My Trees in the Himalayas Read online

  My Trees in the Himalayas

  Ruskin Bond has been writing for over sixty years, and now has over 120 titles in print—novels, collections of short stories, poetry, essays, anthologies and books for children. His first novel, The Room on the Roof, received the prestigious John Llewellyn Rhys Prize in 1957. He has also received the Padma Shri (1999), the Padma Bhushan (2014) and two awards from Sahitya Akademi—one for his short stories and another for his writings for children. In 2012, the Delhi government gave him its Lifetime Achievement Award.

  Born in 1934, Ruskin Bond grew up in Jamnagar, Shimla, New Delhi and Dehradun. Apart from three years in the UK, he has spent all his life in India, and now lives in Mussoorie with his adopted family.

  Published by

  Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2018

  7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj

  New Delhi 110002

  Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2018

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-81-291-×××-××

  First impression 2018

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  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher's prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  The Nightingale and the Rose

  Oscar Wildf

  My Trees in the Himalayas

  Ruskin Bond

  The Gift of the Magi

  O. Henry

  The Folder

  Noel Langley

  What Happened to a Father Who Became a Schoolboy

  F. Anstey

  The Beggar

  Anton Chekhov

  Reading and Books in the Valley

  Upendra Arora

  The Little Ghost

  Hugh Walpole

  The Tale of a Child

  Josef Bard

  Dusk

  'Saki' (H.H. Munro)

  Boy Among the Writers

  David Garnett

  The Last Lesson

  Alphonse Daudet

  INTRODUCTION

  I have a window. My armchair has been strategically placed right in front of it, because I do not wish to miss out on any of the happenings in the great outdoors. Those who advertise rooms or flats to let often describe them as 'Room with bath' or 'Room with tea and coffee-making facilities'. A more attractive proposition would be 'Room with window', for without a view a room is hardly a living place—merely a place of transit. My bedroom window opens on to blue skies, mountains striding away into the far distance, winding rivers in the valley below, and, just to bring me down to earth, the local television tower.

  I am fortunate that my window also opens out on the forest so that the trees are almost within my reach. If I make the attempt to jump out (won't be the easiest of experiences), I can easily land on the sturdy oak or horse chestnut. On the window's left is the walnut tree, the source of annual basket of walnuts. A grove of pine trees on the hillside next to my cottage are also visible—I go there often to sit under those trees and listen to the soft swishing sounds of the wind.

  I walk among the trees outside my window often, acknowledging their presence with a touch of my hand against their trunks. The oak has been there the longest, and the wind has bent its upper branches and twisted a few so that it looks shaggy and undistinguished. But it is a good tree for the privacy of birds. Sometimes it seems completely uninhabited until there is a whining sound, as of a helicopter approaching, and a party of long-tailed blue magpies flies across the forest glade.

  There is another favourite pastime I indulge quite often in. That is reading short stories and imagining them being played out in my garden. On numerous occasions, I have sat here and tried to picture how Della and Jim from O. Henry's The Gift of Magi would look when they saw each other's Christmas gifts, have spent hours in daydreaming about the nightingale, from Oscar Wilde's The Nightingale and the Rose, singing in my garden. I think about how the child's ghost would be in person, from Hugh Walpole's The Little Ghost. I have imagined David Garnett meeting all the famous writers he has mentioned in Boy Among the Writers, and also the little classroom in nineteenth-century Alsace from Alphonse Daudet's The Last Lesson.

  I have compiled in this collection these and a few more short stories that will make you daydream as well—about gardens and trees and the simple joys of life. So, lose yourself in these and picture a world away from the mundane…

  Ruskin Bond

  THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE

  Oscar Wilde

  She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,' cried the young Student, 'but in all my garden there is no red rose.'

  From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves and wondered.

  'No red rose in all my garden!' he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. 'Ali, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.'

  'Here at last is a true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.'

  'The Prince gives a ball tomorrow night,' murmured the young Student, 'and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.'

  'Here, indeed, is the true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'What I sing of, he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely, love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.'

  'The musicians will sit in their gallery,' said the young Student, 'and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her'; and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands and wept.

  'Why is he weeping?' asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.

  'Why, indeed?' said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after it sunbeam.

  'Why, indeed?' whispered it Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.

  'He is weeping for a red rose,' said the Nightingale.

  'For a red rose?' they cried; 'how very ridiculous!' and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.

  But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and though
t about the mystery of Love.

  Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like it shadow she sailed across the garden.

  In the centre of the grass-plot was standing it beautiful rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.

  'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'

  But the Tree shook its head.

  'My roses are white,' it answered; as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.'

  So the Nightingale flew over to the rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.

  'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'

  But the Tree shook its head.

  'My roses are yellow,' it answered; 'as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.'

  So the Nightingale flew over to the rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window.

  'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'

  But the Tree shook its head.

  'My roses are red,' it answered; 'as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year.'

  'One red rose is all I want,' cried the Nightingale, 'only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it.

  'There is a way,' answered the Tree; 'but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you.'

  'Tell it to me,' said the Nightingale, 'I am not afraid.'

  'It you want a red rose,' said the Tree, 'you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.'

  'Death is it great price to pay for a red rose,' cried the Nightingale, 'and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of it bird compared to the heart of man?'

  So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like it shadow, and like it shadow she sailed through the grove.

  The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.

  'Be happy,' cried the Nightingale, 'be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though he is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.'

  The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.

  But the oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.

  'Sing me one last song,' he whispered. 'I shall feel lonely when you are gone.'

  So the Nightingale sang to the oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from it silver jar.

  When she had finished her song, the Student got up and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.

  'She has form,' he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove—'that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling.' I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artistes; she is all style without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good!' And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.

  And when the moon shone in the heavens, the Nightingale flew to the rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang, with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.

  She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of it boy and a girl. And on the topmost spray of the rose-tree there blossomed it marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river—pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in it water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.

  But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'

  So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.

  And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's—blood can crimson the heart of a rose.

  And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'

  So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and it fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.

  And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.

  But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.

  Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.

  'Look, look!' cried the Tree, 'the rose is finished now'; but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.

  And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out. 'Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!' he cried; 'here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name'; and he leaned down and plucked it.

  Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.

  The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.

  'You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,' cried the Student. 'Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it tonight next to your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I l
ove you.'

  But the girl frowned.

  'I am afraid it will not go with my dress,' she answered; 'and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.'

  'Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,' said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it. 'Ungrateful!' said the girl. 'I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has'; and she got up from her chair and went into the house.

  'What a silly thing Love is!' said the Student as he walked away. 'It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.'

  So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.

  MY TREES IN THE HIMALAYAS

  Ruskin Bond

  Living in a cottage at 7,000 feet in the Garhwal Himalayas, I am fortunate to have a big window that opens out on the forest so that the trees are almost within my reach. If I jumped, I could land quite neatly in the arms of an oak or horse chestnut. I have never made that leap, but the big langurs—silver-gray monkeys with long, swishing tails—often spring from the trees onto my corrugated tin roof, making enough noise to frighten all the birds away.

  Standing on its own outside my window is a walnut tree, and truly this is a tree for all seasons. In winter the branches are bare, but beautifully smooth and rounded. In spring each limb produces a bright green spear of new growth, and by midsummer the entire tree is in leaf. Toward the end of the monsoon the walnuts, encased in their green jackets, have reached maturity. When the jackets begin to split, you can see the hard brown shells of the nuts, and inside each shell is the delicious meat itself.