50 years of Ruskin Bond.

Wow! Ruskin Bond just celebrated the 50th anniversary of the publication of his first book, The Room on the Roof, and like he says in View from the top:Golden Memories,

Both book and I are still around.

Thank God for that! And well, why not? Who can resist his stories? Stories packed with fantastic pictures from the land of mountains, hills, trees and rivers, where every person springs to life, every little corner has an exciting tale to tell, and where every story is as likeable as the man who wrote them?

I cannot recall when I was first introduced to Ruskin Bond. But for as long as I remember, I have been an admirer of his. I remember looking forward to his articles in the Sunday supplement of the Deccan Herald. There was usually something by him. An essay, which would take me on a brief sojourn to the beautiful place he lived in, a little ghost story that would make me jump at my own shadow for quite a while afterward, or a seemingly unimportant incident, which would dance with life with his words.

I have spent many hours planning how I would go to Mussourie to meet him, sit on the porch of Ivy Cottage, sip tea, and talk to him. But before my dreams could see the light of day, he came to Bangalore. ;)

About a year and a half back, I woke up in the morning to see an ad in the newspapers that told me that Ruskin Bond would be spending an hour in a well-known book store, as part of a promotion tour. The next thing I knew, much to my disbelief, I was on my way, all across town, to spend a few minutes with one of my favourite writers.

As soon as I entered the store, I spotted a plump, pink and pleasant figure in a maroon shirt, walking leisurely along the aisles. I lost no time in joining him. He looked up from the book he was browsing, and looked at me, much like a kind grandfather, and smiled and nodded. I don't know if anybody was watching, but I am sure I blushed. I introduced myself, told him I loved his writing, and thanked him for his delightful stories. He smiled, and said something like "That's good".

Before I could ask him anything else, some kids discovered him, rushed up and flocked around him, with eager faces and shining eyes. I hung around, waiting. The kids left him alone for a moment, and I snatched a few more moments with him. "How much of your work is autobiographical?" I asked. He spoke, in a slow, measured way. "You could say that most of the events are real. But I have built up on it considerably". Fair answer. But for me, more mystery. Which is built up, and which really happened? Sigh! Maybe some things are best left unanswered?

Then it was autograph time. Ruskin Bond sat, smiling pleasantly, as kids lined up with their newly bought books. I stood in line, a brand new Ruskin Bond omnibus in my hands. He spent a couple of minutes with every person who went to him. There was this little girl in front of me, who had bought a book of ghost stories. When she gave it to him to autograph, he looked at the cover, and made an expression of mock horror. "Ghost stories! Are you really going to read this? Even I get scared when I read this book!" There was laughter all around, and then it was my turn. He asked me what I do, and wrote a personal message in the book, and autographed it, while the official photographer took some snaps. I left with a feeling of exhilaration. I returned to pick up my snaps with Ruskin Bond from the store a
couple of weeks later. Highly amusing. My expression is one of joy, restrained with great difficulty. I went around showing everybody his autograph and the snaps, and I was promptly christened "Bond girl". Oh well!

If this little meeting sent me into such raptures, I wonder what I would have done, had I lived my dream - which is exactly what Uma at Indian Writing tells us she did, in >this delightful account.

In his article, in which he looks back at the 50 years since his first publication, he says,

When, as a 20-year-old, I set out to make a living as a freelancer in India, many friends said it would not be possible. Fifty years later, some of them are still saying so.

He is happy, he says with the life he has lived.

If I could live my life all over again, I wouldn't change much. Only this time I would get down from that night train at Deoli and speak to the girl on the platform.*

Ah, such joy! :)


[*From The Night Train at Deoli, a beautiful story, in which he did not get down and speak to the girl on the platform, and later speaks of it with regret.]
A list of his books.
More info about him here.