We are all great book lovers in my family, and like any book
loving Indian family, we’ve grown up reading Ruskin Bond. His idyllic writing,
and warm depictions of life the north Indian landscape, especially his beloved Mussoorie,
of his past, amongst Anglo Indians of a past era that he grew up in captured
the imaginations of most school kids in India (Well, most ). My Mother taught
them and we read them. He was like a familiar literary landmark of growing up
in India . So when my father proposed a trip to Uttarakhand, we sisters and Mother
team raised our voices emphatically, and declared that Mussoorie was a must on
our Itinerary.
“We want to meet Ruskin Bond!”
“But he’s probably very old now, or busy,” our father said.
“He wrote that meeting fans delights him. He said they’re
welcome at his place!” my sister countered. She was a bigger bookworm than I
was, chewed and digested books and retained photographic memory of the contents
on a regular basis. “Why would a self-respecting writer not keep his word?”
“ Yes, authors usually state whether they are able to meet
their fans, and reply to their messages. I checked it on quite a few authors’
websites!”
“Anyway, it’s a choice between Mussoorie and Nainital. We’re
keeping our itinerary flexible” our father finally said. And that was the end
of our discussion.
Ruskin bond is a beloved writer. He was one of the few who
wrote that meeting his fans delighted him, and was a popular figure that , in
spite of getting on in years, still visited the Cambridge Bookstore in
Mussoorie every weekend, to meet his
fans , give away signed books, and talk to people. My sister and I had tried to
contact J K Rowling before this, only to be pushed away by her rigorous
assurance that anything we’d send her would not be read and replied to. So you
can understand how excited we were at the prospect of meeting this master.
We set off in early June, flew to Delhi, thence to Dehra
Dun, where our tourist cabbie was waiting with his car , a tiny cramped Indica
outside the Jolly Grant Airport. We then travelled first to Haridwar, where we
got to see the Ganga Aarti before a Ganges in gloriously full flood, and thence
to Joshimath. From Joshimath and its Narasimha Swami temple, we moved further
ahead to Badrinath.
The colourful temple was a river, a hot spring dip and an
excruciatingly long pilgrim line away.
I’d never seen queue discipline like this anywhere in India. People were
simply not allowed to jump the line, for the rest of the people in the line
would murder them on the spot. The frustration of waiting long left people in
most uncharitable moods (that it was in the course of a darshan of the Divine did not matter). We stood in scorching hot
direct sunlight for a good two hours, got pushed around by crowds and managed
to catch a glimpse of the Idol in the sanctum sanctorum before the vicious stampede
dragged us out unceremoniously. The first official darshan of the Chota Char Dham
ended like that.
Post this experience,
none of us were keen to go to Kedarnath, our next destination. which
involved long detours, a horseback trek, and more lines. I wanted to avoid
horse back on starved ponies, my sister the crowd, my Mother the ridiculous
trek and our cabbie wanted to save on fuel, so on popular vote, we decided to
skip Kedarnath, decided against Nainital, since it would involve a long
detour and move on to Mussoorie.
Our uncle in Dehra Dun advised us “ Skip Mussoorie. It isn’t
what it used to be. Why don’t you go to Dhanaulti instead?” Of course, he
didn’t understand that it wasn’t just for the weather.
We soon found out why he said that, though.
Summer in Delhi is
thoroughly unforgiving. Anyone in Delhi, with a car and a weekend flees to the
hills the first chance they get. Usually, they make a beeline for Mussoorie. So
when we got close, we were stuck in the kind of traffic jam that is usually
seen happen in Delhi during peak hours when the traffic police is fast asleep.
We decided to move higher up, to beautiful, peaceful Dhanaulti, but it was
crowded even there, and we managed to find a tiny mouldy room with
difficulty.
