Ruskin Bond [Bond - My Favourite Nature Stories

My Favourite
Nature Stories

Ruskin Bond has been writing for over sixty years, and has now over 120 titles in printnovels, collection of short 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 (1999), the Padma Bhushan (2014) and two awards from Sahitya Akademione 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 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 2016

7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj

New Delhi 110002

Copyright Ruskin Bond 2016

Cover image copyright Eisfrei/shutterstock.com

The views and opinions expressed in this book are the authors own and the facts are as reported by him which have been verified to the extent possible, and the publishers are not in any way liable for the same.

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: 978-81-291-3768-5

First impression 2016

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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 publishers prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

Contents

Introduction Ruskins Green-World

I t is good of my long-time publishers, Rupa, to bring out this selection of some of my favourite nature pieces on my 82nd birthday.

I have been writing stories, sketches, poems and novels for over 65 years, and the greatest pleasure has come from writing about the natural world in my vicinitywherever I may have been living.

When I came to live in Mussoorie just over fifty years ago, I lived in Maplewood Lodge, a cottage below Wynberg-Allen School. Its windows opened on to a well-forested hillside. So naturally I wrote about the trees, wild flowers and birds and other creatures who lived among them. Then circumstances forced me to move higher up the mountain, and for the last thirty-five years I have lived on the top floor of Ivy Cottage, in Landour Cantonment. Here there are windows too, and they open on to sky, clouds, the Doon valley, and range upon range of mountains. And from this perch on the hillside I feel that I am part of the greater world, mother India as well as the natural world of planet Earth.

Humankind took over the earth from the dinosaurs, who perished due to natural upheavals and dramatic climate changes. We could go the same way, as we have proved to be bad tenants with little or no regard for the natural world that we have inherited.

But I do not despair. Dawn gives way to daybreak and daybreak to sunrise. And when the sun bursts through my windows and streams across my little room, I look forward to another great day on the planet Earth. We must cherish each day as though it is our last.

Some of these pieces have appeared before in magazines or newspapers. A few are recent. Several have not been published between book covers.

I dedicate this book to all who cherish the green world of India, its forests, fields, streams and sacred rivers. Nature sustains us. Let us not do away with our natural inheritance.

Ruskin Bond

Among the Maples and Oaks

I t isnt many years since I left Maplewood, but I wouldnt be surprised to hear that the cottage has disappeared. Already, during my last months there, the trees were being cut and the new road was being blasted out of the Mountain. It would pass just below the old cottage. There were (as far as I know) no plans to blow up the house; but it was already shaky and full of cracks, and a few tremors, such as those produced by passing trucks, drilling machines and bulldozers, would soon bring the cottage to the ground.

If it has gone, dont write and tell me: Id rather not know.

When I moved in, it had been nestling there among the oaks for over seventy years. It had become a part of the forest. Birds nestled in the eaves; beetles burrowed in the woodwork. Some denizens remained, even during my residence. And I was therehow long? Eight, nine years, Im not sure; it was a timeless sort of place. Even the rent was paid only once a year, at a time of my choosing.

I first saw the cottage in late spring, when the surrounding forest was at its bestthe oaks and maples in new leaf, the oak leaves a pale green, the maple leaves red and gold and bronze; this is the Himalayan maple, quite different from the North American maple; only the winged seed-pods are similar, twisting and turning in the breeze as they fall to the ground, so that the Garhwalis call it the Butterfly Tree.

There was one very tall, very old maple above the cottage, and this was probably the tree that gave the house its name. A portion of it was blackened where it had been struck by lightning, but the rest of it lived on; a favourite haunt of woodpeckers: the ancient peeling bark seemed to harbour any number of tiny insects, and the woodpeckers would be tapping away all day. A steep path ran down to the cottage. During heavy rain, it would become a watercourse and the earth would be washed away to leave it very stony and uneven. I first took this path to see Miss Mackenzie, an impoverished old lady who lived in two small rooms on the ground floor and who was acting on behalf of the owner. It was she who told me that the cottage was to-let provided she could remain in the portion downstairs.

Actually, the path ran straight across a landing and up to the front door of the first floor. It was the ground floor that was tucked away in the shadow of the hill; it was reached by a flight of steps, which also took the rush of water when the path was in flood.

Miss Mackenzie was eighty-six. I helped her up the steps and she opened the door for me. It led into an L-shaped room. There were two large windows, and when I pushed the first of these open, the forest seemed to rush upon me. From below, from the ravine, the deep-throated song of the whistling thrush burst upon me.

I told Miss Mackenzie I would take the place. She grew excited; it must have been lonely for her during the past several years, with most of the cottage lying empty, and only her old bearer and a mongrel dog for company. Her own house had been mortgaged to a moneylender. Her brothers and sisters were long dead.

I told her I would move in soon: my books were still in Delhi. She gave me the keys and I left a cheque with her. It was all done on an impulsethe decision to give up my job in Delhi, find a cheap house in a hill-station, and return to freelance writing. It was a dream Id had for some time; lack of money had made it difficult to realize. But then, I knew that if I was going to wait for money to come, I might have to wait until I was old and grey and full of sleep. I was thirty-fivestill young enough to take a few risks. If the dream was to become reality, this was the time to do something about it.