It was bought when I was in seventh standard, eight years back. Schools habitually host book fairs, and I had made it a habit of parents’ to buy me something from each of those. It was, then, the thickest volume I had ever owned. The cover page has a bluish texture inset with a crayon drawing of an armchair by the window gazing out on to the mountains – two parallel ranges, the one in the foreground dark, lower, and the at the back snow-clad, white. The title reads RUSKIN BOND: Collected Fiction.
I do not remember when I was introduced to Ruskin Bond. It might have been a passage in a primary school reader, or a chance mention by someone, but I cannot recall not knowing about him. The first notable stint, and the one that left a lasting impression, came when I was thirteen. ‘Our trees still grow in Dehra’ is a collection of short stories that was the prescribed text for our literature course. It is a book that I judged by the cover, but it did not disappoint. From what I can recall from memory (though memory is often what we want it to be), the cover had a picture of Chir Pine, set against a dusky background, just like the one outside the Dining Hall in School. It was that spectre of the imposing bunches of needles, through which peered that moon as we waited (or rushed) for dinner, which never made me forget the book or its characters. Bansi, the tonga- wallah who would ride the young boy to Rispana, Binya, the mountain girl, the banyan tree who befriended the author and let him know of the friendship by making one of its leaves caress against the authors cheek, the boy who grazed buffaloes and then led them to a waddle in the lake. All Simple folk, no flounce or paraphernalia, like the ones you meet in those distant, faraway places - places which are a lot closer home. Or even if you do not meet them, even if they are too undemanding to be real to literary eye, they engender a romance.
They are not people who would be ideal subjects for philosophical dissection. Rather, they stand out because they merge so well into the surroundings. Theirs is not a rebellion, but a synergy with their ambience. They blend into their landscape to form a greater meta-landscape, a distinct reality. It is this reality, often devoid of a proper plot, just a node in time, which forms the story.
To qualify For the Scholars’ Blazer in school it was mandatory to read 20 books at least, and then have a discussion with a panel of masters on those books. Out of 20, in my case, 5 were Ruskin Bond’s. The Headmaster asked me that what explained the conspicuous appearance of one particular author on the list. The answer is this – it is a striving to create a sense of belonging to and identification with a place that has only existed in memories, several of which are acquired or imagined, yet none of which are untrue. Mr. Bond writes about a place that he calls home and that I call home. Yet the place he writes about, and the place I perceive as I exist in my daily routine, though geographically the same, seem to diverge in experience. My reading Ruskin Bond, very often, is a subconscious attempt at reconciliation.
This, in fact, is the charm of literature. It is a relief from the empiricism of everyday life, a getaway into the more subtle of human experiences, an exploration of alternative realities. This is not to say that literature is escapist – escapism is for cowards. Literature is for the brave – for those who attempt to delve deeper into reality to uncover the finer layers, to discover ‘what-could-be’.
A few years back, I was in Mussoorie, walking along the crowded Mall, when I saw Mr. Bond at a distance. He had a leisurely gait and I knew I could catch up. I remember being at a loss for words when I actually did manage to sneak in a hello. All I remember telling him was that I had read his books. He appeared unfazed; I must have been quite red for I stammered. I am sure I was inconsequential enough to be mentioned in one of his writings. Yet, hill people (and I would be glad to call myself one) can be unpredictable in their simplicity. I would be happy if he stays true to this image.
As I write, sitting in the Verandah of my house, I can see the Mussoorie hills shrouded by dark, heavy clouds. The sky overhead too is gathering itself up. In the house opposite mine is a mango tree that has been there since before me. In my own house, there used to be three litchi trees. Now one remains. The rain, when it does come, would swell up the fruits, making them juicier and sweeter. The old Dehra might be disintegrating, but right now, I can sense a drizzle.
