|
Writes Bond, "Although I
still do most of my writing in longhand, I follow the
conventions by typing a second draft. .... Sometimes I like
taking my notebooks or notepads to odd places ... Typewriters
and computers were not designed with steep mountain slopes in
mind." There you have, the quintessential Ruskin Bond —
always his natural self, at peace with himself, his limitations
and with the world.
The remarkable
thing is not only his gift for simple pleasures of life but also
developing a great bond of empathy and compassion for all living
creatures; be it birds, flowers or people. His power of
observation of all that’s around him and deriving joy out of
it makes for a rich life without having to amass riches!
The month of
March opens as, "Holi brings warmer days, ladybirds, new
friends. Trees in new leaf. The fresh light green of the maples
is very soothing. I may not have contributed anything towards
the progress of civilisation, but neither have I robbed the
world of anything. Not one tree or bush or bird or flower. Even
the spider on my wall is welcome to his (her) space."
Bond’s
curiosity and fondness for the natural world extends even to the
lowly insects, and he notes that our "insect musicians’
are roused to their greatest activity during monsoons. And as
with most insect musicians, the males do the performing, the
females remain silent. This moved one Greek poet to exclaim: ‘Happy
the cicadas, for they have voiceless wives!’ to which Bond
quips, "Pity the female cicadas, for they have singing
husbands!"
Though his life
has been full of strife, almost on the brink of penury at times
— he never indulges in any mawkish self-pity or
self-flagellation. Rather he enjoys his decision to opt out of
the rat race and live life on his own terms, at his own pace of
choice in the hills of Mussoorie. In a candid soliloquy. Bond
writes, "And have I won the time for leisure, books,
nature, love and friendship? Yes, most of it ... not everything
falls in place. How can it? ... My faults and limitation are
many, but I’ve always accepted that I’m the most imperfect
specimen of humanity ..." Not a bad example for many of us,
living adrenaline-charged, mad lives, to imbibe! His
self-composed jingle, perhaps says it all: "I’m all
right/I’m doing my thing/And in my own right/I’m a
king."
Bond
reminiscences about his first published novel, Room on the
Roof, written at the age of 19, and its serialisation in the
then prestigious Illustrated Weekly. Awaiting the arrival
of its first copy both with delight as well his characteristic,
self-poking, gentle humour, he recalls, "My hands were not
exactly trembling as I opened the magazine, but my heart was in
my mouth ... I waved the magazine in front of Mr Gupta, ‘My
novel,’ I told him. He wasn’t impressed. ‘Well, I hope
circulation won’t drop,’ he said. Expansively, I bought a
third copy, ‘Circulation going up!"
Even if at
times there is a sense of deja vu while reading this almost R.K.
Narayanesque dateless diary — as some of the jottings have
appeared in his earlier autographical books also — there is
yet a morning-dew freshness and a timelessness of the hills
permeating it. The beautiful sketches and cover design of the
book by Ajanta Guhathakurta, further embellish his lucid prose.
The journal reads as if the
writer is conversing personally with you on a cosy, wintry
evening by the fireside that his presence comes alive fully. For
the vast legion of his loyal readers it will enable that
encounter through print. And for those of us who have savoured
this pleasure in real life, it is a reaffirmation that in Ruskin
Bond’s case art imitates life completely.
|