A Town Called Dehra Read online

  ‘Well done, thou good and faithful servant’—

  So ran his epitaph.

  The gardener, who looked after the trees,

  Also dug graves. One day

  I found him working at the bottom of a new cavity,

  ‘They never let me know in time,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Last week I dug two graves, and now, without warning,

  Here’s another. It isn’t even the season for dying.

  There’s enough work all summer, when cholera’s about—

  Why can’t they keep alive through the winter?’

  Near the railway lines, watching the trains

  (There were six every day, coming or going),

  And across the line, the leper colony . . .

  I did not know they were lepers till later

  But I knew they were different: some

  Were without fingers or toes

  And one had no nose

  And a few had holes in their faces

  And yet some were beautiful

  They had their children with them

  And the children were no different

  From other children.

  I made friends with some

  And won most of their marbles

  And carried them home in my pockets.

  One day my parents found me

  Playing near the leper colony.

  There was a big scene.

  My mother shouted at the lepers

  And they hung their heads as though it was all their fault,

  And the children had nothing to say.

  I was taken home in disgrace

  And told all about leprosy and given a bath.

  My clothes were thrown away

  And the servants wouldn’t touch me for days.

  So I took the marbles I’d won

  And put them in my stepfather’s cupboard,

  Hoping he’d catch leprosy from them.

  6

  A slim dark youth with quiet

  Eyes and a gentle quizzical smile,

  Manohar. Fifteen, working in a small hotel.

  He’d come from the hills and wanted to return,

  I forget how we met

  But I remember walking the dusty roads

  With this gentle boy, who held my hand

  And told me about his home, his mother,

  His village, and the little river

  At the bottom of the hill where the water

  Ran blue and white and wonderful,

  ‘When I go home, I’ll take you with me.’

  But we hadn’t enough money.

  So I sold my bicycle for thirty rupees

  And left a note in the dining room:

  ‘Going away. Don’t worry—(hoping they would)—

  I’ll come home

  When I’ve grown up.’

  We crossed the rushing waters of the Ganga

  Where they issued from the doors of Vishnu

  Then took the pilgrim road, in those days

  Just a stony footpath into the mountains:

  Not all who ventured forth returned;

  Some came to die, of course,

  Near the sacred waters or at their source.

  We took this route and spent a night

  At a wayside inn, wrapped tight

  In the single blanket I’d brought along;

  Even then we were cold

  It was not the season for pilgrims

  And the inn was empty, except for the locals

  Drinking a local brew.

  We drank a little and listened

  To an old soldier from the hills

  Talking of the women he’d known

  In the first Great War, when stationed in Rome;

  His memories were good for many drinks

  In many inns; his face pickled in the suns

  Of many mountain summers.

  The mule-drivers slept in one room

  And talked all night over hookahs.

  Manohar slept bravely, but I lay watching

  A bright star through the tiny window

  And wished upon it, already knowing that wishes

  Had no power, but wishing all the same . . .

  And next morning we set off again

  Leaving the pilgrim-route to march

  Down a valley, above a smaller river,

  Walking until I felt

  We’d walk and walk for ever.

  Late at night, on a cold mountain,

  Two lonely figures, we saw the lights

  Of scattered houses and knew we had arrived.

  7

  ‘Not death, but a summing-up of life,’

  Said the village patriarch, as we watched him

  Treasure a patch of winter sunshine

  On his string cot in the courtyard.

  I remember his wisdom.

  And I remember faces.

  For it’s faces I remember best.

  The people were poor, and the patriarch said:

  ‘I have heard it told that the sun

  Sets in splendour in Himalaya—

  But who can eat sunsets?’

  The patriarch was old in years,

  But some grew old at their mother’s breast.

  Perhaps, if I’d stayed longer,

  I would have yearned for creature comforts.

  We were hungry sometimes, eating wild berries

  Or slyly milking another’s goat,

  Or catching small fish in the river . . .

  But I did not long for home.