In the night, my sister and I fantasized about meeting
Ruskin Bond going up to his little cottage surrounded by a wild flowering
garden, meeting the legend and feeling humbled in his presence, about having a quaint cup of tea with the
great man, and discuss the journey of a writer,his own journey as one, something that most voracious readers try to
embark on at some point, and the dream of finally seeing your writings read,
life , and other profound things that can only be discussed with a Master. We
could hardly sleep (it wasn’t just the fantasizing, though. The bed was
cramped, the rug wet and mouldy, and the room stank).
The next day, we set off on our pilgrimage, the big
pilgrimage to Mussoorie, to the Central Library Ruskin Bond frequented, the
roads he walked, the scenes he described, and to Landour, where he lived, and
hung out , went for long walks and played cricket with other well-known people like Tom Alter.
Mussoorie was so crowded that our cabbie refused to drive
into town. He insisted on parking at the outermost parking lot available and
refused to drive another inch. We decided to make it on foot. The Central
Library was quite close by. A ninetenth century wooden building, it boasted of
a hall with a hatstand and coat hangers, a traditional parlour with armchairs .
The old well worn leather, wooden panelling and shelves and shelves of old
books were simply beautiful. And like any traditional library, they had that
old register of visitors and members, whose names, addresses and comments were
all written down. We got Ruskin Bond’s address from there.
“ It’s up in Landour, about three kilometres away”, the girl
at the reception desk said. “ You’ll find it near a Tibetan restaurant.” My
sister noted the address, and we took a
few photographs in the waiting hall.
Then, we set off towards Landour. We had to pass by the
shopping area, which was surprisingly clean, due to the town’s stringent
policy, and the cooperation of the many vendors making up the market. It was
thoroughly crowded, and few vehicles were visible. By now, even Father seemed
excited as we marched up the hill, along the quaint railings on the Mussoorie
Mall road. Three kilometres of walk to meet a celebrated author in person
didn’t seem so bad. We passed trinket shops, exhibitions, book shops, clothing
shops, all of which were chock full of eager tourists. We paused a bit ahead for a breather, and
asked a passer by how far Landour was. He said, about three kilometres from
here.
We were confused. Not knowing how to get around, we asked
for directions, and kept walking uphill.
Three kilometres uphill is a daunting task. We now knew why we hadn’t
seen any overweight Garhwalis.
We paused at the Cambridge bookstore, the place where Ruskin
Bond came down on Saturdays to sign books and meet his readers. The jovial
owner was behind the counter, talking perfect, semi accented English, to the
Man himself on the phone.
“ Oh yes, sir! Perfectly, sir. I’ve just sent the lad with a
set of books to be signed. So, will you be in for your afternoon siesta, sir?
Oh, yes, sir, absolutely sir! Have a good day, sir!” He hung up and noticed
us.
“To meet Ruskin Bond?”
“Yes. Do you know how we can get to his house?”
“Hmm… He’s gotten on in years now, and isn’t as active as he
used to be. So it isn’t likely that you’ll be allowed to meet him. Do you know,
you’re the eleventh group of people who’ve asked me for his address this
morning? “
“We’ve come all the way from Hyderabad. We’re all avid book
lovers, and we’d really love to have a chance to meet him.” My mum quipped.
“All right, I’ll give his address and number to you. But you
mayn’t be able to meet him. But even if you don’t , why don’t you pick up a couple
of his signed books to take back?”
So my sister and I got a couple of signed books.
We continued to walk uphill, across the clock tower, and
asked other passers by how much further it was. The answer was three kilometres
every time. By which time, we were all
thoroughly frustrated , with extensive foot pain and starving. My father
started a round of I-told-you-so. We
were passed by a honeymooning couple ,
the man walking ahead and his wife trailing behind. They asked for directions to Ruskin Bond’s
house ahead, and moved on.
We met a friendly vicar’s family, and stopped for a rest and
a chat. He was from Cochin, and his wife was from Guntur, so we bonded with
them and their three daughters for a while. His eldest was a bit younger than I
was, and was excited about getting into college. We told them that we’d come this far to meet
Ruskin Bond. Mrs Vicar smiled and said
that she was an English teacher herself, and everyone at her school was
thoroughly excited to learn that she shared the same address as Ruskin Bond.
