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  Bond Collection for Adults

  Falling in Love Again

  No Man is an Island

  The Very Best of Ruskin Bond

  Ghost Stories from the Raj

  falling in love again

  Ruskin Bond has been writing for over sixty years, and has now over 120 titles in print—novels, collections of stories, poetry, essays, anthologies and books for children. His first novel, The Room on the Roof, received the prestigious John Llewellyn Rhys award in 1957. He has also received the Padma Shri, and two awards from the 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.

  A shy person, Ruskin says he likes being a writer because 'When I'm writing there's nobody watching me. Today, it's hard to find a profession where you're not being watched!'

  Published by

  Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2013

  7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj

  New Delhi 110002

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  Copyright © Ruskin Bond 2013

  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.

  1 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Typeset in Utopia Std 10.5/14.8

  Printed by Replika Press Pvt. Ltd., India

  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.

  To

  Vishal and Rekha Bhardwaj,

  great artistes,

  wonderful people.

  Contents

  Introduction

  The Eyes Have It

  The Night Train at Deoli

  Tribute to a Dead Friend

  Love Is a Sad Song

  Time Stops at Shamli

  The Girl from Copenhagen

  Binya Passes By

  His Neighbour’s Wife

  Susanna’s Seven Husbands

  A Love of Long Ago

  A Little Song of Love

  We Must Love Someone

  The Room on the Roof (Extract)

  The Message of the Flowers

  Delhi Is Not Far (Extract)

  Who Kissed Me in the Dark?

  Topaz

  Love Lyrics for Binya Devi

  On Fairy Hill

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  I was going through the romantic poets, looking for a quote to head this little introduction, but somehow the right sentiments eluded me. I guess I’ve grown too old and jaded to go into raptures over Romeo and Juliet or Laila and Majnu and their tragic ends; all too depressing! So I turned to my old friend P.G. Wodehouse and came up with the following line, which I felt was just right for me:

  ‘You know, the way love can change a fellow, is truly frightful to contemplate.’

  Wodehouse’s heroes usually make asses of themselves when they fall in love, and so do most of us. Certainly I made an ass of myself time and again (and still do), but when, in my twenties and thirties I sat down to write about my broken heart, I took myself very seriously.

  Falling in love is probably the best thing that can happen to a young writer; it gives a certain spontaneity and intensity to his writing. Stories such as ‘The Night Train at Deoli’, ‘The Eyes Have It’ and ‘Time Stops at Shamli’ were written when I was in my early twenties, and have stood the test of time quite well. Fifty years after they were written they still turn up in anthologies aimed at both the young and the old.

  In my thirties I came to live in the hills, and my love stories were now greatly influenced by the world of nature. Thus, ‘Binya Passes By’ and ‘On Fairy Hill’ have a magical, other-worldly feeling about them.

  The supernatural element also turns up occasionally in a lighter vein, there is ‘The Girl from Copenhagen’ and ‘Who Kissed Me in the Dark?’ And sometimes, in a contemplative mood, I write the occasional poem.

  I haven’t stopped writing about love. My life has been one long love story, and I have loved people, I have loved books, I have loved flowers, the sun, moon and stars, old roads, old trees, children, grannies, butterflies, seashells, fairies... And of course I keep falling in love, for where love begins, there is the border of heaven.

  Ruskin Bond

  January 2013

  The Eyes Have It

  had the train compartment to myself up to Rohana, then a girl got in. The couple who saw her off were probably her parents. They seemed very anxious about her comfort and the woman gave the girl detailed instructions as to where to keep her things, when not to lean out of windows, and how to avoid speaking to strangers.

  They called their goodbyes and the train pulled out of the station. As I was totally blind at the time, my eyes sensitive only to light and darkness, I was unable to tell what the girl looked like. But I knew she wore slippers from the way they slapped against her heels.

  It would take me some time to discover something about her looks and perhaps I never would. But I liked the sound of her voice and even the sound of her slippers.

  ‘Are you going all the way to Dehra?’ I asked.

  I must have been sitting in a dark corner because my voice startled her. She gave a little exclamation and said, ‘I didn’t know anyone else was here.’

  Well, it often happens that people with good eyesight fail to see what is right in front of them. They have too much to take in, I suppose. Whereas people who cannot see (or see very little) have to take in only the essentials, whatever registers tellingly on their remaining senses.

  ‘I didn’t see you either,’ I said. ‘But I heard you come in.’

  I wondered if I would be able to prevent her from discovering that I was blind. Provided I keep to my seat, I thought, it shouldn’t be too difficult.

  The girl said, ‘I’m getting off at Saharanpur. My aunt is meeting me there.’

  ‘Then I had better not get too familiar,’ I replied. ‘Aunts are usually formidable creatures.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘To Dehra and then to Mussoorie.’

