The heart has its reasons
By Ruskin Bond

IT’S snowing outside. The temperature is a couple of degrees below zero. An icy wind howls outside my window. Not the ideal weather for a 65-year-old writer living on his own in a cottage in the Himalayas.

But then, I am not alone – and I am not cold – I am not hungry or ill. I sit before a blazing log-fire, surrounded by the members of my adopted family – all nine of them!

I am not sure if I adopted them, or if they adopted me, but here we are, all living together, sometimes quietly, sometimes noisily, the result of a spontaneous relationship that came about almost 30 years ago.

I have been asked to write on the subject of spontaneous relationships (rather than failed or fading relationships), and I am happy to do so. Almost all my relationships, from boyhood to the present time, have been the result of spontaneous rather than calculated intent.

Let’s take this happy, if somewhat chaotic, family scene.

Prem was then 18, a poor boy from a poor village in the hills, wandering around the hill-station looking for work. I was 35, still struggling to establish myself as a writer. I couldn’t afford to employ anyone; I was entirely on my own at that time. Prem met me on the local bus; we talked about football, films, animals, among other things. When we got down, he helped me carry my heavy suitcase home. Then he helped me prepare a simple but satisfying evening meal. After a couple of hours we were old friends. He came to stay with me and has never been away except for brief visits to his village.

The following year he returned from the village with his wife. She taught herself to read and write. Their first child, Rakesh, was born. He captured my heart almost immediately. Then came Mukesh, with a charm of his own. Then Savitri – "Dolly" to me – a great help over the years. Rakesh grew up and married Bina. This too was the result of a spontaneous relationship! Siddharth was born. A bundle of mischief. Then Shrishti, as pretty as peach blossom. Then Gautam, my "Tiny Tim". Everyone calls me dada, grandfather.

It’s great being called dada. It makes me feel younger by the day. Even as I write, Gautam is sitting on my knee, trying to wrench the pen from my hand. Siddharth has just received a spanking from his mother for trying to eat snow. Shrishti is busy bursting the last of the New Year balloons. Prem comes in with wood for the fire. Dolly has brought me a cup of soup, but here’s Rakesh with a glass of brandy for me. On the pretext that it’s freezing outside, I start with the brandy. It helps me to concentrate on this article. Who says a writer needs perfect peace and quiet in which to be creative? My family has taught me to write under all conditions.

Those of my readers who imagine me to be a reclusive old bachelor living in a cave or an ivory tower will by now have realised that I am a member of a lively and vibrant household, in which there is never a dull moment. All this because of a spontaneous relationship that began in 1970!

I’ve been lucky, of course. Not all spontaneous relationships turn out to be successful. Some do fade away. Friends come and go, like ships passing in the night. I have had my own disappointments. Sometimes I’ve been let down by those in whom I’ve placed an impulsive trust. But that can happen to anyone. Our own relatives can betray us, and those were relationships of another kind. I, for one, have always been ready to hold out my hand in friendship. Every stranger is my brother or sister unless proved otherwise. Every child is my teacher.