Ruskin Bond - How to Live Your Life

CONTENTS

Dear Friends,

Yesterday was Basant.

Spring is here. That is, it has arrived in the plains, although up here in the hills it is still winter and I have just emerged from my razai and blanket in order to begin this letter.

The sun is up, its moving around on my bed and desk, and I must take advantage of its presence, because later my hands will be stiff with cold and holding a pen will be difficult.

Yes, I still write by hand. Ive been doing it all my life and I dont see why I should stop now. I love the paper on which I write, I love the violet ink that flows from this gel pen, and I love the words that by some fusion of thought and action appear on this sunlit paper.

First things first, and first of all I must thank all you, readers of all ages, for all the delightful letters you have written to me over the years especially this past year, when we were all cooped up in our homes because of the coronavirus epidemic. And you wrote to me by hand, in your excellent handwriting, knowing that I did not use e-mail, message apps, and other technical aids.

No, I am not an enemy of progress. I am just a stubborn, old-fashioned Taurian, a bull who likes to graze in the meadows, who likes to be left alone and who might just charge at you if you disturb him while hes enjoying the sweet grass of summer.

And thank you for all your letters. If I was to reply to each one individually, I would be doing nothing else; and theres always a story to be finished and another to be started. Writers dont retire. Not this one, anyway. If I am to enjoy the sweet grass of summer, I must work for it.

Im up with the lark, or rather, with the whistling thrush whose sweet notes ascend the mountain as I open my window to the suns first morning rays. I let the sunshine run over my face, arms, chest. I close my eyes and allow the sun to dwell upon them for a minute or two.

Not everybodys body is the same. Some bodies like being stretched to the limit, and they will jog along the roads for miles. Some, like mine, are always looking for physical comfort and relaxation. I take my energy from the sun and the early morning air; I swing my arms around for a while, and kick an imaginary football. Then I sit down at my desk and write a few words.

I am doing it right now. The sun is on my writing hand, on the pad before me. On my left is a cheap desk clock, which tells me that there are still fifteen minutes to breakfast. When I was a nineteen-year old, living and working in London, I would often miss my breakfast (which I had to prepare myself) because I had to rush off to catch the train which would get me to my workplace in time. The result was malnutrition, poor vision and a month in the Hampstead General Hospital. Since then, Ive never missed my breakfast.

Some of you like your parantha with a little pickle. So do I. Some of you like your idli and dosa. So do I. Some of you like a fried egg or an omelette. So do I. Some of you like porridge. I hate porridge! Enjoy your breakfast, my friend, and eat what you like most, because its going to sustain you through the rest of the day. If youre a busy student or a working person, lunch will be a distraction, just some sabzi getting cold in a tiffin carrier. And if you go somewhere and indulge in a heavy lunch, you will have difficulty staying awake afterwards.

If I did not have this half-hour to myself every morning this half hour with my writing pad and the sun on my shoulder I would be a grumpy and dissatisfied man for the rest of the day. An incomplete person. By putting down my early morning thoughts, feelings and observations, and in conveying them to you, invisible friend, I am, in some way, asserting my individuality and justifying my existence on this earth.

Breakfast! shouts Beena, my granddaughter, from the next room.

Further words of wisdom will have to wait till later in the day.

So here we are again.

I had mentioned the word talent.

SHAZAM!

When I was a boy in prep school (circa 1943) we used that expression to describe something extraordinary that had just happened like the schools main roof being blown away in a cyclonic storm (two days holiday!), or an explosion in the science lab caused by a leaking gas tank, and the headmaster running out of his house in his underwear. Shazam!

Sometimes our parents or guardians saddle us with their ambitions - what they would like us to be, rather than what wed like to be.

When I came home after completing my school education, my mother asked me what I was thinking of in terms of a profession or career.

I think Im going to be a writer, I said. Dont be silly, was her response, you should join the Army!

Now, the Army is a great service and a career too if you want to become a General with (or without) a fierce moustache, and in 1950 it was almost every schoolboys first choice. But it was not for a dreamy fellow like me, who spent most of his free time with his head buried in a book of verse or a novel or an encyclopedia of natural history.

Parade and early morning P.T. were not for me. I could not even load my stepfathers guns let alone fire them. I shuddered at the touch of one of these weapons. And yet I was quite happy reading John Buchans The Thirty-Nine Steps, or Graham Greenes This Gun for Hire, or any

thriller packed with murder and mayhem. I lived

vicariously through the characters in

books and stories. So why not write a few?

Not all of us have artistic natures. My best friend at school, a German Boy called Kaspa Kirschner, became a famous scientist in his native land. A Parsi friend became a successful hotelier. A Sikh friend went to England and at present owns the largest wine shop in the country; another became the Samosa King of South London.