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Budhini Mejhan – ‘The woman who persevered’
The story of Budhini Mejhan is a nexus of several socio-political strcutures. She was ostrasized by her village and lost her job for an innocent gesture, which was seen as a violation of Santhal traditions. Through Sangeetha Srinivasan’s beautiful translation, Sarah Joseph’s literary sketch of Budhini Mejhan is vivacious, hopeful and endearing. Here is an excerpt:
~
Let us begin with the woman who persevered. Not how she recaptured the dancing ground, but how she ran incessantly without knowing whose land to set foot in. Waking up in the fourth phase of the night, she lit her stove and boiled some water. If she had a pinch of tea leaves or rice, she would have made some tea or gruel.
‘Oye, Ratni, wake up! We have to be there straight away. Please don’t wake your baba. The moment he’s up he will start whining, “Why toil over something in vain, Ratni’s ma? You have been running for a long time now, haven’t you? Will your complaints reach their ears? Better get back to sleep than wear off the soles of your feet.” But, Ratni, it doesn’t work like that; we should barge in and vex them as often as not. In the end, they will be forced to make a decision. Your baba is depressed, but could we endure more than this! Put your blankets over those boys, Ratni. Poor kids, they have been cold all night. Here, take this hot water. It’s not likely that Jauna Marandi will wait for us. His tongue has no bones. And if we don’t make it on time, he will go on grumbling about it till we get there.’
Languorous but still on her feet, Ratni staggered out of the house. Could this shack covered with asbestos sheets, tattered burlaps and rags, sandwiched between the walls of two multi-storeyed buildings, be called a home? Shoving the ragged fabric covering the back of the house aside, the child squatted on the ground and peed. From the mud kanda on the ground, she diligently filled water in a coconut shell and rinsed her mouth and face. She shuddered because of the cold.
‘Ratni Mei!’ Hearing her mother call out in a hushed voice, she went inside without delay. A little black dog followed her into the room, squeezed itself to make space between the sleeping boys and then curled up on the floor. Looking into her eyes, it wagged its tail in concern.
…‘We are very late, Ratni Mei. It seems Jauna Marandi has already left.’ Ratni’s mother was dejected. Loosening the knot at the end of her pallu, she took out some coins and counted. ‘Jauna had promised to take us for free. What should we do now! I saved these coins to buy medicine for your baba, but now we will have to spend them on bus tickets. But if you can walk, Ratni, there is a shorter route through the forest.’
Ratni didn’t say whether she could walk or not. Her teeth chattered, thanks to the cold.
While life saunters, the sun might as well rise in the west one day, marking the end of order. Then daybreak will turn into the hour of darkness. Like time suspended, nothing will be understood. Not everyone will overcome the bewilderment that is yet to come.
As Jauna’s jeep climbed up the road from Asansol to Dhanbad, an arm adorned with thick silver bangles suddenly appeared right in front of his vehicle. A strong arm! Nothing else was visible in the fog. Jauna forced his weight down on the brake pedal.
‘Get in,’ he bawled.
The DVC workers noticed the woman and child get into the jeep through the impenetrable fog. The woman wore a mud- coloured sari with a green border and the girl a crimson sweater. The child carried a bundle of clothes which she hugged close in a bid to protect herself from the insufferable cold. She looked not more than seven or eight. The woman had a grey shaded shawl wrapped around her and a lengthy red fabric bag on her shoulder. There was no seat. They hunkered down on the floor.
It was only the next day that Jauna Marandi realized, much to his shock, that the woman and child had boarded his jeep and alighted at the gates of the DVC to commit suicide.
~
Budhini is an exploration not only of the social laws of identity through the story of Budhini Mejhan but also the imbalanced burden that modernization and urbanization places on communities reliant on ecological methods of sustenance.
An unfinished portrait
A gift book for children and teens, Another Dozen Stories is a must-read collection of 12 fascinating short stories by award-winning author Satyajit Ray. It is our homage to this brilliant writer who has blessed us with an era of enchanting stories. Translated for the very first time into English by noted translator Indrani Majumdar, this edition is a gift for his many fans and children who are nine years old or more, on the centenary of his birth.
Another Dozen Stories brings to you the magical, bizarre, spooky and sometimes astonishing worlds created by Satyajit Ray, featuring an extraordinary bunch of characters! This collection includes twelve hair-raising stories that will leave you asking for more!
We decided to add to the gift by giving away a part of a story. If the cliff-hanger at the end piques your curiosity, you know what to do.
~
Ranjan Purakayastha is a noted painter in Calcutta. Why just Calcutta? His popularity has spread way beyond Bengal, across the whole of India. He has had exhibitions in Bombay, Madras, Delhi, Bangalore and Hyderabad. Ranjanbabu’s income, which is quite substantial, comes from selling his paintings. Last month in Bombay, one of his oil paintings was sold for thirty-five thousand rupees.