  Could I have grown up a village boy,

  Grazing sheep and cattle, while the Collected Works

  Of W. Shakespeare lay gathering dust

  In Dehra? Who knows? But it was nice

  Of my stepfather to send his office manager

  Into the mountains to bring me home!

  Manohar.

  He called goodbye and waved

  As I looked back from the bend in the road.

  Bright boy on the mountainside,

  Waving to me, calling, and I’ve loved you

  All these years and looked for you everywhere,

  In the mountains, in crowds at distant places,

  In cities and villages, beside the sea.

  And the trains roll on, every day

  Hundreds of people coming or going or running

  away—

  Goodbye, goodbye!

  Into the forest’s silence,

  Outside the dark tunnel,

  Out of the tunnel, out of the dark . . .

  Parts of Old Dehra

  Parts of old Dehra remain . . .

  A peepul tree I knew

  And flying foxes

  In a mango grove

  And here and there

  A moss-encrusted wall

  Old bungalows

  Gone to seed

  And giving way

  To concrete slabs.

  A garden town’s become a city

  And the people faceless

  As they pass or rather rush

  Hell-bent

  From place of work

  To crowded tenement.

  So change must come,

  Fields make way for factories,

  The trees succumb

  To real-estate,

  The rivers plunge

  Silt-laden

  To our doom . . .

  Too late to do a thing

  About it now,

  For we have grown

  Too many,

  And the world’s no bigger

  Than before.

  Do-gooders, don’t despair!

  Nature will repair

  Her own, long after

  We are dust.

  Read more in Penguin

  LANDOUR DAYS: A WRITER’S JOURNAL

  Ruskin Bond

  ‘In this slim volume of jottings . . . Ruskin Bond does what he’s best at—making you smile at the simple pleasures of life, and laughing at al
l its inanities. Light and breezy, full of delicious wit and humour. Just the kind of wonderfully refreshing stuff that one craves for . . .’ —First City

  ‘The habit of keeping a diary has led me into trouble more than once,’ writes Ruskin Bond in the introduction to this journal of a year in his hometown of Landour, Mussoorie. The events are small in themselves: the daily happenings in Landour, the birds and flowers that each season brings, and the eccentricities of friends and family.

  Filled with warmth and gentle humour, this book captures the timeless rhythm of life in the mountains, and the serene wisdom of one of India’s best loved writers.

  Memoir

  Rs 175

  Read more in Penguin

  BOOK OF VERSE

  Ruskin Bond

  ‘Read the poems out aloud, and let the words wash over. They have a soft silence—almost a sigh on the wind. A book to gift—one for keeps’ —Statesman

  This leaf, so complete in itself,

  Is only part of a tree.

  And this tree, so complete in itself,

  Is only part of the mountain.

  And the mountain runs down to the sea.

  And the sea, so complete in itself,

  Rests like a raindrop

  On the hand of God.

  Ruskin Bond’s Book of Verse brings together the poetry of one of India’s best-loved writers. This charming collector’s edition is a treasury of poems on love and nature, travel, humour and childhood, and will be a lasting source of delight to readers.

  Poetry

  Rs 160

  Read more in Penguin

  TALES OF THE OPEN ROAD

  Ruskin Bond

  ‘[Ruskin Bond] writes about the uncomplicated things in life, and raises the experience to the sublime’ —Deccan Herald

  ‘I have come to believe that the best kind of walk, or journey, is the one in which you have no particular destination when you set out.’

  Tales of the Open Road is a collection of Ruskin Bond’s travel writing over fifty years. Here, you will encounter a tonga ride through the Shivaliks, a hidden waterfall near Rishikesh, walks along the myriad streets of Delhi (one of which used to be the richest in Asia), trips down the Grand Trunk Road, stopovers in little tea stalls in the hills around Mussoorie, and an excursion to the icy source of the Ganga at over ten thousand feet above sea level.

  Enriched by rare photographs that Ruskin took during his travels, Tales of the Open Road is a celebration of small-town and rural India by its most engaging chronicler.

  Non-fiction

  Rs 200