  ‘Oh, how lucky you are. I wish I were going to Mussoorie. I love the hills. Especially in October.’

  ‘Yes, this is the best time,’ I said, calling on my memories. ‘The hills are covered with wild dahlias, the sun is delicious, and at night you can sit in front of a log fire and drink a little brandy. Most of the tourists have gone and the roads are quiet and almost deserted. Yes, October is the best time.’

  She was silent. I wondered if my words had touched her or whether she thought me a romantic fool. Then I made a mistake.

  ‘What is it like outside?’ I asked.

  She seemed to find nothing strange in the question. Had she noticed already that I could not see? But her next question removed my doubts.

  ‘Why don’t you look out of the window?’ she asked.

  I moved easily along the berth and felt for the window ledge. The window was open and I faced it, making a pretence of studying the landscape. I heard the panting of the engine, the rumble of the wheels, and, in m
y mind’s eye I could see telegraph posts flashing by.

  ‘Have you noticed,’ I ventured, ‘that the trees seem to be moving while we seem to be standing still?’

  ‘That always happens,’ she said. ‘Do you see any animals?’

  ‘No,’ I answered quite confidently. I knew that there were hardly any animals left in the forests near Dehra.

  I turned from the window and faced the girl and for a while we sat in silence.

  ‘You have an interesting face,’ I remarked. I was becoming quite daring but it was a safe remark. Few girls can resist flattery. She laughed pleasantly—a clear, ringing laugh.

  ‘It’s nice to be told I have an interesting face. I’m tired of people telling me I have a pretty face.’

  Oh, so you do have a pretty face, thought I. And aloud I said: ‘Well, an interesting face can also be pretty.’

  ‘You are a very gallant young man,’ she said. ‘But why are you so serious?’

  I thought, then, that I would try to laugh for her, but the thought of laughter only made me feel troubled and lonely.

  ‘We’ll soon be at your station,’ I said.

  ‘Thank goodness it’s a short journey. I can’t bear to sit in a train for more than two or three hours.’

  Yet I was prepared to sit there for almost any length of time, just to listen to her talking. Her voice had the sparkle of a mountain stream. As soon as she left the train she would forget our brief encounter. But it would stay with me for the rest of the journey and for some time after.

  The engine’s whistle shrieked, the carriage wheels changed their sound and rhythm, the girl got up and began to collect her things. I wondered if she wore her hair in a bun or if it was plaited. Perhaps it was hanging loose over her shoulders. Or was it cut very short?

  The train drew slowly into the station. Outside, there was the shouting of porters and vendors and a high-pitched female voice near the carriage door. That voice must have belonged to the girl’s aunt.

  ‘Goodbye,’ the girl said.

  She was standing very close to me. So close that the perfume from her hair was tantalizing. I wanted to raise my hand and touch her hair but she moved away. Only the scent of perfume still lingered where she had stood.

  There was some confusion in the doorway. A man, getting into the compartment, stammered an apology. Then the door banged and the world was shut out again. I returned to my berth. The guard blew his whistle and we moved off. Once again I had a game to play and a new fellow traveller.

  The train gathered speed, the wheels took up their song, the carriage groaned and shook. I found the window and sat in front of it, staring into the daylight that was darkness for me. So many things were happening outside the window. It could be a fascinating game guessing what went on out there. The man who had entered the compartment broke into my reverie.

  ‘You must be disappointed,’ he said. ‘I’m not nearly as attractive a travelling companion as the one who just left.’

  ‘She was an interesting girl,’ I said. ‘Can you tell me—did she keep her hair long or short?’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ he said sounding puzzled. ‘It was her eyes I noticed, not her hair. She had beautiful eyes but they were of no use to her. She was completely blind. Didn’t you notice?’

  The Night Train at Deoli

  hen I was at college I used to spend my summer vacations in Dehra, at my grandmother’s place. I would leave the plains early in May and return late in July. Deoli was a small station about thirty miles from Dehra. It marked the beginning of the heavy jungles of the Indian Terai.

  The train would reach Deoli at about five in the morning when the station would be dimly lit with electric bulbs and oil lamps and the jungle across the railway tracks would just be visible in the faint light of dawn. Deoli had only one platform, an office for the stationmaster and a waiting room. The platform boasted a tea stall, a fruit vendor, and a few stray dogs; not much else because the train stopped there for only ten minutes before rushing on into the forests.

  Why it stopped at Deoli, I don’t know. Nothing ever happened there. Nobody got off the train and nobody got in. There were never any coolies on the platform. But the train would halt there a full ten minutes and then a bell would sound, the guard would blow his whistle, and presently Deoli would be left behind and forgotten.