The painting style Ranjanbabu has adopted is modern. Very little of the real world can be associated with his work. His human figures look like puppets created by some incapable artisan; the trees resemble the twigs of a broomstick; the clouds in the sky look like floating chunks of meat; and his birds and animals have nothing to do with nature or a zoo. But as today’s art connoisseurs appreciate this kind of approach, Ranjanbabu’s earnings have not been affected. Yet I must also add, Ranjanbabu remains unrivalled in creating portraitures of people. Here he doesn’t adopt his modern style, the pictures look like real people and the likenesses are rather good too. Due to the nature of his work, Ranjanbabu needs to travel often, and that offers him a good income too. For a life-size oil painting, he charges fifteen thousand rupees, which he plans to increase to twenty-five thousand next year. Even in the age of photographs, a few wealthy people still prefer to have their portraits made, and Ranjanbabu gets to prove his expertise again and again.
One Sunday morning, a gentleman arrives at Ranjanbabu’s fancily decorated flat on Richi Road. At a glance, one can tell he is wealthy. Tall and hefty, attired in a raw silk suit, and sporting five rings on five fingers. His appearance is marked by a strapping personality. The gentleman says his name is Bilash Mallik, and he is keen to have his portrait done. When Ranjanbabu hears his name, he knows the gentleman is one of Calcutta’s most affluent businessmen. His will be a life-size portrait, and he is ready to pay any amount stipulated.
‘How much will you charge?’ Mr Mallik asks.
With a straight face, Ranjanbabu says, ‘Fifty thousand rupees.’
The client promptly agrees.
Ranjanbabu already has an incomplete work at hand, a large painting. He needs at least seven days to finish it. Accordingly, he calculates his timeframe and offers Mr Mallik a date. He will have to do a one-hour sitting every day at 9 a.m.
‘How many days will you take to finish it?’ Mr Mallik queries.
‘About a fortnight.’
‘Very well,’ says Mr Mallik. ‘It’s settled. Hmm . . . do you require an advance?’
‘No, sir.’
Before embarking on any major project, Ranjanbabu always seeks his guru’s blessings. He became Saralananda Swami’s—also known as Babaji or Swamiji—disciple ten years ago. On many occasions he takes Babaji’s advice, and the latter too is very fond of this disciple. Babaji has been bestowed with many powers, and fortune-telling is one of them.
After listening to everything his disciple tells him, Babaji meditates for three minutes and then says, ‘There is danger.’
‘What danger, Swamiji?’
‘A lot of mishaps. You didn’t do the right thing by taking up this task.’
‘Then should I refuse the gentleman?’
‘Wait.’
Babaji closes his eyes once again and begins to sway.
This continues for another five minutes, after which Babaji finally opens his eyes. Ranjanbabu is looking at his guru reverentially.
‘I can foresee you ultimately crossing all the hurdles and finding success. Don’t worry; get on with your work,’ Babaji says.
Greatly relieved, Ranjan Purakayastha touches Babaji’s feet and takes his leave.
The work on Bilash Mallik’s portrait commences on Saturday, 21 January. Mr Mallik is a jovial fellow. Right at the outset he checks if he can talk during sittings. Usually Ranjanbabu doesn’t permit this, but since this is an exceptional client, he has to say yes.
‘But you shouldn’t move your neck. If you speak, speak in one direction, that is, look at my right shoulder and then speak.’
When the first stroke of charcoal appears on the canvas, the time is 9.15 a.m.
Day by day, Mr Mallik’s face begins to emerge. There’s no doubt that Ranjanbabu is a very skilful artist, but at this juncture the only person who can see his work is the artist himself. The person whose portrait is being created will get to see it only after it’s completed. Even though this condition wasn’t discussed beforehand, Mr Mallik doesn’t have any objections.
It’s the twelfth day, and the portrait is nearing completion. After half an hour of sitting, Mr Mallik says he’s feeling dizzy.
Ranjanbabu stops and says, ‘Please go home. In any case, the portrait is almost complete. If you feel better, please come back tomorrow morning.’
But Mr Mallik doesn’t feel any better the next day. In fact, his fever goes up to 103 degrees. On the third day, things turn even more serious and he is shifted to a hospital.
Ranjan Purakayastha removes the portrait from the easel, puts it aside and fixes a brand-new canvas on it. Then he starts to work on a landscape with a modern touch.
After spending one-and-a half months in hospital, when Mr Bilash Mallik finally returns home, he no longer carries any resemblance to his former self. He has lost weight—down to seventy-two kilos from ninety. His cheeks are now hollow and his eyes sunken. He sends word to Ranjan Purakayastha that the portrait can wait. When his appearance becomes a little better, he can once again come for a sitting.
A month later, Mr Bilash Mallik begins to look better. Yet there’s no resemblance between his former and present selves. Doctors have advised him to control his diet. With the result, his weight can never go beyond eighty kilos.
Mallik says, ‘Let’s do a new portrait in my present state.’
Ranjan Purakayastha places a fresh canvas on his easel. Mr Mallik has altered his clothes to fit his reduced frame. But it’s a fact that he no longer looks unwell.
