Ruskin Bond - Lone Fox Dancing: My Autobiography

ALSO BY RUSKIN BOND IN SPEAKING TIGER

A Book of Simple Living: Brief Notes from the Hills

Friends in Wild Places: Birds, Beasts and Other Companions

A Little Book of Happiness

A Little Book of Serenity

A Little Book of Love and Companionship

There may be no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but if a man believes with all his soul that there is, and spends his life in the effort to vindicate that belief, his efforts will surely bring him somewhere at last; perhaps to a brighter goal than even the rainbows end.

Aylward Edward Dingle,

A Modern Sinbad

From none but self expect applause.

Sir Richard Burton

Across the boundaries of life and death

There you stand, O friend of mine.

Rabindranath Tagore

This old fox wishes to thank and dedicate this work to Rakesh and Beena, who have looked after him these many years and made it possible for him to write his many stories and books for readers of all ages.

Even a fox needs a family.

And a big thank you to Ravi Singh and his fellow Speaking Tigers for getting the fox out of his burrow and making sure he finishes this full record of his long journeya journey that has gone on for eighty-three years, sixty-seven of these spent writing.

It is also a good time to say thank you to the friends who have helped me and my loved ones in the recent past: Vishal and Rekha Bhardwaj; Upendra Arora; Mahendra Prasad; Mayuri and Shiven. And to all my readers, young and old and ageless.

May you all prosper and be happy.

YESTERDAY I DREAMED AGAIN THAT I WAS LOST IN A LARGE city of blinding lights and traffic. I was feeling quite helpless, until a small boy took my hand and led me to the safety of these mountains that I know so well. I wanted him to stayI was certain I knew himbut he turned and walked away, whistling, hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts, and as I called out to ask his name, I woke up.

Outside the window at the foot of my bed, it was still night, the sky tremendous with stars. I decided I would wait for the faint light of dawn to come slipping over the mountains, turning the sky light grey and blue, and when the first rays of the sun reached my bed, I would bask in the warmth and sleep for another hour.

For many months now, Ive been waking up at three or four in the morning. Perhaps it is the dream; and the dream may have something to do with age, for we become like little children when we are old.

Or it could be the muted conversation of some long-departed residents of this house in the living room. I hear them from my small bedroom-cum-study, murmuring in the dark over the clink of teacups and spoons. But they are no bother to me at all. They sound like civilized, contented spirits, and if they had a good life here, they are welcome. Because on balance, I have had a good life tooin this house and others in these hills; in this land where I was born and where I have written my books and found friendship and love, and a family to call my own.

I had a lonely childhood growing up in a broken home and a boarding school in the hills. Later, companions came into my life and went away, often never to return. Or it was I who left them behind and moved on. Then, in middle age, the world embraced me for goodor I embraced it, it is hard to tell the differenceand I have been lucky ever since.

The sparrows that will come at noon to squabble on the windowsill, the geranium in the old plastic bucket, the elegant king crows sleeping in the oak trees that grow on the surrounding slopesthey are also family. As are the trees, my brothers. I have walked among them, feeling I am a part of the forest; I have put out my hand and touched the grey bark of an old tree, and its leaves have brushed my face, as if to acknowledge me.

For the last thirty-six years, I have lived on the top floor of this windswept, somewhat shaky house on the edge of a spur in Landour. My bedroom window opens onto sky, clouds, the Doon valley and the Suswa Riversilver in the setting sunand range upon range of mountains striding away into the distance. Looking out from this perch on the hillside, I feel I am a part of the greater world; of India and the planet Earth, and the infinite worlds beyond, where all our doubles live, just as we dowith some hope and some love.

Hope, love and pig-headedness. Without these, I would not have survived into my eighties and remained in working order. I have also been lucky by temperament: the things I wanted were not out of reach; I only needed to persevere and remain optimistic. When the weather got rough, I pulled my coat tighter around me, turned up the frayed collar, and waited for the storm to pass. Then the clouds dispersed; splashes of sunshine drenched my writing table, and good, clean words flowered on the pages of my notebook.

It has never taken a lot to make me happy. And now here I am, an old man, an old writer, without regrets.

But I must correct that. I decided long ago to stop trying to grow up; and writers are only as old or as young as their readers. So here I am, a young boy, an old writer, without regrets.

No life is more, or less, important or interesting than anothermuch of it, after all, is lived inside our heads. I have finally yielded to friends who have been persuading me to write the story of my life, but I am still not convinced it will be of any great value. I can only hope that it is, at least, a curiosity; a record of times gone by, an introduction to some interesting and unsung people, and a glimpse into one kind of writerly life.

Almost everything I have written has been drawn from my own experiences, and in that sense, fragments of my autobiography are scattered everywhere in my novels, stories, essays and poems. But there is more imagination than truth in them. An autobiography must stay closer to the trutheven though memory is unreliable, and certain things must be disguised or omitted in order to avoid hurting people, or embarrassing them unduly.

So this book is about how things happened to memore or less. It is the story of a small man, and his friends and experiences in small places.

SITTING IN THE MOUNTAINS, I REMEMBER THE SEA: TINSEL ON A vast field of water, and sunny white sheets billowing in the wind.

I remember a forest of nodding flowers and patches of red, yellow, green and blue light on a wall.

And I remember a little boy who ate a lot of kofta curry and was used to having his way.

My mother always said I was the most troublesome of all her childrenan angel in front of strangers, and a stubborn little devil at home. Mothers often say that of their firstborn, who are inclined to look down on the competition, but mine did so with good reason.