Sometimes his (Ruskin Bond’s) fans miss the second floor entrance to Ivy Cottage, home since 1980, and arrive on the roof only to realise that it’s been over fifty years since he really lived in ‘The Room on the Roof’. The other day, some young entrepreneurs arrived to tell him they wanted to name a school after him. ‘How wonderful!’ Ruskin mumbled. ‘Yes! Trouble was they wanted to call it the Ruskin Bond Memorial School,’ he tells me. ‘Phew!’ I gasp. ‘I had such a hard time dissuading them. After all I’m still alive and well,’ he says. ‘I think they settled for St.Valley School instead.’ Then, one morning, there was a knock on the door. Bleary eyed, still in his pyjamas, he opened the door to let in an out-of-breath senior citizen who promptly plunked himself on the sofa. ‘Get me a glass of water’ he ordered. Ruskin obliged. ‘Call the Sahib!’ he said brusquely. By now Ruskin had realised that the fellow had not recognised him, so he said: ‘Sahib bahar gaya hai [Sahib's gone out]! ‘Oh! ho!’ grumbled the old man, fumbling in his pockets to fish out a grubby ten rupee note and shoved it in his shirtpocket as a tip. He left saying: ‘Tell Mr Ruskin Bond, I had come.’ And he was gone!
One day, we arrive for lunch at a hotel, in Barlowganj, an effusive government official greets him saying: ‘Sir! I have always been a fan of yours. What great books, The Man-eater of Rudraprayag and The Man-eaters of Kumaon.’ ‘Yes!’ Ruskin managed to mumble as he shuffled off, saying: ‘Jim Corbett would have been happy to hear that.’ Waiting for a flight at Dehra’s Jolly Grant Airport, a young lady approached him with a twinkle in her eye and gushed: ‘Sir! I’ve always wanted to meet Rudyard Kipling. I must get your autograph!’ ‘I don’t think this bookshop still stocks Jungle Book,’ he says. But there was no stopping her. Perhaps, by the time she got to the book- 58 DISCOVER INDIA – OCTOBER 2012 book extract shelves, she realised the faux pas – for she was back with Ruskin’s latest book. And you have to see it to believe it – Happy Hour with Ruskin at Cambridge Book Depot on a Saturday evening is a must.
Photo by ShayarGautam
With crowds of visitors at Ivy Cottage wanting an autograph getting out of hand; the best solution seemed to be to meet his legions of fans on the Mall Road, Mussoorie‘s main promenade. So, you will find him sitting there patiently, on weekends, chatting to his fans or signing books, putting the long, the short and the tall at ease. Rewind to the early 1970s, when Indian publishing was still in its infancy. He would often wander down Kulri Bazaar to the bookshops looking for something to read. Finding one of his early novels buried under a tall heap of books, he would gingerly pull it out and slide it to the top. But the grumpy bookseller grabbed the book and shoved it right back to the bottom again muttering: ‘Koi nahi khareedta!’ [No one buys it]!
Wonder what the sourpuss would have to say (if he were still around) and saw the hordes of readers gather at the bookshop to get an autographed copy of their favourite author’s books? ‘The crush here,’ complained Maya Banerjee, as she wades through the crowd, a book in hand, ‘is like the mela in Dehra!’ Some scribes find it fashionable to portray him as a sort of recluse tucked away in his garret, far from the madding crowd. This is not entirely true. He is a private sort of person, with a select circle of friends and an extended family. Our town, like most other places, is getting over-crowded. Does it bother him? I ask. ‘If I wanted to move to Delhi, I’d move to Delhi. I don’t want Delhi coming to me!’ he sighs. Casual visitors are the bane of his life. He dreads the ones who huff and puff up his steps with books or manuscripts under their arm. First they will ask him for his opinion and if he dares give them a frank opinion, they resent it. ‘Who can tell a budding writer that his memoirs or novel or collected verse would be better off in a dustbin?’ he sighs. Playing safe, he says: ‘Very promising. Carry on writing.’ Instantly he is lumped with a request for a foreword or introduction together with a covering letter to the publisher. ‘Unwillingly I have become a literary agent; unpaid, of course!’ he complains.