After four days of sketching, Ranjanbabu goes shopping to New Market in his Fiat one evening. On the way back, as soon as he crosses the turn at Park Street, a mini bus coming at high speed rams into the car from the right.
Of course, the Fiat is damaged, but along with it, Ranjanbabu’s right hand is severely battered. In the
hospital, the X-ray reveals multiple fractures on his elbow, wrist and the right thumb.
Once the cast on his hand is taken off after two months, Ranjanbabu discovers that he will never regain the same level of artistic expertise as he had before the accident. The most critical issue is his thumb. One can create modern art by holding a brush between the index and middle fingers,
but not a natural portrait.
This causes a huge trauma in Ranjanbabu’s life. He stops all work and goes on a pilgrimage. After spending three months travelling in Kashi, Haridwar, Rishikesh and Lakshman Jhula, he returns home and starts painting again using two fingers. The work produced looks slack and the appearance of his work completely changes. Ranjanbabu can now no longer demand thirty to forty thousand rupees for a painting. He needs to re-establish his market.
Meanwhile, Mr Bilash Mallik enquires about him, extends his sympathies and deeply regrets that he can now no longer have a Ranjan Purakayastha portrait in his house.
After trying for three months, using the paintbrush with only two fingers, Ranjanbabu manages to evolve a style that eventually earns him an endorsement in the art market. One Sunday morning, the retainer comes to his studio to announce the arrival of a gentleman.
‘You know him,’ the retainer remarks.
Lighten your soul—Love, forgive, bless
With our birth begins our life cycle and it ends with our death. We all are transitory beings. We can own nothing on Earth on a permanent basis. When we understand that all relationships, situations, sufferings, and emotions are perishable, we realise that the only conquest useful to us is our own mind. The real and only worthwhile journey is into our selves and our soul, for our soul is our greatest guru. When we understand our own soul, we understand all souls. They are all one. The Power of Purity aims to familiarise us with the nuances of our lives and to remind us to steer away from the illusions that the world offers.
Here’s an excerpt from the book in which the author introduces us to a way of life that will help us become aware of ourselves and elevate our soul.
*
Bless all. It will make you serene and light. Blessing expands you. It makes you light. When we bless all the people we like and all the people we do not like, we truly become the perfect expression of the Almighty. His true expression is unconditional love. When we remove all hatred and fear from our mind, we become an embodiment of love. Love expands. Love makes our life enjoyable. When we express sincere gratitude to all the objects and beings that helped our existence on Earth, we become universal. Once we understand the true relevance of the food that we have consumed so far, the houses that sheltered us, the books that gave us knowledge, our parents and our teachers, and, above all, the element of divinity that sustained us, we will be filled with humility and deep gratitude. Most of our vital functions, including respiration, circulation, digestion, heartbeat and even sleep, for that matter, are controlled by our subconscious mind. All these things are working in perfect synchronization because our conscious mind has nothing to do with it. We are given the time, space, intellect and situation to act out our inherent traits. What do we have in our control? Why do we blame others? Why do we entertain guilt at all? What is there to be afraid of? All experiences have been lessons. We could not have changed anything. So what else can we do, except express unconditional love and compassion? What else can we do but bless everybody and everything? When we realize that we are not really the one who does everything, we will see our ego getting nullified and our doership getting dissolved. We will then operate in perfect awareness and gratitude.
God is within us. God is to be loved, not feared. The soul element that fuels our existence is the God within all of us. God, the one who generates, operates and dissolves. Hence, all of us possess the same god element. No one is inferior nor superior to anyone. Some evolved higher through rigorous practices, contemplation and meditation. Through lifetimes of efforts, they attained higher awareness. That’s all. In principle, all are one and the same. The same soul element fuels the existence of all living beings, which includes plants and animals. Just like the same electricity is used to operate various equipment, the same soul operates various bodies, and some of them are human.
All of us are temporary custodians of a body, of money and possessions. It is the same with relationships. Everything is temporary. Everything has a definite longevity. There is no room for egocentric expressions, if we digest this truth. All we can do is forgive everything. Bless everything.
**
To understand your consciousness, the meaning of life, and the various facets of existence, read Mohanji’s The Power of Purity.
Alaap – A glimpse into the imminent
Finding the Raga is Amit Chaudhuri’s singular account of his discovery of, and enduring passion for, North Indian music. A work that simultaneously serves as an essay, memoir and cultural study on an ancient, evolving tradition. It aims at altering the reader’s notion of what music might – and can – be. Tracing music’s development, Finding the Raga dwells on its most distinctive and mysterious characteristics: its extraordinary approach to time, language and silence; its embrace of confoundment, and its ethos of evocation over representation. The result is a strange gift of a book, for musicians and music lovers, and for any creative mind in search of diverse and transforming inspiration.
Here is a glimpse into this profound work of art.
