Ruskin Bond

During the early eighties The Tribune newspaper often carried short pieces by Ruskin Bond. The write up was usually about life in the hills, ghosts, nature, common people. These short articles were extremely readable and interesting and I looked out for them. Later I read several of his stories in my daughter’s school books.

By now I have read umpteen of his works and pieced together his life. That is easy because most of his works are autobiographical and usually based on real events. He was born to British parents in 1934. His father died when he was just 10, and as he did not get along with his step-father, that made him an orphan. He grew up among various relations and even went to England for a while. But he loved India too much and returned to Dehra. He had to, more or less, fend for himself. The only thing he loved doing was writing. Making a living as a freelance writer was extremely precarious. The money was very little. But this was a young man who had been on his own nearly, ever since his father’s death. Poverty did not scare him and he learnt to get by on what little he had.

Several of his stories deal with this time of his life. These descriptions always bring my heart to my mouth. I feel, here is a true artist. He wrote as he felt about things. He felt deeply about the beautiful hill life, his friends, his work. The common people, that run bookshops, dhabas, ordinary shops selling wares by the roadside, all those people that look so drab to us come alive under his magic touch. It is his pure heart, that never desired too much fame or riches, that shines through his work. His only issue was to be able to pay his rent and his food bills.

Such a contrast to the flamboyant artists or novelists that try to corner huge money deals for substandard work. Art can stay alive only if it comes from the heart. I read with pleasure a quote by the crotchety old man – V S Naipaul who praised the simplicity and sincerity of Ruskin Bond.

Be aware that there is nothing sweeping or epical about his works. There is nothing ‘Gone with the Wind’ about him, his autobiography is not ‘David Copperfield’ either. It is just Ruskin Bond writing about his life and times.

I end with a couple of quotes by Ruskin Bond, one prose and one poem:

“Dehra, in those days, was full of people living on borrowed money or no money at all. Hence, the large number of disconnected telephone and electric lines. I did not have electricity myself, simply because the previous tenant had taken off, leaving me with outstandings of over a thousand rupees, then a princely sum. My monthly income seldom exceeded five hundred rupees. No matter. There was plenty of kerosene available, and the oil-lamp lent a romantic glow to my literary endeavours.”


RAINDROP
This leaf, so complete in itself,
Is only part of the tree.
And this tree, so complete in itself,
Is only part of the forest.
And the forest runs down from the hill to the sea,
And the sea, so complete in itself,
Rests like a raindrop
In the hand of God