  I used to wonder what happened in Deoli behind the station walls. I always felt sorry for that lonely little platform and for the place that nobody wanted to visit. I decided that one day I would get off the train at Deoli and spend the day there just to please the town.

  I was eighteen, visiting my grandmother, and the night train stopped at Deoli. A girl came down the platform selling baskets.

  It was a cold morning and the girl had a shawl thrown across her shoulders. Her feet were bare and her clothes were old but she was a young girl, walking gracefully and with dignity.

  When she came to my window, she stopped. She saw that I was looking at her intently but at first she pretended not to notice. She had a pale skin, set off by shiny black hair and dark, troubled eyes. And then those eyes, searching and eloquent, met mine.

  She stood by my window for some time and neither of us said anything. But when she moved on, I found myself leaving my seat and going to the carriage door. I stood waiting on the platform looking the other way. I walked across to the tea stall. A kettle was boiling over on a small fire but the owner of the stall was busy serving tea somewhere on the train. The girl followed me behind the stall.

  ‘Do you want to buy a basket?’ she asked. ‘They are very strong, made of the finest cane. . .’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t want a basket.’

  We stood looking at each other for what seemed a very long time and she said, ‘Are you sure you don’t want a basket?’

  ‘All right, give me one,’ I said and took the one on top and gave her a rupee, hardly daring to touch her fingers.

  As she was about to speak, the guard blew his whistle. She said something but it was lost in the clanging of the bell and the hissing of the engine. I had to run back to my compartment. The carriage shuddered and jolted forward.

  I watched her as the platform slipped away. She was alone on the platform and she did not move, but she was looking at me and smiling. I watched her until the signal-box came in the way and then the jungle hid the station. But I could still see her standing there alone. . .

  I stayed awake for the rest of the journey. I could not rid my mind of the picture of the girl’s face and her dark, smouldering eyes.

  But when I reached Dehra the incident became blurred and distant, for there were other things to occupy my mind. It was only when I was making the return journey, two months later, that I remembered the girl.

  I was looking out for her as the train drew into the station and I felt an unexpected thrill when I saw her walking up the platform. I sprang off the footboard and waved to her.

  When she saw me, she smiled. She was pleased that I remembered her. I was pleased that she remembered me. We were both pleased and it was almost like a meeting of old friends.

  She did not go down the length of the train selling baskets but came straight to the tea stall. Her dark eyes were suddenly filled with light. We said nothing for some time but we couldn’t have been more eloquent.

  I felt the impulse to put her on the train there and then and take her away with me. I could not bear the thought of having to watch her recede into the distance of Deoli station. I took the baskets from her hand and put them down on the ground. She put out her hand for one of them but I caught her hand and held it.

  ‘I have to go to Delhi,’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘I do not have to go anywhere.’

  The guard blew his whistle for the train to leave and how I hated the guard for doing that.

  ‘I will come again,’ I said. ‘Will you be here?’

  She nodded again and, as she nodded, the bell clanged and the train slid forward. I had to wrench my hand awa
y from the girl and run for the moving train.

  This time I did not forget her. She was with me for the remainder of the journey and for long after. All that year she was a bright, living thing. And when the college term finished I packed in haste and left for Dehra earlier than usual. My grandmother would be pleased at my eagerness to see her.

  I was nervous and anxious as the train drew into Deoli because I was wondering what I should say to the girl and what I should do. I was determined that I wouldn’t stand helplessly before her, hardly able to speak or do anything about my feelings.

  The train came to Deoli and I looked up and down the platform but I could not see the girl anywhere.

  I opened the door and stepped off the footboard. I was deeply disappointed and overcome by a sense of foreboding. I felt I had to do something and so I ran up to the stationmaster and said, ‘Do you know the girl who used to sell baskets here?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said the stationmaster. ‘And you’d better get on the train if you don’t want to be left behind.’

  But I paced up and down the platform and stared over the railings at the station yard. All I saw was a mango tree and a dusty road leading into the jungle. Where did the road go? The train was moving out of the station and I had to run up the platform and jump for the door of my compartment. Then, as the train gathered speed and rushed through the forests, I sat brooding in front of the window.

  What could I do about finding a girl I had seen only twice, who had hardly spoken to me, and about whom I knew nothing—absolutely nothing—but for whom I felt a tenderness and responsibility that I had never felt before?

  My grandmother was not pleased with my visit after all because I didn’t stay at her place more than a couple of weeks. I felt restless and ill at ease. So I took the train back to the plains, meaning to ask further questions of the stationmaster at Deoli.

  But at Deoli there was a new stationmaster. The previous man had been transferred to another post within the past week. The new man didn’t know anything about the girl who sold baskets. I found the owner of the tea stall, a small, shrivelled-up man, wearing greasy clothes, and asked him if he knew anything about the girl with the baskets.