~
Not long ago, I found myself discussing narrative with a group of academics over dinner. Someone said that narrative doesn’t have to have a beginning, middle, and end in that order. I pointed out that there were narratives in which the beginning took up so much time that you didn’t know when you were going to arrive at the actual story. Personally, that was the sort of narrative I liked. I told the academics what the filmmaker Gurvinder Singh had said in a talk in Delhi about the screening of his first film Anhe Ghore da Daan (‘Alms for a Blind Horse’) at a film festival in Canada. Singh said that the ten-tofifteen-
minute prologue – which he showed us before his talk – had presented the director of the film festival with a problem. She wanted him to cut it and move straight to the main narrative. He said he’d rather not show the film at all than dispense with the opening. The film’s prologue was significant. Nothing happened in it except the establishment of a certain meandering lifelikeness. Since this lifelikeness, this quality of constantly revisiting the present moment, is more important to me than the story, I actually wanted Gurvinder’s entire film to have been a prologue.
While writing these pages, I wondered if I could call the first chapter ‘alaap’, thereby playing on the meaning of the main segment of khayal. ‘Alaap’ means – presumably in all North Indian languages – ‘introduction’. It’s also a major component of khayal. The initial delineation of the raga, before the vilambit or slow composition starts to the tabla’s accompaniment, is called ‘alaap’. So is the broaching and exploration of the raga in the vilambit composition, where the singer ascends reluctantly from the lower to the upper tonic, subjecting the notes and the identifying phrases to repeated reinterpretation. This is the alaap too; through a progression of glissandos, it contributes to a full emotional and intellectual engagement with a raga, and can take up to half an hour or more, depending on the singer’s inventiveness or obduracy. The alaap is all; its detail justifies the genre’s name – ‘khayal’, Arabic for ‘imagination’. From alaap we move to drut, fast-tempo segments, which are more virtuosic, less lyrical and tardy in character. No other music tradition allows the prologue to be definitive in this way; not even the Carnatic or South Indian tradition, or the dhrupad, precursor to the khayal, has a counterpart to the alaap’s divagation. Carnatic performance has alapana, a long opening without percussion in which the raga is established. But alapana, like the nom tom alaap in dhrupad, soon takes on a quasi-rhythmic form: that is, the syllables are sung in and out of metre, although percussive accompaniment is still to come in. The rhythmic element in alapana and in the dhrupad’s long introductory passages creates a sort of excitement to do with the climactic; in the khayal, though, all expectation of the climactic is set aside. In fact, the rhythmless alaap in khayal is relatively short; the percussion instrument, the tabla, soon joins the singer, playing a tala (a cyclical measure with a fixed number and allocation of beats) at an incredibly retarded tempo. The singer proceeds in free time, heedless of the tala and the tabla player except when they must return, after an interval, with the composition to the one, the first beat, of the time cycle: the sama. Otherwise, unlike Carnatic music or the dhrupad, free time reigns over the exposition, notwithstanding the tabla, which, in a feat of dual awareness, the singer nods to and largely ignores. The alaap is a formal and conceptual innovation of the same family as the circadian novel, in which everything happens, in an amplification of time, before anything’s begun to happen. At what point North Indian classical singing allowed itself the liberty of making the introduction – that is, the circumventory exploration that defers, then replaces, the ‘main story’ – become its definitive movement, I don’t know; it could go back to the early twentieth century, when Ustad Abdul Wahid Khan’s romantic-modernist proclivities left a deep impress on North Indian performance.
The alaap corresponds with my need for narrative not to be a story, but a series of opening paragraphs, where life hasn’t already ‘happened’, ready for recounting, but is about to happen, or is happening, and, as a result, can’t be domesticated into a perfect retelling. Should I call this chapter ‘alaap’, then? Or should I give the book that name?
Share the Ruskin Bond love with your little ones!
Ruskin Bond – what a warm feeling it is to simply hear the man’s name! If you grew up loving Ruskin Bond, we bet you’re looking for the perfect books to inculcate the love within your little ones.
Ruskin Bond’s writing is influenced by his own life and is admired worldwide for its simplicity and absolute joy to read.
Celebrating his birthday today, here is a list of books to get your child started on Ruskin Bond’s most loved work!
The Room on the Roof
Rusty, a sixteen-year-old Anglo-Indian boy, is orphaned, and has to live with his English guardian in the claustrophobic European part in Dehra Dun. Unhappy with the strict ways of his guardian, Rusty runs away from home to live with his Indian friends. Plunging for the first time into the dream-bright world of the bazaar, Hindu festivals and other aspects of Indian life, Rusty is enchanted . . . and is lost forever to the prim proprieties of the European community.
Getting Granny’s Glasses
Mani’s Granny is seventy and can barely see through her old, scratched glasses. With only a hundred and fifty rupees in their pockets and a thirst for adventure, Mani and Granny set off to buy a new pair. On the way, they get drenched in the rain, run into mules and encounter a terrible landslide. Will Granny ever be able to reach the town and get herself a new pair of glasses?
The Room of Many Colours
For over five decades, Ruskin Bond has written charming tales that have mesmerized readers of all ages. This collection brings together his finest stories for children in one volume. Published previously as A Treasury of Stories for Children, this attractive rejacketed edition includes two new stories The Big Race and Remember This Day. Filled with superb illustrations and a rich cast of characters, The Room of Many Colours: A Treasury of Stories for Children is the definitive book for all Ruskin Bond fans truly a collector’s item.
