Hip-Hop Nature Boy and Other Poems Read online

  Whose pony-cart came rattling along the road

  Under the furthest arch of the banyan tree.

  Looking up, he waved his whip at me

  And laughing, called, ‘Who lives up there?’

  ‘I do,’ I said.

  And the next time he came along, he stopped the tonga

  And asked me if I felt lonely in the tree.

  ‘Only sometimes,’ I said. ‘When the tree is thinking.’

  ‘I never think,’ he said. ‘You won’t feel lonely with me.’

  And with a flick of the reins he rattled away,

  With a promise he’d give me a ride someday.

  And from him I learnt the value of promises kept.

  5

  From the tree to the tonga was an easy drop.

  I fell into life. Bansi, tonga-driver,

  Wore a yellow waistcoat and spat red

  Betel-juice the entire width of the road.

  ‘I can spit further than any man,’ he claimed.

  It is natural for a man to strive to excel

  At something; he spat with authority.

  When he took me for rides, he lost a fare.

  That was his way. He once said, ‘If a girl

  Wants five rupees for a fix, bargain like hell

  And then give six.’

  It was the secret of his failure, he claimed,

  To give away more than he owned.

  And to prove it, he borrowed my pocket money

  In order to buy a present for his mistress.

  A man who fails well is better than one who succeeds badly.

  The rattletrap tonga and the winding road

  Through the valley, to the riverbed,

  With the wind in my hair and the dust

  Rising, and the dogs running and barking

  And Bansi singing and shouting in my ear,

  And the pony farting as it cantered along,

  Wheels creaking, seat shifting,

  Hood slipping off, the entire contraption

  Always about to disintegrate, collapse,

  But never quite doing so—like the man himself …

  All this was music,

  And the ragtime-raga lingers in my mind.

  Nostalgia comes swiftly when one is forty,

  Looking back at boyhood years.

  Even unhappiness acquires a certain glow.

  It was shady in the cemetery, and the mango trees

  Did well there, nourished by the bones

  Of long-dead Colonels, Collectors, Magistrates and Memsahibs.

  For here, in dusty splendour, lay the graves

  Of those who’d brought their English dust

  To lie with Ganges soil: some tombs were temples,

  Some were cenotaphs; and one, a tiny Taj.

  Here lay sundry relatives, including Uncle

  Henry,

  Who’d been for many years a missionary.

  ‘Sacred to the Memory

  Of Henry C. Wagstaff’,

  Who translated the Gospels into Pashtu,

  And was murdered by his own chowkidar.

  ‘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 fac
es 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?’

  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 …

  The Wind and the Rain

  Like the wind, I run;

  Like the rain, I sing;

  Like the leaves, I dance;

  Like the earth, I’m still;

  And in this, Lord, I do thy will.

  In This Workaday World

  It’s a busy world, I know,

  And we must hurry here and there

  And not ask who or why or where,

  For fear our credits fall too low.

  But here upon this hilly crest

  There’s some respite; and when

  The fretting day is done,

  Beneath the cherry tree there’s rest.

  To the Indian Foresters

  You are the quiet men who do not boast

  Although you’ve done much more than most

  To make this land a sea of green

  From here to far Cape Comorin.

  Without your help to Nature’s thrust,

  This land would be a bowl of dust.

  A land without its forest wealth

  Must suffer a decline in health,

  For herbs and plants all need green cover

  Before they help the sick recover.

  And we need trees to hold together

  Beasts, and birds of every feather,

  And leaves to help the air smell sweet;

  And this and more is no mean feat.

  Dear foresters, you have not sought for fame or favour,

  Yours has been a love of labour.

  Our thanks! Instead of desert sand

  You’ve given us this green and growing land.

  (Composed and read to a gathering of young forest officers at the forest Research Institute on 10 April 2004)

  We Rode All the Way to Delhi

  In the Bicycle Age

  When I was a kid

  We rode all the way to Delhi,

  Yes we did!

  Somi and Ranji and I …

  It took us three days

  As we pressed on our pedals,

  All two hundred miles

  From Dehra to Delhi,

  And they gave us no medals!

  We sheltered in dhabas

  And ate what they gave us,

  But no welcoming crowd

  In Delhi received us

  As dusty, dishevelled

  We crossed the old bridge

  And rode round the city

  And camped on the Ridge.

  Next day we rose late—

  Our bodies they ached—

  So instead of cycling

  All the way back again

  We put our bikes on the train

  And went home in style

  To Dehra from Delhi,

  Somi and Ranji and I …

  We Who Love Books

  Some books I’ll never give away,

  Though old and worn, their binding torn,

  Upon my shelves they’ll always stay,

  Alive, still read, still fresh each dawn,

  Their magic moments never gone.

  Great verse, great thoughts, still stand the test

  Of time that’s passing by so fast …

  These good companions never fail

  To give us joy, to nourish us . . .

  We who love books will always be

  The lucky ones,

  Our minds set free.

  My Best Friend

  My best Friend

  Is the baker’s son,

  I gave him a book

  And he gave me a bun!

  I told him a tale

  Of a magical lake,

  And he liked it so much

  That he baked me a cake.

  Yes, he’s my best friend—

  We go cycling together,

  On bright sunny days,

  Or in rain and bad weather.

  And if we feel hungry

  There’s always a pie

  Or a pastry to feast on,

  As we go riding by!

  Dare to Dream

  Build castles in the air

  But first, give them foundations.

  Hold fast to all your dreams,

  Make perfect your creations.

  All glory comes to those who dare.

  Failed works are sad lame things.

  Act impeccably, sing

  Your own song, but do not take

  Another’s song from her or him;

  Look for your art within,

  You’ll find your own true gift,

  For you are special too.

  And if you try, you’ll find

  There’s nothing you can’t do.

  And as We Part

  The day is done,

  It’s time to sleep,

  And with this world

  To make my peace.

  Enchanted days

  Have all my life

  Brought beauty

  More than bitter strife.

  May you who read

  These words today

  Be blessed in every way …

  And as we part,

  I give you all

  That lies within my heart.

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  First published in Puffin by Penguin Books India 2012

  Text copyright © Ruskin Bond 2012

  Illustration copyright © Joy Gosney 2012

  Cover illustration by Joy Gosney

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-01-4333-212-1

  This digital edition published in 2012.

/>   e-ISBN: 978-81-8475-670-8