They told us we were pretty close.
So we moved a little ahead, and found that flamboyant
Tibetan inn, Doma’s that everyone talked about, the one three kilometres away. Moving a bit further uphill, we found his
house.
It wasn’t at all like the quaint cottage we expected to see.
It was more of a very normal, typical hillside flat, with a narrow dingy
entrance leading up to the main wooden door. There was hardly any greenery
around, save for the few potted plants near the entrance. We knocked on the door, and a middle aged
woman in a salwar kameez , opened. We asked for Ruskin Bond.
“ He’s ill. He’s asleep with a headache. “
My Mother tends to be rather insistent “We’ve come to meet him from afar. Could we
just meet him for a little while? All of us are his avid fans. “
“ Sorry, he isn’t meeting anyone”
A little boy came out. “Are you Gautam’s brother? Mr Bond often writes about you all” my Mother
told him. He nodded, and said “Ruskin Bond has gone to Dehra Dun on some work”
We figured he was in no hurry to see us. Many of his fans
land here in Mussoorie, but not many make it all the way up to the hill, it is
quite an exhausting climb. But just one door, or a couple , and a few adoptive
family members stood in the way of our meeting this literary maestro, this literary
legend of every Indian school kid.
We humbly nodded, took a couple of pictures at the gate to
his house to the adoptive family’s amusement, and walked away. We were too
exhausted to be disappointed. We moved
up to Char Dukan, the market at Landour, and sank into the chairs of the
nearest café. Some beautiful Himalayan
stray dogs kept us company. As we consumed noodles and fed biscuits to the
gentle giants, I looked around. This place seemed like an expatriate haven.
Caucasian missionaries, their wards and families, and Mothers home-schooling
children, and exchange students learning Hindi.
I later learnt that under the British, while Mussoorie was open to Indians
and Indian royalty in particular, Landour was the British Cantonment and had
their convalescent sanatorium, and hence had more British and American
missionary populace than the town itself.
My sister seemed down, at the one pilgrimage that wasn’t to
be.
I then remembered
this one story that my Grandpa told me, about this man who went on a quest,
seeking God, to obtain salvation. He travelled, searched everywhere, studied
the various texts, debated with the learned, visited all spots of pilgrimage,
and was told that his answers could be found in the Himalayas, those majestic
mountains that are virtually the stairway to Swarga.
And so this man set off for the Himalayas, met sages,
studied yoga, and wandered village to village, hamlet to hamlet as a mendicant,
seeking God.
In the course of seeking alms as a mendicant, he chanced
upon this one house with closed doors.
Above the door frame, in vermillion dye, was written “God Resides
Here”. He was beside himself with excitement.
After his long arduous search, he was finally close to his goal. Just a door
separated him and God. He raised his hand to knock.
He then paused, and started thinking about what would happen
if he knocked. The door would be open, and he would be face to face with God,
for whom he’d been searching so earnestly all this while, and that darshan would grant him salvation. But
what about after that meeting? The rest of his life stretched out empty and
meaningless, since now that he’d met God, and there was nothing higher than
that, there would be nothing to live for, strive for and struggle for beyond
that. The prospect of living a purposeless existence beyond this shook him, and
he decided to leave the house alone. He turned around, and walked away,
resuming his search for God everywhere else.
It got me thinking. The fact that we loved reading and
writing, and aspired to write and be published, and read by many . Our
admiration for Ruskin Bond was ever great. What if Ruskin Bond the man was not
the man we imagined him to be? Our possible disillusionment at the meeting, and
its consequences were rather unnerving. I had faced something similar
previously with music and it was not something I’d want others to go
through.
So I turned my attention to the beautiful dogs at Char
Dukan, and the prospect of a nice restful walk at Dhanaulti awaiting us. Maybe
it was for the best. And God Knows, the man earned his laurels, but he’d also
earned his rest.