The Cherry Tree
Rakesh plants a cherry seedling in his garden and watches it grow. As seasons go by, the small tree survives heavy monsoon showers, a hungry goat that eats most of the leaves and a grass cutter who splits it into two with one sweep. At last, on his ninth birthday, Rakesh is rewarded with a miraculous sight-the first pink blossoms of his precious cherry tree!
The Adventures of Rusty
The Adventures Of Rusty: Collected Stories features stories from the time when Rusty studies at a residential school located in Dehra. It also features stories where Rusty is surrounded by the vastness of nature and its infinitely beautiful creations. This book also features Uncle Ken as a character who has trouble finding a well-paying, steady job. Also included is a story where Rusty plans to travel 800 miles in order to meet his Uncle Jim, who is a sailor.
Rusty: The Boy from the Hills
Rusty is a quiet, imaginative and sensitive boy who lives with his grandparents in pre-Independence Dehra Dun. Though he is not the adventurous himself, the strangest and most extraordinary things keep happening around him.
The Hidden Pool
Laurie is an English boy who moves to a hill town with his parents when his father is posted to India on work for two years. Laurie makes two new friends: Anil, the son of a local cloth merchant, and Kamal, who lost his parents during Partition and now sells buttons and shoelaces but dreams of going to college. Anil and Kamal introduce Laurie to an enchanted world of beetle races, ghosts, cheat and Holi, and he shares with them the secret pool he finds on the mountainside.
Thick as Thieves
Somewhere in life there must be someone to take your hand and share the torrid day
Some stories will make you smile, some will bring tears to your eyes and some may even make your heart skip a beat—but all of them will renew your faith in the power of friendship.
Uncles, Aunts and Elephants
India’s favorite storyteller, Ruskin Bond has regaled generations of readers for decades. This delightful collection of poetry, prose and selected non-fiction brings together some of his best work in a single volume. Sumptuously illustrated, Uncles, Aunts and Elephants is a book to treasure for all times.
Dust on the Mountain
Ruskin Bond wrote his first short story; Untouchable; at the age of sixteen and since then, over hundred stories; including the classics A Face in Dark; The Kitemaker; The Tunnel; The Room if many Colours; Dust on the Mountain; and Times Stops at Shamli. This volume brings together the best of all the short fiction Ruskin Bond has ever written.
Crazy Times with Uncle Ken
Who doesn’t like an eccentric uncle? Ruskin Bond certainly does. Read all the stories about bumbling and endearing Uncle Ken in this collection. Whenever Uncle Ken arrives at Grandma’s house, and he does frequently, there is trouble afoot Uncle Ken drives his car into a wall, is mistaken for a famous cricketer, troubled by a mischievous ghost, chased by a swarm of bees and attacked by flying foxes. Be it the numerous bicycle rides with the author or his futile attempts at finding a job, Uncle Ken’s misadventures provide huge doses of laughter. Crazy Times with Uncle Ken includes old classics as well as new stories, and will be enjoyed by all Ruskin Bond fans.
Go ahead and read them all!
Bonding over tales: Seven of our favourite Ruskin Bond stories in the master’s own voice
In a world that seems increasingly complicated, we all need a quick step through the looking-glass into the quietly beautiful world of Ruskin Bond, a hillside utopia where generous old ladies provide solace to thoughtful children (and to our souls), and the clouds roll gently over fruit-laden trees. Ruskin Bond is truly among the most avuncular figures of literary India, bringing the magic of wistful nostalgia and bursts of quiet happiness into our imaginative landscapes for nearly half a century. On his 88th birthday, we bring to you some auditory therapy, a soothing balm for overtired brains, Ruskin Bond’s poignant prose rendered even more magical by the gentle calm of his own voice!
Read on for a list of some of his most loved works narrated as audiobooks by our favourite author himself!
Cricket for the Crocodile
Ranji’s team finds an unexpected opponent – a nosy crocodile – when they play a cricket match against the village boys. Annoyed at the swarms of boys crowding the riverbank and the alarming cricket balls plopping around his place of rest, Nakoo the crocodile decides to take his revenge.
The Wind On Haunted Hill
‘Who…whoo…whooo cried the wind as it swept down from the Himalayan snows.’
The wild wind pushes open windows, chokes chimneys, and blows away clothes as it huffs and puffs over the village by Haunted Hill, where Usha, Suresh, and Binya live. It’s even more mighty the day Usha is on her way back from the bazaar. A deep rumble echoes down the slope and a sudden flash of lightning lights up the valley as fat drops come raining down.
In search of shelter, Usha rushes into the ruins on Haunted Hill, grim and creepy against the dark sky. Inside, the tin roof groans, strange shadows are thrown against the walls, and little Usha shivers with fear.
For she isn’t alone.