The hazards of writing forewords or introductions came home to roost when an elderly gentleman, having written his first book called The Man-eater of Nagrasu, pestered him to write an introduction. When the book came out, privately printed, the printer’s devil had played havoc. The cover had a picture of the dead animal titled: ‘Famous author Ruskin Bond’ and Ruskin’s image on the back cover proudly proclaimed: ‘The slain Man-eater of Nagrasu!’ No wonder he breaks into hives at the very mention of the word ‘Introductions’! Once, he did a tongue-in-cheek foreword for a book of little or no merit simply because the woman, a teacher, was harassing him in person and over the telephone twice a day. So, one day he gave in and wrote a foreword where he refers to her work ‘as an ornament of Indo-Anglican literature’. The school’s stationery printers in Delhi were all set to print it. She called again: ‘Mr Bond! How do I get my book nominated for the Nobel Prize?’ ‘Just get your publishers to submit it on your behalf.’ ‘But what about the Booker Prize? My writing is better than Arundhati Roy’s.’ ‘Well, for that you have to publish in the UK.’ ‘How do I do that? My publisher doesn’t have a branch in England, Mr Bond!’ ‘Tell them to open one. And meantime, don’t forget to submit it for the Nobel Prize!’ he managed to mumble.
Photo by ShayarGautam
As I leave, he has an impish glint in his eyes as he says, ‘Do you know why Brooke Shields wouldn’t marry Ruskin Bond?’ ‘Simple! She didn’t want to be called Brooke Bond!’ Though it’s usually fun and frolic on the mountain, often more serious thoughts do creep into our lives. I guess in Landour, more a mile high in the sky, touched by the mountain air, all of us tend to dismiss grave realities with a large dollop of black humour. ‘When I die,’ mused Ruskin one day, ‘our local church-going types won’t let me be buried in the cemetery here. Never goes to church they’d say! Take me to the Lakhibagh crematorium in Dehra when I am done.’ A few drinks later, it is resolved that Victor Banerjee and I would cremate him in Lakhibagh, adjacent to the railway station in the valley. ‘Ah! How do we take you down the hill?’ wonders Victor, warming up to the topic. ‘In a taxi or car,’ suggests Ruskin, trying to be helpful. ‘Not in it for you will be in it!’ ‘Yes! On top, laid out on the luggage rack!’ ‘We could put you on a skateboard. Can’t we? Sort of prop you up between us two on roller skates and roll you along the road like a mannequin?’ teases Victor. ‘Or could we bury you under the road, right below your house,’ I flippantly suggest. ‘You know the mohalla [locality] needs a speed-breaker.’ ‘At last I’ll be able to get my revenge on cars!’ exclaims Bond. ‘I’ll be able to stick my finger to puncture all those tyres!’ In the interests of fair play and justice it is agreed that the last journey would be atop a taxi. Though in deference to his love of fish and chips, the mourners, having parked the car opposite Kwality Restaurant on Rajpur Road, would take a break to enjoy his favourite snack.
Ruskin ruins it all, interjecting: ‘Forget it! I’ll get off the carrier, follow you to the eatery. Nothing! Not even Death has a hope in hell of coming between me and my fish and chips!’ And yet, it has not always been fun and games. We, too, have had our moments of grief. Ours came unannounced. Like a bolt of lightning, prohibition was introduced in the hills of Garhwal during the Janta rule, in 1977. Much to our chagrin, we were left stranded, high and literally quite dry. Irate boys vented their ire going around town scribbling graffiti on public urinals: ‘Morarji Bar’. A humble tribute, no doubt, to the great man’s favoured drink. Except for those special bars, we tried everything, even the foul-tasting, alcohol-laced ayurvedic tonic Mrit Sanjivanisura – reputed to bring back the dead to life. But the foul taste was enough to put anyone to sleep – permanently! Sometimes the local milkmen would step in to our rescue. They’d use our hot water-bottles to bring hooch from the neighbouring Kolti village. Trouble was, the white-lightning would taste of rubber and in the mornings, our beds stank of booze!
Photo by ShayarGautam
Ruskin writes: A friend of forty years, Ganesh Saili taught me how to drink and ride a motorcycle. (But I don’t drink on a motorcycle.) Everything in life I’ve learnt from younger people. Today, Ganesh drives around in his red Santro – sometimes with his family, sometimes with me, but more often with his Labrador, a dog of indeterminate breed (but of course there’s something to be said for character). His wife Abha and I are both suing him for a divorce settlement. She gets his camera. I get the Labrador. So much for love and loyalty! Ganesh has two beautiful and talented daughters, who have always been kind to me. It’s nice to have a home away from home. Ganesh and Abha’s home has been there all these years, and I know it will always be there. We have walked down the steep and narrow lanes of Mussoorie for the better part of our lives. Our present-day arrival’s must-do includes Kempty Falls, Lal Tibba and author Ruskin Bond! Poor man! How they test his patience! Especially when roused, bleary-eyed like a bear from his siesta, with tourists at Ivy Cottage in the middle of the afternoon, waiting for him to bless their honeymoon or their children or to get photographed. God bless them all! As I write, Ruskin is in Ivy Cottage, with his large extended family. In this perch is a contented man. He has found his true place in life and is happy with what he has got. Of course, there have been good times and bad times, but the good times have predominated. He remains the gentle voice of these hills of Mussoorie.