furthest arch of the banyan tree.
Looking up, he waved his whip at me
And laughing, called, ‘Who lives up there?’
‘I do,’ I said.
And the next time he came along, he stopped the tonga
And asked me if I felt lonely in the tree.
‘Only sometimes,’ I said. ‘When the tree is thinking.’
‘I never think,’ he said. ‘You won’t feel lonely with me.’
And with a flick of the reins he rattled away,
With a promise he’d give me a ride someday.
And from him I learnt the value of promises kept.
5
From the tree to the tonga was an easy drop.
I fell into life. Bansi, tonga-driver,
Wore a yellow waistcoat and spat red
Betel-juice the entire width of the road.
‘I can spit further than any man,’ he claimed.
It is natural for a man to strive to excel
At something; he spat with authority.
When he took me for rides, he lost a fare.
That was his way. He once said, ‘If a girl
Wants five rupees for a fix, bargain like hell
And then give six.’
It was the secret of his failure, he claimed,
To give away more than he owned.
And to prove it, he borrowed my pocket money
In order to buy a present for his mistress.
A man who fails well is better than one who succeeds badly.
The rattletrap tonga and the winding road
Through the valley, to the riverbed,
With the wind in my hair and the dust
Rising, and the dogs running and barking
And Bansi singing and shouting in my ear,
And the pony farting as it cantered along,
Wheels creaking, seat shifting,
Hood slipping off, the entire contraption
Always about to disintegrate, collapse,
But never quite doing so—like the man himself …
All this was music,
And the ragtime-raga lingers in my mind.
Nostalgia comes swiftly when one is forty,
Looking back at boyhood years.
Even unhappiness acquires a certain glow.
It was shady in the cemetery, and the mango trees
Did well there, nourished by the bones
Of long-dead Colonels, Collectors, Magistrates and Memsahibs.
For here, in dusty splendour, lay the graves
Of those who’d brought their English dust
To lie with Ganges soil: some tombs were temples,
Some were cenotaphs; and one, a tiny Taj.
Here lay sundry relatives, including Uncle
Henry,
Who’d been for many years a missionary.
‘Sacred to the Memory
Of Henry C. Wagstaff’,
Who translated the Gospels into Pashtu,
And was murdered by his own chowkidar.
‘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
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.’
But we hadn’t enough money.
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 fac
es I remember best.
The people were poor, and the patriarch said:
‘I have heard it told that the sun
Sets in splendour in Himalaya—
But who can eat sunsets?’
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 …
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.
In This Workaday World
It’s a busy world, I know,
And we must hurry here and there
And not ask who or why or where,
For fear our credits fall too low.
But here upon this hilly crest
There’s some respite; and when
The fretting day is done,
Beneath the cherry tree there’s rest.
To the Indian Foresters
You are the quiet men who do not boast
Although you’ve done much more than most
To make this land a sea of green
From here to far Cape Comorin.
Without your help to Nature’s thrust,
This land would be a bowl of dust.
A land without its forest wealth
Must suffer a decline in health,
For herbs and plants all need green cover
Before they help the sick recover.
And we need trees to hold together
Beasts, and birds of every feather,
And leaves to help the air smell sweet;
And this and more is no mean feat.
Dear foresters, you have not sought for fame or favour,
Yours has been a love of labour.
Our thanks! Instead of desert sand
You’ve given us this green and growing land.
(Composed and read to a gathering of young forest officers at the forest Research Institute on 10 April 2004)
We Rode All the Way to Delhi
In the Bicycle Age
When I was a kid
We rode all the way to Delhi,
Yes we did!
Somi and Ranji and I …
It took us three days
As we pressed on our pedals,
All two hundred miles
From Dehra to Delhi,
And they gave us no medals!
We sheltered in dhabas
And ate what they gave us,
But no welcoming crowd
In Delhi received us
As dusty, dishevelled
We crossed the old bridge
And rode round the city
And camped on the Ridge.
Next day we rose late—
Our bodies they ached—
So instead of cycling
All the way back again
We put our bikes on the train
And went home in style
To Dehra from Delhi,
Somi and Ranji and I …
We Who Love Books
Some books I’ll never give away,
Though old and worn, their binding torn,
Upon my shelves they’ll always stay,
Alive, still read, still fresh each dawn,
Their magic moments never gone.
Great verse, great thoughts, still stand the test
Of time that’s passing by so fast …
These good companions never fail
To give us joy, to nourish us . . .
We who love books will always be
The lucky ones,
Our minds set free.
My Best Friend
My best Friend
Is the baker’s son,
I gave him a book
And he gave me a bun!
I told him a tale
Of a magical lake,
And he liked it so much
That he baked me a cake.
Yes, he’s my best friend—
We go cycling together,
On bright sunny days,
Or in rain and bad weather.
And if we feel hungry
There’s always a pie
Or a pastry to feast on,
As we go riding by!
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.
And as We Part
The day is done,
It’s time to sleep,
And with this world
To make my peace.
Enchanted days
Have all my life
Brought beauty
More than bitter strife.
May you who read
These words today
Be blessed in every way …
And as we part,
I give you all
That lies within my heart.
PUFFIN BOOKS
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First published in Puffin by Penguin Books India 2012
Text copyright © Ruskin Bond 2012
Illustration copyright © Joy Gosney 2012
Cover illustration by Joy Gosney
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-01-4333-212-1
This digital edition published in 2012.
e-ISBN: 978-81-8475-670-8