A gritty, hair-raising story about friendship, courage, and survival, this stunning edition will introduce another lot of young listeners to the magic of Ruskin Bond’s craft.
The Cherry Tree
Rakesh plants a cherry seedling in his garden and watches it grow. As seasons go by, the small tree survives heavy monsoon showers, a hungry goat that eats most of the leaves, and a grass cutter who splits it into two with one sweep. At last, on his ninth birthday, Rakesh is rewarded with a miraculous sight – the first pink blossoms of his precious cherry tree!
White Mice
A tale of sweet revenge!
Ruskin is keen to teach his scatterbrained uncle a lesson. After all, he put him on the wrong train! Armed with gifts from his new friend, the stationmaster – yummy rasgullas and a pair of beautiful white mice – Ruskin devises the perfect payback.
Peppered with endearing characters, this is one of Bond’s most unforgettable tales.
Getting Granny’s Glasses
Mani’s Granny is 70 and can barely see through her old, scratched glasses. With only 150 rupees in their pockets and a thirst for adventure, Mani and Granny set off to buy a new pair. On the way, they get drenched in the rain, run into mules, and encounter a terrible landslide. Will Granny ever be able to reach the town and get herself a new pair of glasses?
The Tree Lover
Everything that you’ve always loved about Ruskin Bond is back.
His mesmerizing descriptions of nature and his wonderful way with words – this is Ruskin Bond at his finest.
Listen in as Rusty tells the story of his grandfather’s relationship with the trees around him, who’s convinced that they love him back with as much tenderness as he loves them.
Earthquake
‘What do you do when there’s an earthquake?’ asks Rakesh. Everyone in the Burman household has their own ideas, but when the tremors begin and things start to quake and crumble, they are all taken by surprise. Amidst the destruction, Rakesh’s family stays strong. But will they survive the onslaught of yet another earthquake?
Gather your family (or just your own thoughts) for an incredibly relaxing audio interlude after downloading your audiobooks!
Celebrating Ruskin Bond with his books for grown-ups!
Ruskin Bond started his writing career with the publication of The Room on the Roof at age seventeen. Since then, he is well-known (and definitely well-loved!) for his hundreds of short stories for both children and adults.
If you grew up loving him and his work, we’re sure you’d love to get your hands on some titles written for grown-ups. Here is a list of books written by Ruskin Bond, for adults.
The Best of Ruskin Bond
Are you a fan of Ruskin Bond? Have you been trying to compile his best works and read them along? If yes, then this book, ‘The Best of Ruskin Bond’ is the perfect solution for you. These exemplary stories from the legendary author are here for the taking, all compiled in a single book and provided with some of the best excerpts ever written. This consolidated volume brings together selected prose and poetries that have been written by the award winning author, Ruskin Bond. During his entire career, he has captivated readers across the world with his writing talent.
The Night Train at Deoli
Adorned with 30 beautiful stories from Ruskin Bond, The Night Train at Deoli and other stories effortlessly makes in to the must-have, must-read list of every reader. Simple, heart-warming and thought-provoking stories will take you to heavenly grounds of Dehradun and Mussoorie, where the author himself has spent his childhood and teenage years. The stories in the book speak of simple folk, who live in the technology untouched valleys and hills, the lush greenery and little crowded markets.
Collected short stories
Ruskin Bond wrote his first short story, Untouchable, at the age of sixteen, and has written memorable fiction ever since. He is famous not only for his love of the hills, but for imbuing the countryside with life and vibrancy through moving descriptions. The simple people who inhabit his stories evoke sympathy and laughter in equal measure. This wonderful collection of seventy stories, including classics like A Face in Dark, The Kitemaker, The Tunnel, The Room of Many Colours, Dust on the Mountain and Times Stops at Shamli, is a must-have for any bookshelf.
The Little Book of Comfort
”So I went out into the night, walked up the hill, discovered new things about the night and myself, and came home refreshed. For just as the night has the moon and the stars, so the darkness of the soul can be lit up by small fireflies – such as these calm and comforting thoughts that I have jotted down for you…” Ruskin Bond
Time Stops at Shamli
Ruskin Bond’s simple characters, living amidst the lush forests of the Himalayan foothills, are remarkable for their quiet heroism, courage and grace, and age-old values of honesty and fidelity. Residents of nondescript villages and towns, they lead lives that are touched by natural beauty as well as suffering—the loss of a loved parent, unfulfilled dreams, natural calamities, ghostly visitations, a respected teacher turned crooked, strangers who make a nuisance of themselves—which only reinforces their abiding faith in God, family and neighbour. Told in Bond’s distinctive style, these stories are a magnificent evocation of an India that may be fast disappearing.
Rain in the Mountains
It is a collection of stories, snippets, essays and poems penned by the writer after having lived in many hamlets across the mountains in the Himalayas. Through his subtle, simple and lucid writing, the author beautifully brings alive many natural sights and sounds that evoke the essence of natural mountain life.
Both prose and poetry in the book are centred around nature with all the purity that it holds. Rain in the Mountains: Notes from the Himalayas touches a raw nerve for an urban dweller when it describes the beauty of mountain wilderness, surrounded by chirping birds, squirrels, a blue sky with moving clouds casting light and shade shadows.
