Lavanya Naidu/Rupa Publications
Ruskin Bond: Where have all the flowers gone?
So where are my reading glasses? Here, right in front of me, so close that I missed them. The lenses need cleaning. Some of Delhi’s smog still clings to them. Landour would not approve. And here I am, back on my hilltop, pen in hand, spectacles balanced on my nose. The new day has begun.
Ruskin Bond, The Times of India
New day, I awoke to grey skies, mist, a leaden atmosphere. But then the sun broke through, gilding the rooftops, slipping through the half open window, lighting up the papers on my desk. The first miracle of the day. Now I must acknowledge the miracle and write a few lines glorifying the sun.
So where are my reading glasses? Here, right in front of me, so close that I missed them. The lenses need cleaning. Some of Delhi’s smog still clings to them. Landour would not approve. And here I am, back on my hilltop, pen in hand, spectacles balanced on my nose. The new day has begun.
But give me the sun and the open skies. I salute the earthworm, but I would rather watch this purple butterfly as it settles on a cosmos, drinking deep of its nectar.
The cosmos! My favourite flower. So clean, so fresh on the open hillside. As a small boy, I would wander down a glade full of cosmos, looking up at their white and mauve and magenta heads nodding above me.
In recent years, the cosmos has disappeared from Mussoorie and Landour hillsides. Climate changes, perhaps. Or too much building. No space left for space-loving flowers. I had to go all the way to Cloud End (some 11km from here) to find a new cosmos. Along with some deeply bronzed marigolds, they were enjoying the late autumn sunshine.
When I was young, I used to walk a lot. In my eighties, I find it difficult to scramble up and down slippery hill slopes. But from my window I can still see the little pine knoll, on a spur below Pari Tibba, which I would visit during those early years in Mussoorie. I called it my place of power.
Sitting on the turf beneath that lovely pine, I would experience a surge of confidence in myself, the feeling that I could do all the things I’d set out to do — love and be loved, grow things, write great stories. There must have been something in that tree that was passed on to me — its resinous properties perhaps, or just its spirit. The spirit in the pine trees!
Of course all trees are places of power. Look at the mighty banyan, spreading its aerial roots and giving shelter to small creatures, birds, squirrels, flying-foxes, even humans who seek its shade. My friend Keemat cut away the supporting arches to make more space for his shop, and as a result the tree toppled over and ruined his shop. Every action leads to an equal reaction. When will we learn to leave Nature alone?
And did I achieve all the things I promised myself when I sat beneath that pine tree? Well, some of them, yes. I have given love, and received tons of it; written hundreds of stories and read thousands of books; and grown things in odd places. Never having had a garden of my own, I am in the habit of putting down seeds and plants in other peoples’ gardens, often without their knowledge.
“Now where did those marigolds come from?” grumbled the Maharani of Rajpipla. “I never wanted marigolds!”
I confess to having a weakness for humble flowers and plants — marigolds, daisies, dandelions, buttercups.
A dandelion is considered a weed because it will grow in a wall. So let it grow in a wall. Why must we interfere with the natural selection of plants? Why remove the dandelion? Better to remove the wall.
Actually, I rather like old walls, simply because interesting things grow on them. An ivy-covered wall is more attractive than a bare wall. And in the ivy you may find ladybirds and crickets and grasshoppers.
An old wall running beside a stream gave shelter to a variety of ferns, in particular the lovely delicate maiden’s hair fern, which loves shade and running water. But I won’t tell you where to find it, because you might just lead others to the place, and sooner or later the ferns will disappear.
The nice thing about these old tin roofs in hill stations is that you know when it’s raining. You can tell if it’s raining gently or if it’s raining heavily. A patter of raindrops can intensify until you have a drumming of raindrops, and sometimes it hails and then you must shut your ears against the din.
Gentle rain is always welcome at night, steady rain means you might have to postpone that picnic at Cloud End that you were planning for the coming day. When it snows you don’t hear anything. At sunrise you look out of the window to find that all our rusty old tin roofs have been transformed into pretty white snow-houses — just for a day!
As the sunshine grows in intensity, blocks of snow slide off the roofs. And if you’re standing below you could be turned into a snowman!