'Bond'ing at Home

Some books on the shelf are often ignored. Not intentionally or not because they have no worth, but their abiding presence makes them inconspicuous. Seeing them day in and day out makes them a part of the routine landscape and they do not stand out against the fresh paperbacks. Yet, a jump out of the oblivion is sometimes more pleasing than the addition of several new ones.

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.

A journey too well known...

Often little snippets of life, forlorn instances mirror the way life plays itself out. This is a brief account of a train journey between Dehradun and Delhi that happened to me a few days back. It is a well known route. Early morning, the ‘Janshatabdi’ pulls out of the sleepy but frantic station scene at Dehradun to pass through the forested hillocks(getting scantier by the day) and human settlements (growing rapidly each night) of Rajaji National Park. This opens out into the farmlands and urban dwellings of the plains. Each time, the scene outside and the scene inside offer a prospect to romanticise and reflect. This is a live account of these scenes and ponderings – written as and when they were perceived.

Look out of the window of your second class compartment. It takes a while for your eyes to get used to the rickety swaying of the train. As the train pulls out, the stagnant smell of the night, of dirty toilets and rusting window panes, is replaced by a soft morning odour of melting raindrops. It’s always a nice start, early in the morning.

There are other people too, with their own ways, yawning, stretching, some just out of bed, and others ready for a heady day. You look around for company, prospecting from the very start. You’re not always lucky though. So you turn away once again and look out. It is not your first time. You know what is in store – the broad dimensions of the journey. The city that is moving out will soon merge into the forest, only to be intermittently intercepted by the small settlements. They weren’t there earlier, they are here now. There are, nonetheless, gapes to be filled in – the finer strokes in the outline. So there is a fair bit of expectation – chance gets it fair bit, sometimes a little more also. In the relative solitude, for the train is still half empty, an odd glimpse of a chital excites the eye. The excitement isn’t long-lived. At the next station the train fills up. You hope for good companionship. But the thing you hate the most, bad luck, tirelessly follows you. You accept it, and try and make the best out of it. You think of a pick-up line (though it’s not really the best thing to think of when your co-passenger happens to be a belligerent old couple). You are just trying to invent a smile for your face when they set off a fight over their baggage with another passenger. A smirk escapes your lips. You needn’t worry though; others will have their chance at you.

A young man passes by. He has a book in hand – The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. It is the journey that matters. Suddenly the train comes to an irritating halt. You get the idea that it’s the elephants crossing. Sadly, you’ve left the jungle behind and are in the middle of a mango orchard. No elephants in a mango orchard! It starts getting humid in the compartment. You just start hating the Indian Railway.

The train moves after a while. The landscape changes. The planted fields are full of water. It is just after the first monsoon rains. You look out for peacocks but there aren’t any. You’ll have to do with egrets. There is considerable excitement among the egrets. They vigorously jerk their heads off and on in the water clogged paddy. You recall that every time you travelled this way these birds used to be completely white. You wonder why their heads are yellow. May be they aren’t the same birds. Putting up a brave face, one of them comes daringly close to the train and fumbles, trips and falls in a funny manner. It must have been nervous. The egrets get boring too.

The sun starts swimming faster through the clouds. Was the rain just an illusion? May be the sun is too. Shades of white play on your arm that rests against the window. The paddy needs both, the sun and the rain, you reflect.

You get your bag out and fish out a book. Reading makes you drowsy so you look out again. It’s a little cloudy and you feel good. And you see more than egrets this time, sparrows, crows, drongos, treepies, swallows – all too common but they still look nice. And then you get your moment to romanticise – yesterdays, today and tomorrow, all quietly mingle into a steady stream of thought. You think of the evenings you have spent on this route before, when going home. The same poplar trees look a shade dimmer; the sun seems to be turning redder. You think of the days gone by – things you wish to remember and things that you cannot forget. You sail into the future – conjuring dreams that change every second, adjusting the finer detail, raising the bar a little higher each time. A song escapes your lips – you don’t know the lyrics too well, though at times it is the music you lose track of.

The constant rocking is lulling you to a nice sleep as a gentle breeze picks up. You lose touch with everything around you for the next two hours. A sudden jerk wakes you up. You groan a little as your back aches because of the crooked posture you slept in. But it’s always fun sleeping in the train so you forgive yourself for the backache.

The ride is about to end. You pull down your bags and take steer them down the thin aisle to the exit doors. It is humid and you’re sweating. The open doors blow in gushes of air. It helps. The station can be seen in the distance and the train slows down. You pick your bags up ready to jump off as the halt is a short one.

The destination is just the start of another journey.