Delhi is not Far
The residents of Pipalnagar, a dull and dusty small town, hope to one day leave behind their humdrum lives for the thrills of Delhi. Deep Chand, the barber, dreams of giving the prime minister a haircut; Pitamber wishes to ride an autorickshaw instead of pulling a cycle-rickshaw; and Aziz will be happy with a junk-shop in Chandni Chowk. Sharing their dreams of escape is the narrator Arun, a struggling detective fiction writer. As he waits for inspiration to write a blockbuster, he seeks and discovers love in unusual places-with the young prostitute Kamla, wise beyond her years and the orphan and epileptic Suraj, surprisingly optimistic despite his difficult circumstances.
Our Trees Still Grow in Dehra
Fourteen engaging stories from one of India’s master story-tellers Semi-autobiographical in nature, these stories span the period from the author’s childhood to the present. We are introduced, in a series of beautifully imagined and crafted cameos, to the author’s family, friends, and various other people who left a lasting impression on him. In other stories we revisit Bond’s beloved Garhwal hills and the small towns and villages that he has returned to time and again in his fiction. Together with his well-known novella, A Flight of Pigeons (which was made into the film Junoon), which also appears in this collection, these stories once again bring Ruskin Bond’s India vividly to life.
A Face in the Dark and Other Hauntings
In Ruskin Bond’s stories, ghosts, jinns, witches—and the occasional monster—are as real as the people he writes about. This collection brings together all of his tales of the paranormal, opening with the unforgettable, ‘A Face in the Dark’ and ending with the shockingly macabre, ‘Night of the Millennium’. Featuring thrilling situations and strange beings, a Face in the Dark and Other Hauntings is the perfect collection to have by your bedside when the moon is up.
Death Under the Deodars
It was death at first sight . . .
Miss Ripley-Bean was sitting on a bench beneath the deodars, having a quiet moment to herself, when suddenly two shadows, larger than life, appeared on the outside wall; they were struggling with each other. Only afterwards, when a dead body was discovered, did Miss Ripley-Bean realize she had witnessed a murder – and that the murderer had seen her.
In this marvellous collection of brand-new stories set in the Mussoorie of a bygone era, Ruskin Bond recounts the deliciously sinister cases of a murdered priest, an adulterous couple, a man who is born evil and the body in the box bed; not to forget the strange happenings involving the arsenic in the post, the strychnine in the cognac, a mysterious black dog and the Daryaganj strangler.
The Room on the Roof
Rusty, a sixteen-year-old Anglo-Indian boy, is orphaned and has to live with his English guardian in the claustrophobic European part in Dehra Dun. Unhappy with the strict ways of his guardian, Rusty runs away from home to live with his Indian friends. Plunging for the first time into the dream-bright world of the bazaar, Hindu festivals and other aspects of Indian life, Rusty is enchanted … and is lost forever to the prim proprieties of the European community.
Written when the author was himself seventeen, this moving story of love and friendship, with a new introduction and illustrations will be enjoyed by a whole new generation of readers.
What’s your favourite story for Ruskin Bond? Tell us in the comments!
A diving holiday, disturbing discovery, and kidnapping
Far out in the Arabian Sea, where the waters plunge many thousands of metres to the ocean floor, lies a chain of bewitching coral atolls – the Lakshadweep Islands. Vikram and Aditya dive into lagoons with crystal-clear water and reefs that are deep and shrouded in mystery. But when they stumble upon a devious kidnapping plot, their idyllic holiday turns into a desperate struggle for survival.
Here is an excerpt from Deepak Dalal’s new book, Lakshadweep Adventure where Faisal – the boy who’s care Vikram and Aditya are left in – makes a disturbing discovery.
Faisal was in a bad mood. His uncle’s impending arrival hovered like a dark cloud above him. And his friends’ decision to abandon him for the day only made things worse.
Faisal had noticed the wind the moment he had strolled out on to the beach, and his mood had soured even further when he saw his friends enjoying themselves. He wished he had accepted Aditya’s offer as he watched them speed their boards across the lagoon. But it was too late now. His uncle would be arriving shortly.
Faisal sat under a palm tree. He passed time drawing figures in the sand. Above him, palm fronds shook and fluttered as the wind whistled through them. The sun shone brightly. The sand intensified its glare, forcing Faisal to shut his eyes. It was pleasant under the tree and the wind was crisp and enjoyable. The rustling of the palms overhead soothed him and he soon fell asleep.
The tide slowly crept up the beach and finally washed over Faisal’s feet, waking him with a start. He looked at his watch, muttering softly to himself. It was past midday.
Basheer uncle would have arrived by now. He dusted sand from his clothes and rose hurriedly to his feet.
Faisal heard raised voices from the living room window when he entered the yard. He crept forward till he was below the window and peeped in.
His uncle was standing in the centre of the room, facing a group of men.
