A Living Tribute to Ruskin Bond — The Man Who Whispered Magic into My Growing Years

Hello Rusty,

Let me pen this. I have to, even if you say a big NO.

Some authors influence our early years. Others trail us into maturity like shadows. Then there are a select few who follow us around all our lives, like the sound of leaves rustling outside an old hill house – gentle, ageless, comforting. Ruskin Bond is that uncommon partner, in my opinion.

I can’t recall exactly when I read my first Ruskin Bond story; it might have been “The Blue Umbrella” or “The Eyes Have It.” I do recall that I lived his stories rather than only reading them. Growing up in a world with far-off mountains and Doon Valley only a word in the atlas, Ruskin Bond effortlessly brought me there. He and I strolled through the foggy alleys of Landour, Binya and I looked out the window, and the blind narrator in the train made me feel lonely.

His words, plain yet poetic, straightforward yet powerful, affected me and persisted long after I had finished reading.

I was engrossed in Bond’s “Rain in the Mountains”, feeling the chill of the rain on my skin through his words, while most of my companions were occupied with reading superhero novels and magic spells. His “Room on the Roof” was a rite of passage, not merely a book. Since I was Rusty, I could relate to his need to escape, to venture into the unknown, to find acceptance in a world that didn’t quite fit. Later, “The Night Train at Deoli” left a soft mark on my heart as a teenager. My touch with ephemeral passion and unsaid feelings was reflected in that silent sadness and that lingering time with the girl selling baskets.

“Susanna’s Seven Husbands” helped me make new acquaintances as a child, and “A Flight of Pigeons” moved me with its subtle depiction of love amid chaos. My thoughts on change, memory, and belonging were prompted by “Our Trees Still Grow in Dehra”. Even now, long after deadlines and laptops have taken the place of schoolbags, I still read “Time Stops at Shamli” or revisit “Collected Short Stories” on calm evenings. It’s like going to see an old friend who can console you without saying much. Is the perfect murder ever possible? You have to sit in that dim corner of the cafe where “The Perfect Murder” was planned. 

I learned from Ruskin Bond that stories don’t have to yell to be heard. Like the wind through pine trees, they can whisper. He taught me the importance of small-town lives, abandoned rail stations, falling leaves, benevolent strangers, old acquaintances, and childish aspirations. He honoured the overlooked. He made the commonplace immortal.

The fact that life is composed of these little, basic moments may be the reason his stories stick with me. A climax is not necessary for every story. Some tales are simply life.

I know that Ruskin Bond has aged with me as I sit here today and write this homage, “The Great Train Journey” open on my lap and a cup of tea next to me. Or maybe I was raised with him. He has been the echo of my dreams, the voice of my early years, and the quiet of my loneliness.

This goes beyond a simple homage. It’s a letter of gratitude to India’s Wordsworth. For all the rainy afternoons that your words have brightened. Considering how, your stories have subtly alleviated my loneliness. For reminding us that there is poetry in the ordinary and that the heart has its own hills.

Thank you, the other Bond in my life apart from James, for being a part of my journey.

Forever your reader,
Me