Basheer Koya was a copy of Faisal’s father, except that he was fatter and there was hardly any hair on his head. But unlike his brother, whose manner was calm and collected, Basheer Koya’s face was contorted with rage. His cheeks were dark and red and he was shouting like a man possessed.
‘Fools!’ thundered Basheer Koya in Malayalam. ‘Monkeys have more brains than you lot. Idiots. I thought you had ears. But obviously you don’t. You weren’t to set foot in Kalpeni. How many times did I tell you not to come here? Yet, not only do you come to the island, but even more brainlessly, you visit my home.’
A bearded man with big, wide shoulders spoke. ‘Sir,’ he began. ‘Sir—’
Basheer Koya ranted on, cutting off the man. ‘I travelled all the way to Kochi to make certain that no suspicion fell on me and I returned only after the operation was over. And you? I come home and see you fools sitting in my house. I take all these precautions and now everyone on this island can link me to you and from there to the operation.’
‘But, sir—’
‘You were under orders to head to Tinakara Island. What are you doing here?’
‘Sir. I was trying to explain just that, sir. We were headed for Tinakara. But we had engine trouble, sir. A terrible rattling noise came from the engine and we were forced to head for the nearest island. You can speak to the mechanic, sir. He looked at our boat and said we were lucky to make it here to Kalpeni.’
The explanation diminished Basheer Koya’s rage, yet he continued to glare at the bearded man. ‘Kumar. Where is Kumar?’ he barked.
‘Kumar is safely on board, sir. There’s no need to worry about him. He is in the lower cabin and one of our men is with him all the time. He can’t make a sound or do anything. He won’t be able to alert the mechanics.’
Faisal froze. This was not for his ears. It was wrong of him to eavesdrop. He wondered if he should leave, but who was Kumar and what was his uncle up to?
‘No one is to know that we have a prisoner on board,’ growled Basheer Koya. ‘Even Allah will not be able to help you if he is discovered. I make no allowances for mistakes.’ Basheer Koya stared at his men, shifting his gaze from one to the other. ‘Do you understand?’
There was silence in the room.
Faisal understood full well what his uncle meant. He shuddered.
***
Journey through these breath-taking islands with a tale of scuba diving and sabotage, set in one of India’s most splendid destinations.
The sad fairy-tale becomes a reality in Samina Mishra’s Jamlo Walks
Samina Mishra’s Jamlo Walks, though filled with beautiful and colourful illustrations, in not a happy story, but it contains an extremely important message, the dissemination of which is imperative for the future generation. In many ways, it is reminiscent of Hans Christian Andersen’s stories. Not Little Mermaid or Ugly Ducklingwhich have been glorified or retold with happy endings. It is more like the Little Match Girl, which is a lesser known tale about a girl who tries to sell matchsticks on New Year’s Eve, but cold and unsuccessful, she collapses, a victim to lack of empathy, much like Jamlo.
Jamlo Walks is a book meant to bring awareness to its young readers who span from ages seven to nine, of the plight of other children and people not very different from themselves, but who are faced with completely different circumstances.
Here is a glimpse into the author’s mind to give you some insight into how and why she created this sad, yet beautiful story.
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Where do ideas come from? There are no clear answers to this question but certainly, some ideas come from what we experience and observe. Jamlo Walks came to me sometime in April last year. I don’t think I actively decided to write the story – the first draft just came in one sitting. I think it came as a response to the vulgar inhumanity that was on display last year – and continues to be even now. The working class, in conjunction with caste, has always been treated differently but what we have seen in the pandemic has been naked and ugly like never before. The stark images of the migrants walking through the night, out of Delhi on the Yamuna bridge, the middle class apathy on social media, the way domestic workers were treated at colony gates, police thrashing common citizens… Jamlo’s story was reported as one casualty in this series of unending tragedies. It was heartbreaking. It made me think of what these experiences means for all children – how are they to think about these stark divides across different childhoods, would they go on to continue institutionalizing this inhumanity… So, I think the first draft just came out of a need to respond to all this.
Once an idea arrives in its own mysterious way, our job as creative practitioners is to wrestle with it and hone it. We have to make choices and take decisions about what we want to do with it and shape the work. That was perhaps more of a challenge with this one because of the content. Picture books are generally seen as books for young readers and though we know that that is not true, putting this story out threw up questions around readership for me. Was the story too grown-up? Was the form of the story something children could understand and respond to? It was important that I try and answer these questions for myself. For me, it’s a picture book that I hope children across ages will read, that will prompt them to reflect.
While I was writing and rewriting, trying to make it a story that could be shared with the world, the thing that was important to me was to make Jamlo a person, a layered character, and not just the girl we read about in the news reports. This was not easy given the pandemic. My practice is very connected to being on the ground, getting out, talking to people. But here I was – in lockdown – without access to details on the ground that normally build context in my work. So I tried to imagine the inner world of the child, for Jamlo and for the other children in the story. I hope that works. I hope that readers find a bit of themselves in Jamlo and/or the other kids. And I hope that Jamlo is remembered so that we do not witness another such incident.